For the fans watching at home there is no SCCW logo. No slow pan over the crowd while thousands cheer and hold up their signs. No witty banter from the broadcast team. Instead there's the sound of a clean guitar, the whine of feedback, and then the band kicks in.

The song is "Wicked Games" by Chronic Future.

Did I wait too long
It made me somber wandering onward stronger on and on
But I'm still awake
You haven't killed me I am willing to persevere another day

And then there are words on the screen.

September 9, 2008
Livewire Championship

The scene is shot in slow-motion and tinted sepia. Four competitors are shown, one at a time. They are Charlotte Ramone, the then-reigning Livewire champion, Jadian Bridden, Josh Moody, and King Blueberry. For the purpose of this exercise we focus on one. The rules are simple: though it's a tag-team match, the first person to score a pinfall will earn the championship.

King Blueberry connects with a Jack Lalanne Driver on Josh Moody, his tag-team partner for the evening. A rolling cutter plants Jadian Bridden on the canvas. Three seconds later, King Blueberry is the new Livewire Champion.

You can run away
But you can't escape
All these wicked games
Run away
But you can't escape

November 14, 2008
Strength In Numbers Championship

Jared Sykes and Charley Crisp, dressed in matching suits (of opposite color), moonwalk to the ring. The honor of starting the match is determined through a thumb-wrestling contest. The Kings of Pop are born.

Charley Crisp hits The Chocolate Chip on Phillip Kennedy. Jared Sykes connects with a missile dropkick on Jadian Bridden. Bridden is then hoisted up on Crisp's shoulders, and is planted by a combination facebuster/cutter. Eugene Ware shouts "OH FUCKDRIVER!!". New tag team champions are crowned.

You're impossible like ignoring the habit of breathing
I'm expendable to you completed then superceded
You're impossible like ignoring the habit of breathing
I'm expendable to you completed then superceded

Equilibrium
September 27, 2009
Gateway Championship

Three men -- Dusk, Jared Sykes, and Spacely, the reigning Gateway champion -- watch as the title is suspended high above the ring. The bell sounds, and a scramble to be the first man to climb a ladder and retrieve it begins.

In what is perhaps the most ridiculous moment in Sin City's in-ring history, Sykes and Spacely combine forces to suplex a ladder. Not onto Dusk, mind you. No, two grown men perform wrestling moves on inanimate objects.

Jared ascends the ladder, reaching for the belt. Across from him Spacely is only a rung behind. They trade punches, and as Jared's hand takes hold of the title, Spacely vaults over the ladder and and two men fall to the ground. When the bodies are sorted, only one of them is holding the Gateway championship.

Jared Sykes has captured his third piece of SCCW gold.

I insist it ends
My circumstances burned my chances the answers want it that way
But I'm still awake
I have opponents I've got moments to own that know my way

The next pieces come in short flashes.

The Gateway title is defended against Spacely in an emotionally-charged rematch. Locked tight in the Lightning Helix, Thad Denver pushes against the pain, but ultimately the champion retains.

Later that same night, three-on-three wargames sees a pair of tubes wielded like lightsabers by Sykes and Lane Stevens. Wyatt Connors is planted with the Omega-13.

You can run away
But you can't escape
All these wicked games
Run away
But you can't escape

A few weeks before Defiance, his title is stolen away in an attack that requires all seven members of the Dead Man's Hand to execute. He's left beaten, bloodied, and defenseless in the center of the ring as a message, with only a wounded Amy Campbell to serve as a shield.

The results at Defiance are no better, as Lane Stevens retains his Universal Championship.

All these wicked games we can't escape

Sin on Spike 4
July 5, 2010
Universal Championship

A light tube is broken against his head for the second time in as many shows. His face is bitten by Terrence Kingsley, his psychopath of an opponent. One finger is broken. A second is dislocated. It's imagery that by all rights is too risque for cable television, and yet here it is.

Jared ducks a short clothesline, rolls up his opponent, and prays.

One.

Two.

Darkness.

Go through your pain and struggle but maintain
The knowing of what'll come to you showing it's all right
There's plenty around to drown you
Pronunciate found to all that surround you
Give them all flight
Running away is a stain in the mud a brain stem with a plug
When you get there you don't know why you came
You end up going where you're knowing is showing
In different form but inside you feel the same
There's always someone else to blame

The fight has taken the last of his strength. Unable to stand, Jared Sykes kneels in the center of the ring - wounded but proud, beaten but not defeated. Tonight he is the Universal Champion, the pinnacle of professional wrestling's apex organization. Tonight he is the first man in its storied past to have the honor of holding each of its major championships. Tonight he is the conquering hero, the dragonslayer, the rock against which evil cast itself and broke.

Blood and sweat mix with tears, stinging his eyes and blinding him to the thousands of faces staring back at him.

Tonight, if only for the moment, he is legendary.

Darkness, silence, and then this:

S C C W

We open to the inside of the Richmond Coliseum, to a sea thousands strong, to various signs and banners, and to the booming voice of David Gibson.

Gibson: We are live! We're in Richmond, Virginia! And we have a NEW Universal Champion! Good evening everyone, and welcome to Temptation! We're just days removed from Sin On Spike 5, where Jared Sykes...

Ware: Boo.

Gibson: ...did the unimaginable and captured his first ever world championship. I'm David Gibson, and with me as always is Eugene Ware.

Ware: I have nachos. So fuck off.

Gibson: We have a spectacular show lined up this evening, as SCCW will play host to not one but two of the first round matches in the Dirty Dozen tournament to crown a new Elite Champion.

Ware: My money's on Clyde Fox.

And then it starts. In the darkness of the arena, blue and green lights bathe the crowd. The SinScreens come alive with static, blinking in still images between the white noise. Everything falls silent, until Queen hits the speakers.

Here we are
Born to be kings
We're the princes of the universe

The guitars of the Highlander edit flow right into the opening of "Save Me" by Killswitch Engage.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Ware: No no no no no NO NO!! Goddammit, he's ruined that movie for me! Son. Of. A. BITCH!

So much that I've done wrong it's an open book
I've done much more than my fair share of damage
What once was hidden
Now is crystal clear
Transformation is within me

Two figures appear at the entryway: one male and one female. They’re met with a wall of sound from the Richmond audience.

To break the cycle I must turn to you
What I lack I gain through your virtue
I – Gain – Through – You

Jared’s attire tonight is surprising, and oddly professional (if a bit messy). Black slacks are accompanied by an ice blue dress shirt, which isn't tucked in and has the sleeves rolled to the elbows. The edge of white undershirt peeks out through the undone collar. A dark tie hangs from his neck, but it's been loosened considerably. It is quite possibly the most dressed-up the Sin City faithful will ever see him.

The woman at his side is rarely seen in this light, and she's likely grinning because she knows how awkward she looks in front of such a crowd in black dress slacks, strappy suspenders and a cobblestone grey sweater. Because it's still Amy Campbell, the sleeves are rolled up ever so slightly, there's a thin, strictly-for-fashion, ridiculously shiny wallet chain that does nothing but dangle from a fake pocket, and her 'fancy' hairstyle of choice for the evening is little more than a ponytail styled like an old greaser pompadour. Overall, a more muted - perhaps more impressive, to some - version of Aimz, strutting beside what could possibly be the only (mildly) mentally healthy, successful person she's interacted with in months. Her pride shows in that smile, but she deliberately lets it put her a step behind Jared, still holding fast to his hand. It's his night, after all - and she only comes forward to lean her head onto his uninjured shoulder for a moment, murmuring something we can't hear to the new champion.

Whatever it is, it’s enough to make him blush.

Even when I fall... Will you still believe
Even when I'm lost... Will you still believe

Missing from the picture is the title itself, at least until he reaches under his shirt, unfastens it, and thrusts it high into the air. The crowd in attendance sends the roof into low orbit.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Anyone who happens to be watching in hi-def might notice something odd: the nameplate is blank.

Shattered by the hate that I carry
Take me as I am and make me whole again
I am lost without a purpose
Always consumed by self
I freely give this calloused heart
Can you... can you forgive me?

A wall of sparkling pyro descends upon the pair like rain. Jared pauses there for a moment, trying to soak it all in. Everything he’s ever wanted is there, and all of it within arms reach.

Even when I fall... Will you still believe
Even when I'm lost... Will you still believe
Now I don't have much... Will you save me?
But I'll give it all... Will you save me?

Ware: I want to go on record here. Watching these two do the whole “oh hey there fans, we’re friendly 2 u” thing makes me want to scissorkick a homeless man.

Gibson: I suppose that makes perfect sense, assuming you’re clinically insane.

Ware: Just sneak right up on him and BAM! Punt the walls right off his cardboard hut. Then he’ll know what’s up.

I've made so many mistakes
And I've broken so many promises
I've searched inside and I've let die
Will you save me?
Will you save me?

It’s a strange thing to see him try to be chivalrous and hold the ropes open. Given the look she flashes him (along the lines of “you don’t have to do this, goofball”), it’s strange for Amy as well. He offers a playful nod, and she reluctantly obliges.

Even when I fall... Will you still believe?
Even when I'm lost... Will you still believe?
Every time I fall... Will you save me?
Even when I fall... Will you save me?

A microphone is brought over from the ring as the music dies down. The cheering, however, only intensifies. Jared leans back against the ropes, takes two steps forward, leans down a bit, but stops before saying anything. The whole routine lasts only long enough for folks to get the reference.

Eugene Ware is not impressed.

Ware: I predict that whatever he says is going to register at least twelve Corkies.

Gibson: “Corkies”?

Ware: Yes. “Corkies”. It’s a unit of measurement. For retarded shit. You know, because of that one guy on that ‘Life Goes On’ show. One Corky is equal to half a retard because he was a pretty good actor. So twelve Corkies is like a six-pack of extra chromosomes.

Gibson: That’s patently ridiculous.

Ware: Hey, did you know that your face rates about four-point-five Rockydennises?

He slings the title belt over his left shoulder, since the right is still a bit sore. His first attempt to speak is preemptively interrupted.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Ware: Boo.

Sykes: So, you'll have to bear with me here. I'm a little new at this.

Apparently, they don't care.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Sykes: Some of you know a little bit about my history. You know where I come from, and where I've been. It's a place that had something of an unofficial tradition. Titles were treated with a certain reverance there, and when you succeeded it was customary to give credit to the people who helped you along the way and made you what you were. And I'd like to do that now, because this isn't just mine, this is theirs too, and god knows they deserve it.

Sykes: I can give props to guys like Charlie Beckett and Dave McBride for simply being amazing friends for the last ten years. I can give a shout-out to Damien Newcastle, or a certain squirrel-loving lunatic. Hell, I might even throw a nice word out there for Bobby Irish, the first test in a long line of pricks that I've had to deal with since. Maybe they're watching this at home. Maybe some have forgotten who I am. Maybe they've sworn off the business all together. Thing is, they're not here.

He raises hand, still taped and splinted due to a break suffered at the hands of Terrence Kingsley.

Sykes: Don't get me wrong, they're not the only ones. I would love it if I could call out to Thad Denver, and have him come down here and join us. I would look him square in the eyes and thank him for being enough of a friend -- enough of a man -- to tell me when he thought I was out of line. I'd ask Baron Von Blackberry to come out, and I'd tell him that the no matter what I might have done with the mask, he took it and made it his own. Brought it to a place that I couldn't. I would say that this is as much theirs as it is mine, because quite frankly, it is.

The Universal Champion shakes his head.

Sykes: But I can't do that. Nope. I can't do that, because they're not here either. Thing is they're not here for an entirely different reason. They're not here because this company has a history of breeding psychopaths. I can't do that, I can't share this with them, because their lives, their careers... It's all been ruined.

He turns to his love and smiles. Her presence alone is empowering beyond words: an unseen hand to hold him up should he falter.

Sykes: Ladies and gentlemen, that all ends now.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Sykes: It ends now because of the woman next to me, someone without whom I never would have had the confidence to pull this off. It ends because she took the first step. It ends because she ran Lane Stevens, the leader of the Dead Man's Hand, out of this company for the second time. He's resting comfortably in a padded room somewhere because Amy Campbell put him there.

He gestures with his hand in her direction, and she can't help but smile a bit.

Sykes: The Dead Man's Hand is gone, folks. Laid to rest by its greatest champion.

He turns his eyes back to Amy, smiling again. After a brief pause his attention is again on crowd around him.

Sykes: It ends now because at Sin On Spike they just couldn't get the job done. Wyatt Connors is cunning, but it wasn't enough. Xavier Kannon is formidable, but it wasn't enough. Terrence Kingsley put a man on the shelf, tried to break me in half, but it wasn't enough!

The beads of sweat gather on his forehead as he paces a short path in the ring.

Sykes: It ends now because of the Marshalls, and the Pierces, and the Campbells. It ends because after everything we've seen, and everything we've been through, and everything we've had to endure. There's been heartbreak. There's been defeat. There's been tragedy after tragedy but we are still here!

Jared pauses just long enough to catch his breath.

Sykes: It's been two years. Two years since I first set my foot through that door. And ever since then this company -- the people in it -- they've tried to break me. It's tried to wear me down, to leave me broken, and there have been times when it's come damn close. There have been times when it's been too much to bear, when the weight of the world comes crashing down around you.

He bows his head for a moment, and then brings his eyes back up to the crowd.

Sykes: Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Jared Sykes.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Sykes: I have the honor and the privilege of being the Universal Champion.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


He steps to the corner and climbs to the second buckle. He brings the microphone back to his lips, throws hie head back, and bellows to the heavens.

Sykes: I have weathered everything this business has been able to throw at me and I - AM - STILL - HERE!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


He descends the buckle and steps back to the center of the ring. There he exhales a long sigh, trying to settle his nerves. After a moment he's smiling again, and the microphone is back to his lips. This time though his voice is soft.

Sykes: Ladies and gentlemen, this is Aimz.

Ware: Hey, Dave. Remember the Highwaymen?

Gibson: Of course I do. Amazing talent in that group. Amazing.

Ware: Remember how they ended? Huh? Doesn’t this look a little familiar? Maybe we’re just three hundred chair shots away from reliving the dream.

He spins the microphone clumsily in his hand, almost dropping it because of the tape that binds a few fingers together. He then presents it to her handle-first, as though it were a sword.

Aimz: He does deserve this, but he doesn't want me to be talking about him right now, either. I think we can all agree he's crazy. I'm not gonna stand here and parade what I've done - I certainly didn't expect Jared to - but I'd toast to this one being for the underdogs. I regret not recently being among you. It's definitely a moment for the people who were getting bowled over by power-tripping fuckheads at the top. I wish I was with you in those trenches. It's a bit of shine for everyone who worked themselves raw and seemed to get nothing from it. He probably doesn't want me to say THIS, either, but Jared's title win? Every single person who was a victim of the garbage I was caught in, of the head games and fights for control that I was so desperate to play out from their construction... Each and every one of you can smile because, for the first time in years, someone deserving of that belt has it. Someone who can patch up its reputation and mend some of the meaning that I was such a key is decimating. This man is a real champion, not a crook or a schemer. He's a dreamer...

She grins sheepishly.

Aimz: And on a selfish tip about dreamers, it's my dream to eventually climb out of the moral grave I dug myself, so maybe I can eventually know the true meaning of a moment like this. I looked like I had everything when that title was mine. On top of the world. I acted like I was. The truth is, my reign was hell. I made it hell for all of you, but I can tell you now that it was hell for me, too. Hell I deserved. Hell I'm still trying to crawl away from. It's no secret that my personal life has been a bit of a warzone, and my mind and my body, my pride, family and the few friends I have left? It's all suffered for the mistakes I made, the greed I had. I fell in with the wrong crowd, yeah, but that's hardly any excuse when I wasn't right in the first place. Thanks to people like me, we've got a goddamn bimbo trying to run this company into the ground, booking matches like Jadian Bridden versus a sixteen year-old girl... it's pathetic, she is pathetic, and I'm sorry you've got to watch any of this happen.

Gibson: You can't fault her for much dishonesty these days.

Ware: But we can still fault her for being a...

Gibson: ... woman who'd happily come down here and break your nose if she heard you?

Aimz: I tried talking Jared out of this when he told me he'd be handing me the microphone tonight. He wanted me to tell you how hard I've worked, how great I really am, and I can't do that with any conscience. All I can say is that I'm sorry. I don't deserve to be standing here, but I plan to earn the right. I'd say the person you saw wasn't me, but I don't do disguises - what you saw standing here for almost two years was me. It was me with all of my worst attributes magnified, but it was still me. I own that. I'm trying to do right now, but it's not even for those I've hurt - it's because I refuse to let that happen to me again. Because the person that I am at the core, that I'm capable of being, deserves better than that. I want to show that to the universe, but I need to feel that I'm worth it in the first place. That's what I'm working on now, and it doesn't start by Jared handing me a mic so I can talk myself into false confidence. It starts with my apology - a second, very sincere one - and my promise...

At this point, Amy turns back to Sykes. She tips her head toward him, still looking nervous, sheepish, but her eyes only wander from his to look over the audience.

Aimz: The promise is to you, Jared, and everyone back there who's even a tenth as pure as you. It's to every fan, and especially to every person who rightfully hates me. My goal is to take the bullet. It's to maybe one day work my way back into a position I deserve by letting myself be broken. The only thing I can do to even begin fixing the damage I've caused and the environment of psychopaths I helped foster is all I truly want right now; It's to make sure that nobody has to deal with another Amy Campbell having the title. The only way I can make my apology to the world mean anything is by making sure none of you ever have to deal with anyone like me again. They won't be allowed to rise. I can't subject this company, these people or this fantastic man to that. You all deserve so much better than anything I ever was, and just standing here telling you how much I'm suffering on the inside isn't enough. I owe you more than that. I used and abused the lot of you for my own gain, and I don't regret anything in my life more than existing as the person I was. I pledge my body, my mind and soul that I'll throw all of those things in the way of anyone who even dreams of subjecting you to that kind of shit ever again.

There's a tender moment when she hands the microphone back. Their eyes meet, and for a few seconds they are alone in the world, oblivious to the thousands around them. The realization hits, and neither can help but to blush.

Ware: This next bit? Probably four hundred and seventy thousand Corkies.

He doesn't take his eyes off her when he speaks next.

Sykes: I'm not sure I can make a promise. All I can do is try. To be someone worthy of your respect. To be someone you can be proud of. To be the person that you deser...

Here's the problem with SCCW, though. You try to have a parade, but eventually, some asshole's going to come out and rain on it. Which asshole?

ONE TWO THREE FOUR

THIS asshole.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


As "Asshole World Renown" blares through the arena's speakers, a small man with a big mouth steps out onto the stage. That man is "Wise Guy" Wyatt Connors, and he has a microphone. Run for your lives.

Gibson: Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to apologize in advance for what's about to happen.

Ware: Yeah. It totally should have happened, like, ten minutes ago.

The strains of Stuart Davis' anthem for upperclass douchebaggery fade out. Connors briefly adjusts his tie, then brings the microphone to his lips and makes the world a much worse place.

Connors: Good evening, Jared. Just wanted to come out and congratulate you on finally getting what you always wanted. Tonight you stand triumphant, Universal Title in hand, side by side with your most ardent supporter. And I can't help but think...

He paces back and forth a few steps, chuckling quietly. Then he stops, and levels his gaze at Jared once more.

Connors: I can't help but think, "You know who should be here to see this? Lloyd Sullivan."

Sykes narrows his eyes at the Scorpion, and a smattering of boos comes from the crowd. Connors' grin widens.

Connors: How do you like that, Jared. They don't remember. A man who stood faithfully by your side for years, and most of these people have no idea who he is. Well, maybe they'll do better with this one. "Merv--"

The crowd's response is louder, but it's not much against the reaction of the champion.

Sykes: Don't you dare. Don't even say his name.

Connors: Someone has to, Jared. And it didn't look like you were getting around to it anytime soon.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


This time, the outrage of the crowd actually draws a glare from Connors.

Connors: Spare me your indignation, Richmond. Jared remembers; he has the right to be upset. You don't.

And now, back to the matter at hand.

Connors: I'm sure you were going to get to them eventually. After all, you thanked Crash & Burn, who haven't crossed the minds of these ungrateful fuckers in five years. But the fact is, Lloyd and Mervin, who supported you in the lean times, aren't here to help you celebrate now...and someone has to remember them, if for no other reason than to remind the people who stand by you now. It is with that in mind that I play this selection from DnA's greatest hits...

The SIN Screen crackles to life, showing a video clip of Temptation from nearly a year and a half ago.


AT&T Replay

This web has caught fast a Black Sheep, and it's because of his surprise at her first action that he misses the second. Her hands, lazily twined behind him, snatch up tight at the back of his head as she leaps up and falls backwards, her knees coming up into the space between them. Jared's jaw connects with them solidly, cartilage cracking into a smile.

Dave Gibson knows what this is called -- do you?

Gibson: Spider's Kiss! Spider's Kiss by Desade!

The crowd has a different name for it.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Sykes recoils off the woman's knees, rolling backwards off the mat and ending up face down. When he pushes himself up, it's just enough space for Pierce to use Sykes' own shoulder as a stepping stool, the point of her boot completing the circuit of the glimmering warlock-style step-up enzugiri against the back of his head.

Gibson: Dammit, dammit all to hell! Does this woman have any morals?

Ware: I'm going to go with yes.

Pierce snatches her microphone off the mat, not even breathing hard from the burst of movement as she sneers downward.

Desade: Your moral center makes you a fool, Jared. A weak and arrogant fool.

She raises a gloved hand, and that's all the signal that is necessary for the other redhead to make her presence known -- the one in the red hoodie with a skeletal ribcage across it. (It is worth noting that said depiction of a ribcage has a skeletal title belt around its waist.)

Gibson: And here's Aimz! Aimz in the ring with Desade, and she slaps the Director high-five! Pierce grabs Campbell's hand and whips her at Sykes -- hesitation dropkick by the SCCW Universal Champion on the fallen Sykes knocks him back into the corner!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: Charley! Charley Crisp was leveled by Jadian Bridden earlier and missed Desade's underlings assaulting Dusk and Paul Searle! And now the other half of the Strength in Numbers champions is coming to stop this!

Ware: I do not foresee it going well.

Gibson: Crisp in the ring, Chocolate Chip roaring -- no! Aimz drops low goes lower! Pierce slides in beside the Cookie Monster and -- BOOM! Double STO! Down goes Charley! Aimz gestures to the top rope and Pierce climbs up! Campbell maneuvers Crisp up and around into the Kudo Driver!

Ware: Death Knell Above!

Gibson: Desade leaps! Double stomp and she rides Crisp down into the vertebreaker! Sweet Lordy Lou! Charley Crisp just got folded in half! Now Aimz casually tosses the microphone to the Director and -- BOOM! Facewash kick to Sykes!

The Spider stalks over to the fallen Black Sheep, knotting a gloved hand in his spiky hair.

Desade: (sneering) You are a brave fool, Sykes. Even what we did to you today will likely not push you over the edge against us next week. But next week, Jared, you will hit me. You will break your precious vows and you will strike a woman. I believe I have just the recipe.

When she turns to the SinScreen, it's another signal, although the flying body of one Merv Humperdink is not likely what people think she'd be calling for. The big man who rumbles out behind the nerd, putting a size 16E combat boot into his ribcage? That would be more what the doctor ordered.

Gibson: Now Black Ops has Mervin! He's not a wrestler! The Dead Man's Hand coming out here en masse!

Ware: Oh, I'm sure that'll stop them.

DNA hold Sykes in place, keeping his barely conscious, somewhat unfocused eyes pointed at the stage as Mr. Ashe rips Mervin into the standing headscissors and yanks him up into a powerbomb position. He flails there for a long moment --

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Never has a crowd been so happy to see a man named Violent Jesus before.

Gibson: Violent Jesus! VJ out here to save Mervin! Jesus with an elbow to Jadian Bridden, knocking the LiveWire challenger down the rampway! Jesus with a clubbing blow to the back of Ashe! The big bull turns around and he chest bumps VJ, but Jesus isn't going anywhere!

Ware: Except to Dream Street!

Gibson: That masked man! The same masked man that attacked Dusk earlier and tipped the scales towards the Dead Man's Hand comes from out of nowhere! Out of nowhere and leaps onto Violent Jesus' back, slapping on a chokehold!

Violent Jesus is just a man -- a big man, sure, and definitely a crazy man, but even he needs to breathe.

Gibson: Violent Jesus getting choked out here! Ashe pulls up Mervin again! Double hand chokelift! Hawke with a running --

Ware: Really, would you call it running?

Gibson: A start and he jumps --

[thwack]

Gibson: Cane to the face propels Mervin --

[crash]

It's like watching it in slow motion. Violent Jesus' hands flail uselessly outward, eyes wide and bulging from the masked attacker's chokehold as the impact of the cane jars Merv loose of Ashe's grip. The attacker's eyes -- dark pits in the mask, really -- lock down briefly at the fallen stuffed animal at Jesus' feet. In the ring, Sykes nearly propels himself perpendicular to the mat as he tries to buck free of DNA's grip -- Aimz drives the hard part of her forehead into his nose, drawing blood from both. Mervin is momentarily weightless, hands grasping for anything, before the back of his head catches the side of the ramp and the rest of him catches the floor.

The footage fades away, bringing our attention back to the critical players in the current scene. Wyatt Connors is still on the stage, smiling coolly as Jared Sykes stares back at him. Aimz, of course, is screaming bloody murder at Connors, but her words go unheard--the microphone that she and Jared brought out is no longer functioning.

Connors: I took the liberty of having that turned off as soon as Amelia laid hands on it. This is not about her. And don't think I'm bringing up her old sins to shame her; I blame her for her actions no more than I blame a wolf for killing, or a bomb for exploding. She can't help it; it's what she is. I know she has been eager for redemption, and you have given that to her.

Ware: And gave her something else, too. Gay AIDS. GAYDS.

Connors: I'm glad for that. I'm not saying you shouldn't forgive. But you mustn't forget, either. You mustn't ever forget. Because soon, you will have to pay the price of your success...and the first step of that is counting the cost.

For the first time Jared breaks his stare, letting his head drop to the side like a child caught in a lie.

Connors: This Is Your Life, Jared Sykes. A shiny gold belt, the adulation of the drooling masses...and every friend you have who was able to make it here tonight.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Connors: I hope it was worth it.


ONE TWO THREE FOUR


The Rainmaker nods cordially at the couple in the ring, smiling like only the most complete of bastards can. He disappears backstage, beating the cascade of garbage from the stands by mere seconds.

The microphone slips from Jared’s hand, landing softly on the ringside mats. There is no cackles or hissing feedback. The device has not yet been turned back on. The cameras linger on him for a moment until he turns to take solace in the company of Aimz, but she’s gone.

A moment later so are we.

It's not Amy Campbell's night.

Last week, she lost her shot at becoming a champion again. To her boyfriend.

She smiled through it. She's happy for him. She walked out with him tonight and she celebrated. She thought things were okay - that she could smile again.

Her past won't allow it. Wyatt Connors made that clear.

When she sees the man lurking near her locker room door, she turns around to seek out another space to be alone. Unfortunately, all that's back there is the pathway back down to the ring - to all those eyes, all those people passing judgement. There's nothing in the other direction but the face of her sins, and she can't bear to look it in the eye right now. With a heavy sigh, she begins moving toward her door once more, eyes on the floor, even when she stops a few feet from the shadow in it.

Aimz: Go back to bothering Pierce. Now's not the time.

The haze of cigarette smoke chokes her. Terrence Kingsley doesn’t flinch.

Kingsley: Shut your mouth.

Aimz: Just get out of my way, Terrence. I'm sure you've got better things to do.

The new Gateway Champion could go anywhere. After all, he always said that he was a snake, and that a snake travels the path it wants to go on. Mackenzie Malone lingers just behind the Pit Viper, her zombie eyes vacant as she stares through the Red Raver. He snorts. His voice is gravel.

Kingsley: I heard you out there. Heard your speech about yourself. How what you want to do is prevent others like you from ever rising back to the top. My question to you, whore, is where do you get the nerve?

She doesn't look up. She keeps her head bowed.

Aimz: Just move.

She won’t look up.

He makes her. His hands stab at her mouth, yanking her gaze upward. She trembles in his tightening grasp.

Kingsley: I said...where do you get the nerve?

Aimz: Touching me is bad.

Her façade is crumbling, though. She doesn’t fight him. Just stares at him. Stares right through him.

Kingsley: I know your tricks. Can see right through them. Trust me. They may cheer you. Hell, he might say you meant something to him. But you don’t get to walk away from your past. You don’t get to play martyr. So you keep doing what it takes to be a step ahead of the rest. Latch onto the next mover and shaker. Give your body to them. And when you’re bored, manipulate them. Beat his friends to stumps because you need the thrill. Make a joke out of what he represents by chewing on him like the shameless fucking parasite you’ve always been.

She scowls, takes a deep breath. One of Campbell's fists balls up instinctively, but there's no real fight in her. It's obvious that there's something in his words that she agrees with - she's just terrified of it.

Aimz: You don't think I know what I've been? I don't need a piece of shit like you to remind me. You heard me out there. Now back the fuck off before I... I...

When Kingsley refuses to blink, a heavy sigh deflates her.

Aimz: Just leave me alone.

His body trembles in rage. She’s not fighting, but this isn’t good enough. There’s still a sliver of defiance trapped inside her, keeping her from begging for forgiveness. She stares at the floor.

He cracks his hand across her bowed cheek.

Kingsley: Do something.

Aimz: Why?!

Her eyes only meet his briefly. Her nose curls, but her gaze goes back to the tiles.

Aimz: I don't have an answer. No excuse. You said that. So take your pound of flesh - I've got no fucking right to stop you.

The Pit Viper coils, stoops down to her level. Every moment they’ve crossed paths, she’s tried to look away. But as his handprint continues to burn across her cheek, he refuses to give her quarter. His rancid breathe makes her gag.

Kingsley: You don’t get to play Christ. Not after what you’ve done. Not until I say. Trust me. Trust. Me.

He turns away from her, backpedalling but keeping himself focused. That’s when Mackenzie Malone steps between the pair. Their paths have crossed many a time in the past few years, sometimes on the same side, others on the opposite. But they came from much the same place; carrying the responsibility for taking part in perhaps the biggest ego boost in the history of the sport. All for some bitch who both of them realized, all too late, wasn’t worth it.

She might’ve said she was sorry, but the spit that hit her in the eye stopped her cold. And as she wipes it away, the Ghost of SCCW snarls, feverently shaking her head at her.

Finally alone, Amy tries collecting herself. Saliva scratches down her face. She swabs it away, rubbing it off on the thigh of her pants.

The kick that goes through her locker room door shocks even her.

Mary Jackson: Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, Wyatt Colton, Jake Ennis, the Cowboys From Hell.

The camera pulls back to show the Cowboys flanking Mary, as she is framed perfectly by a locker room door.

Wyatt: Last week, we made out return to…well…what is now called Sin City Championship Wrestling. We didn’t expect to come back to the cheers from the crowd, but when you come out after a trio of pretenders, a trio that the fans have no respect for, maybe we should have.

Mary: What brings you back to SCCW after all the time that you were away?

Wyatt: Well, seeing as the only bridges that we really burned here were Smitty T. Duluth and Jason Ryan, we knew that this would be the place for us. This is where Jake and I first teamed up.

The bald Cowboy of the Yukon takes a look into the camera.

Wyatt: This is where we won these.

Wyatt and Jake hold up their FUSE Fatal Faction Championships for a moment.

Wyatt: Last week, Mitchell Quinlan, a man who’s own ambition is to be the greatest tertiary champion in SCCW history, for the most part, called these belts relics of a bygone era. He implied that these belts were all that were left of FUSE. We beg to differ.

Jake: You see, when Wyatt and I walked back into SCCW, we saw familiar faces. We heard familiar voices. We witnessed the same fan base that made FUSE and the Cowboys From Hell what we were. But, we also saw what SCCW became. It became a graveyard. It became a stale rehash of what the National Wrestling Council once was. When we were touring around the world, defending these belts, we would watch SCCW to see what it was becoming.

Jake runs his hand through his long dirty blonde hair.

Jake: It was becoming nothing that I ever thought I would want to step foot in. Two conflicting owners, a revolving door of talent, a roster that more often than not seemed disinterested in the company that they worked for, the fans that they perform for, and were more concerned about their petty lives.

We aren’t here because we have to be. We aren’t here to be paid a king’s ransom. We are here because we want to be here. We are here because we want to take the Strength in Numbers Championships, and end the splintering that the tag team titles in FUSE and SCCW have suffered unlike the singles titles.

Wyatt: Mary, what Jake is saying is simple. We are here because unlike most other members of the SCCW roster, we care about the legacy of what came before. We care about the legacy and the memory of FUSE.

Wyatt brings the title back up and looks at it.

Wyatt: We are here to right a wrong that should never have occurred.

With those final words, Wyatt and Jake exit from the shot, leaving Mary Jackson standing there alone.

Barry Kitna sighed as he looked at his rundown sheet. Typed in red ink in big block letters was "INTERVIEW." That wasn't his predicament; you see Barry was a professional and knew the rigors of his backstage position. Rather, it was the names put next to it that drew his ire. He took a gulp of air, Kitna brought the microphone to his chest and addressed the Cinemax audience.

Kitna: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the new SCCW Strength in Numbers champions, the Heirs of Wrestling."

Cackling to his left was the aforementioned group of undesirables. Frank Silver, with a sharp white linen suit and sky blue shirt andbanana pudding yellow tie, smirked and patted his purple and silver SIN belt over his shoulder. Beside him was the summer seersucker and ascot wearing Ryan Gallway, belt around his waist, nearly bouncing off the walls due to excitement. His eyes were masked by purple wayfarers and a straw cowboy hat on his head, completing his interpretation of a southern gentleman attire. And behind them was Mack Brody, sunkissed bronze skin and perfectly coifed faux hawk, chuckling and as smug as could be. Stuck to his chest was an ashen grey t-shirt and golden ink along with his bedazzeled jeans. The Heirs relished in their moment and Kitna started his questioning.

Kitna: "Alright gentlemen, first let me offer you a cursory congratulation for your win on Sin on SPIKE V. Even given the circumstances, the Heirs are the new SIN Champions."

Barry Kitna waited for a response from the champions. Nothing. Frank smirked, Mack continued his deep laugh, and Ryan, well, Ryan did what he usually did. The interviewer stared at them, cursing them under his breath; but continued with his planned queries.

Kitna: "Anyways what do you have to say about those who say your title victory was a tainted one with interference from Mack Brody and the masked man from under the ring?"

More silence and gawking.

Then suddenly Frank gave Barry a pie face shove out of the frame. He snatched the microphone from the prone interviewer and stepped closer to the camera.

Silver: "What I have to say is this. We said from the beginning, back in Seattle, that we were going to come in and get these belts. And we followed through with that claim. Whatever the Heirs say, we back it up. We defeated 3 other teams at Defiance, we took down monsters in Tokyo, and we marched across Europe chasing these titles. Now, after all the hunting, all the pitiful fights we had with the Mondays; we are here."

Frank lifts the belt off his shoulder and surveys it in his hands with a proud look. The past four months lead to this.

Silver: "And you know what this means, Kitna? These belts? The fact that we are standing here and everyone else we have faced has left our humble dominion? This means we are the most powerful and dominant group in SCCW. And everything. EVERYTHING that's been done. Worth it. So you, Barry, ask us the your lords of this domain, about a tainted victory? Even without Dregs, it would have happened. They were--"

Kitna: "Dregs? Is that the name of--"

Mack: "Dammit. You know what happens when he hears his name."

And as soon as the words escape Brody's mouth, shuffling and bustling starts up behind the backdrop of the interview position. Frank smacks himself on the forehead and both Ryan and Mack emphatically sigh. From under the curtain poked out a small red masked man. He peered
side to side and crawled out. The mask was red with black stitches and he wore an oversized black long-sleeved shirt with matching pants.

Silver: "I told him to get a better mask; this was not what I was thinking."

Dregs jumped up and down and screeched. He ran over to Barry and grabbed the microphone and raised to his mask…

Dregs: "ABASDESSAKALALALAAL--"

WHAM

Ryan Gallway jumped and drilled Dregs square in the back with a kick. The microphone bounced off the smallest Heir's bare knee (Of course he's only wearing seersucker shorts), and he angrily pointed to the curtain. Dregs put his head down and did the slow Charlie Brown walk back to the curtain, and then crawled back to wherever he came. Gallway picked up the microphone, and dusted it off.

Gallway: "You see Kitna, we did everything we said we were going to do. I said in Amherst that the Intergalactic Space Cowboy and the Sovereign Superman were going to take these bad boys. And we did. As much as others would want to argue it, it was the Heirs of Wrestling that were the last nail in the Dead Man Hand's coffin. April and August, they learned what happened when you take us lightly."

Ryan took off his sunglasses and revealed his bloodshot eyes.

Gallway: "See, I was relaxing at the Aquarius Den. I was resting with my feet in my metatransformation pool, dreaming of this and that. Reflecting on our past conquests. The time that I went on a spirit quest with Erik Estrada, one of the Fanta Girls and the 1977 NBA Champions Washington Bullets. We climbed the vast taiga of Mogadishu
and subsisted only on the Manna of--"

And Ryan was interrupted by a firm elbow to the side by Mack, who gave him the universal "wrap it up" signal.

Gallway: "Anyways. I came to a great epiphany. As clear as a starscream. We can't and won't be stopped, that leads us to The Conspiracy and those cowboy shit kickers. Just try to stop us. Just
try to take these belts from us. You'll end up just like MEDS, just like Atomic Surf Dogs, just like Sapientes Glados and just like those dear, dear, Daddy Daughter Day. Please. Just step up to the throne, to your Heirs of Wrestling. Now you indignant scum, step out of the way of your SIN Champions."

Ryan dropped the microphone implicitly on the ground and starts to walk away. As Barry Kitna reached down to pick it up, Big Bad Mack Brody shoulder nudged him to the ground.

Kitna: "B-B-But Dr. Kensington told you all to be nice to me..."

And that was answered by Ryan stepping back into frame and honking his trusty air horn and then the three walking away.

Do you know what happens when you leave children alone, they get bored and tend to do destructive things. These things can be as simple as a pillow fight or climbing a tree, but the story always ends the same.

Someone gets hurt.

Kids who would have been better off opening a book or drawing a picture decide to do things that seem to be more gratifying at that moment. In the long run, though, it could end up becoming something they regret. I have never known anyone that enjoyed falling out of a tree and breaking their arm. And how many times have you seen a pillow fight get out of hand, and someone ended up with a busted lip or black eye? The people that enjoy that have more issues than a guest on Dr. Phil, and everyone knows how messed up those freaks are.

But, what if you're the kid that managed to climb the tree like it was second nature, do you suddenly feel bad for not warning the kid that had never done it before? What if, during a pillow fight, you were the person that struck someone in the mouth or eye while swinging your pillow, do you show any remorse for what you claim to be an accident?

If you were to ask the man that currently stands next to the nondescript Hyundai, he'd probably say those people brought it upon themselves – that it was their own damn fault as he laughed in their faces. Apparently, Jadian Bridden has become a bit of a hot topic around the water coolers. Challenging a sixteen year old girl to a match will do that to you sometimes.

Bridden: Hey, make sure you get my bag.

Jay currently has a cell phone pressed against his ear, but the comment was directed at the woman struggling to get out of the passenger side.

Bridden: No, I was talking to Juli.

He slams the driver's side door of the nondescript white sedan shut, returning to his phone conversation.

Bridden: So, as I was saying, if you grab a quarterback in the first round with Andre Johnson still on the board you're a damn idiot. Especially if you're in a points per reception league, that guy catches more balls than Larsson's chin.

Clearly amused by his own comment, Jay laughs so hard he has to pull the phone away from his ear. When he brings it back, he is still shaking his head as he chuckles a few times.

Bridden: Trust me on the pick, I won my... Hold on, I'm getting another call.

Jay pulls the phone away, taking notice of the caller id of the person unknowingly interrupting him. It draws a smile on his face.

Bridden: Hey, Johnny, let me give you a call later, alright... Yeah, definitely. Laters.

He presses a button on his phone and answers the next call, that smile never fading.

Bridden: This is Jay... What's going on, man?

He nods a few times, glancing back as Julissa hops on one foot as she pulls the crutches out from the back seat.

Bridden: Not a problem at all, shouldn't be hard to lose the cripple.

One more nod.

Bridden: Alright, see you there.

He flips the phone closed, turning back to the Mexican Minx again.

Bridden: Don't take all damn night, Juli. I have shit I need to do before my match, and I can't be wasting any time waiting for you to catch up.

He shakes his head as he stuffs his phone into his pocket.

Bridden: Freaking worthless lately, I swear.

Backstage.

The smiling sneer of Kendall Heath fills the screen – ugly, cocky, annoying, and above all, punch-worthy.

Heath: Thanks fellas.

No one threw to him; he probably didn't even notice.

Heath: I'm standing outside the locker room of Alexandra Pierce, moments before her bout with Global Championship Wrestling superstar Clyde Fox in the opening round of the Dirty Dozen tournament for the vacant Elite Championship. Let's knock and find out if she's naked in there, shall we?

He knocks. No one answers. He goes in anyway.

Heath: Alex? Alexandra? Are you... ah-ha!

Ken finds the Spider in the Web seated at the end of a long wooden bench. She's buckling her wrestling boots on, already dressed to compete. There's a little more white in her wardrobe this week – the wifebeater is white with the spiderwebs done in red, and her fists are wrapped in white tape rather than the accustomed black.

Heath: Do you mind answering a few questions?

Pierce: Probably.

Heath: Well, I understand. I mean, you haven't exactly been successful since you won GTT7. Xavier Kannon stood up to you and beat you in a falls-count-anywhere match. Terrence Kingsley... well, he got his revenge and took his win back. Then Jadian Bridden kicked the hell out of you. So if you want me to go away, that's—

It's perhaps predictable that the Medusa surges up to her feet. It's perhaps predictable that she throws that curtain of deep red hair out of her eyes, focusing her glare on everyone's favorite douchebag. It's perhaps predictable that her left hand has balled into a fist.

What's not predictable is that Kendall Heath doesn't back down.

Heath: Pisses you off, doesn't it? Desade used to be the most feared name in this place – hell, in the damn sport. Now? Not so much. I mean, Terrence Kingsley broke Baron von Blackberry's neck. He went after Jared Sykes' hand. Aimz kicked Lane Stevens in the head and we haven't seen him since. Could be argued Wyatt Connors is responsible for Jared being champion. What have you done?

Alex's glare falters, her head dipping away.

Pierce: I have a match to prepare for.

Heath: Not for a bit, not for a bit. Way I see it, you're living off what you used to be. Hell, you can't even keep your kid from having to wrestle a guy who might be the most athletic man not named Jared Sykes in here. When you're sitting by Quinn's bedside in a couple weeks, what will you tell yourself?

Even with the Spider subdued, there are some lines you just don't cross. Pierce's hands bunch up in the lapels of Heath's blazer, shoving the man up against the wall. His smirk doesn't break.

Heath: There's the fire. Where's it been?

Pierce: You want to know where the fire has gone? I put it out. For my own good. For Quinn. For...

Heath: For Amy? That's what this is about, isn't it? We've all seen it. Alexandra Pierce falls in love with Amy Campbell, loses her balls. The same Amy Campbell who's all over Jared Sykes. Girl like that... girl like that ride the jocks of whoever gets them something. When you were powerful, that was you. Now it's Sykes. Buck up, though – she'll come around.

The left hand is short, snapping – it catches Heath below the left eye and drives him back into the wall. She doesn't release her right, holding him upright for another pair more jabs, then she lets go, lets the man slide to the floor.

Pierce: Every day I hold in that monster, buckle it up, put it in a cage and lock that fucking door. Every day it wants out. It wants a piece of Kannon, of Kingsley, of Jadian goddamn Bridden. It wants to teach them what Jon and Lance and Edward learned, but I haven't let it. If you want to laugh at me, you're welcome to it; I have heard its whispery, wheezing laughter for almost a year now.

She straightens – not jerks up, but straightens, ramrod firm and deathly still. Those eyes bore into the camera.

Pierce: I do not have anything against Clyde Fox, but the fool's sacrifice comes for a greater calling. Wyatt Connors turned his back on me in Newark, and he paid the price for doubting I would be ready. Sin City has been spared the monster beneath my breast for almost a year, and because of it, my daughter – flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood – is signed to step into battle against a man I should have already destroyed. That match happens only if Jadian is capable of stepping into that ring, and he has forgotten something. You have all forgotten something.

That tight, rictus smile on her thin lips is disconcertingly familiar as she wrenches down the hem of her tanktop.

Pierce: Tonight, I will make you remember. Beware of shadows. They move when you're not looking.

After another sharp stomp to Ken Heath's ribs, the Medusa shoulders past the cameraman and out into the hallway.

Cut away.

We cut to the back where Aarons sits following his match. He's still in his gear, leg long gold PVC tights and he's just sitting. Coming off his debut win over Vince Jones, you'd think he'd be happier. Yet, there's a look on his face that's almost indescribable. It's not full out anger, but it's not elation either. It's here that there's a knock on the door, Mary Jackson peeks her head inside after there's no answer and Aarons doesn't exactly move a lick to well, do anything.

Mary: Leonard?

Leonard, says nothing. Leonard does nothing.

Mary: I was just hoping to get your comments after your opening win over Vince Jones.

Leonard, remains motionless. His brown eyes are locked on the floor, his body stays drenched in sweat. It's just as the door starts to close that Aarons speaks.

Leonard: Mary...tell me what I did tonight.

Mary peeks her head back in, somewhat cautiously given the present demeanor of Aarons.

Mary: Uhm...you won your first match?

Leonard: Exactly. I went out there and I did exactly what I said I would do. Yet it's weird, I feel...nothing. I'm not elated, I'm not ecstatic, I'm more...down that this guy didn't make it worth my while. I don't know, maybe it's me in my quasi-advanced age making a mountain out of a mole hill, but it's just...eh to me.

Mary slowly enters the room, but the door remains open behind her in case a quick exit is required. Leonard's glare remains fixated on the floor however for reasons, we still aren't that clear on.

Mary: It was a win nonetheless.

Leonard: True. It was a win. Yet as I sit here, I can't help but take a look at the place where future opposition will lie. Whether it's a three second nap or pain so escruciating that they must tap...people will feel exactly what Vince felt. No, check that. They won't feel what he felt tonight...

It's here that his brown eyes finally come up to lock on with the electronic eye on the cameraman's shoulder. You know, that camera dealie and stuff?

Leonard: Because Vince...felt...SCARED. VInce recognized he was in there with someone far greater than himself and simply put, he shriveled up under the pressure of it. His nuts turned into sunflower seeds and he wanted no part of me. That doesn't please me to a point, it just angers me. But then again, how can I be angry at another man's spinal imperfections.

Mary: If I may, you made it known in Newark that you were here to become a Grand Slam Champion. Do you care to elaborate on that?

Leonard simply sighs, holding up four fingers.

Leonard: Four. There are three different plateaus in SCCW one can reach before hitting the pinnacle. The zenith and every other synonym that goes in accordance with "The Top Of The Mountain". In my career, I've ascended to the top of the mountain more times than a pre-pubescent boy gets off to Cinemax's fine "After Dark" programming. More often than not over the last few years, I've taken a rather sadistic pride in ruining the lives of the men I've stepped over in order to get there. More often than not, I'll admit, my methods were overkill. I didn't need to take the measures I took, but I did them because I was selfish and I really didn't care.

If it seems hard for Aarons right now, it is. It's not everyday he bares his soul in this fashion.

Leonard: But after a while, things start catching up with you and in spite of those who would say "leave the past behind you"...I found out two years ago the past eventually catches up with you. I realized then that I was at the fork in the road of my career, I could either continue down the path I was comfortable with doing unto others before it could be done unto me...

Short pause as he turns the other way, as if he were looking down that other path.

Leonard: Or travel the road less traveled, the one where I can focus on wins and losses without carrying around the guilt associated with being a despicable individual. I went this way when I first broke into the business about 10 years ago. Greener than a dollar bill, but I won with the best of em' and things were simpler back then. I didn't have to concoct evil schemes, I just went out there and performed. Didn't win em' all, but there was a simplicity to it that I just...missed.

It's here that his glare turns towards Mary, showing one of sincere remorse for transgressions past.

Leonard: I can't say with any certainty that I'm going to be an upstanding individual my entire career, because I'd be the first to call BS on that. The better part of my career had me more hated than LeBron and Art Modell within the state of Ohio combined. But I'm intent on not letting the darker half of me be what my career's best remembered for. I intend on showing people that I am the Most Devastating Wrestler on this planet and tonight, you saw an inkling of what I'm capable of out there. Jones was the first, I pity whomever's next. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to change and get out of here.

Mary: Thanks for your time.

Leonard nods his head, as Mary exits closing the door behind her. Leonard looks at his hands and take a deep breath, before smiling as he heads for the showers.

AT&T Replay

Frank Silver is the first to approach the last Fatal Faction Champions, looking every bit ready to start throwing fists. He gestures to the stoic Cowboys to give them the SIN Championships. Both Colton and Ennis exchange sly looks to one another and throw the belts at them. As Ryan tries to catch them both, Frank and Mack take the charge, attacking Colton and Ennis. Soon, The World Warrior keeps the belts safe while Frank and Colton square off and Mack dukes it out with Jake Ennis.

Gibson: I told you this was going to get ugly real quick! I think the Cowboys From Hell have staked their claim as the challengers for their newly won titles!

Eventually, Ryan Gallway joins in the fray and helps Frank Silver keep Wyatt Colton contained in one corner of the ring, taking advantage of the numbers. Meanwhile, Mack has driven several elbows into the head of Ennis, who does his best to defend himself. Eventually, the Heirs to go single out Jake Ennis in the corner as Ryan and Frank take their big cohort, Mack, by the arms, whipping him into the corner…

NOTHING BUT TURNBUCKLE!

….

Gallway: Dudes, dudes, dudes, just playing! We’re all tag team champions here, though we’re better ones… so… yeah…

DOUBLE RUNNING DROPKICK!

…Which only stuns both Cowboys from Hell, if only for a moment. Ryan looks out at his teammates, both having gathered the SIN Championships, but in no real place to help him out… Ryan turns back around to see both Ennis and Colton on either side of him…
DOUBLE BARREL 12 GAUGE!

The trademark Lariat of Jake Ennis combined with the vicious Chop Block from the Canadian Cowboy sends Ryan doing a whole 180 before flopping over onto his back!

Gibson: SWEET LORDY LOU!

The three members of the Heirs of Wrestling are standing in the ring perplexed as we go back to the live feed.

“Hey, dipshits, up here!”

The SinScreen goes from a shot of the Heirs to a shot of the Cowboys From Hell as they are walking towards the gorilla position. Wyatt and Jake are both wearing their FUSE Fatal Faction Championship belts.

Colton: What you see there folks, what you see there is what the Cowboys are here for. The three people that are in that ring right now, have something that rightfully belongs to us. Two years ago, we were “removed” from FUSE, while still holding these titles. What SCCW has had for the last year and a half since the SiN Titles were created was nothing more than a series of paper champions.

Ennis: No one ever beat us for these titles, so unlike the rest of the belts in SCCW that can trace their short lineages back to the inception of this company, you three don’t own anything that can trace back to the beginnings. We do.

Colton: That makes you three a set of pretenders to our throne.

The Cowboys From Hell continue to make their way through the corridors of the arena.

Colton: Now, we’re not the kind of guys that demand that the titles be given to us. After all, what’s the fun in that. In fact, we propose that you three defend your belts against us, so that we can prove to the world that we mean one thing….

The CFH stop at the curtain that separates the arena from the back.

Colton and Ennis: We’re Taking Over This Town!

With those words, the song for which the team is named, Pantera’s “Cowboys From Hell” fills the arena as the Cowboys step through the curtain and start to make their way to the ring. The Heirs stood at the ready as both forces started to collide with one another.

Wyatt Colton and Jake Ennis continued their slow march, ready to brawl. They had their FUSE Fatal Faction Championships and The Heirs of Wrestling brandished their Strength in Numbers Championships, ready for a fight…

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Before too long, security and referees got in the middle of the skirmish as the Heirs decided to take advantage of the situation. Not particularly itching for a good fight this evening, the Heirs rolled out of the ring while Colton and Ennis busted through security, ready to bust some skulls. Ennis just BARELY missed decking Ryan Gallway, who dove off the ring apron like the man with the last parachute before disappearing into the crowd with his cohorts.

“Cowboys From Hell” blasted over the PA again as the fans roared with approval for the FUSE Fatal Faction Champions, both men leaning against the ropes, motioning for the Heirs to fight back. Already halfway up the steps, the Heirs of Wrestling raise their own SIN Championships, Frank leaving some parting words.

Silver: Not tonight, boys! Not tonight!

Ware: DAMN SECURITY! Stop doing your jobs for once, I wanted to see the Heirs kick around some moronic cowboys!

Gibson: The Cowboys From Hell just laid out a challenge to the Heirs, who seem to want no part of them! But I gotta believe that this won’t be the last we see of this situation! While we get this situation sorted, we’ll be right back with more action right here on Temptation!

Jake and Wyatt hang their FUSE Fatal Faction Championship belts over the top rope and point at the Heirs as they walk to the dressing room. Wyatt can be seen mouthing the words “Real Champions.”

Backstage.

It's weird when a belt gets a cheer, but if any title deserves such, it's this one. It is the SCCW Universal Championship belt, the richest prize in this place – perhaps in all the lands of wrestling, at that. Big and gold and fat with awesomeness, it's only missing one thing.

The name of the man who holds it.

See, there's a tiny plate that the bolt onto the face of the thing, and that's where the champion's name goes. It used to say Lane Stevens. Before that, Wyatt Connors and Aimz. These days, it says nothing. The plate is still there; the name is just missing.

But SCCW fans are smart, which means they recognize the man cradling it, even though they can see neither he nor his name. And Jared Sykes?

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Yeah, they kind of like Jared Sykes.

"You know, I never wanted to hold that thing personally."

Wait, Jared Sykes doesn't sound like that, however. That's a whispery, feminine-only-by-dint-of-genetics voice, and she has a different lap, so clearly there's a disconnect. Let's zoom out a little and straighten things out. The scene: Jared Sykes on a wide, wooden bench, the Universal Championship in his lap.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Yeah, when you're the first man in almost two years who's held the belt that these people liked, you kinda deserve a second cheer, even if it's just the not-so-smart fans (we'll call them the GCW or PRIME fans who might be tuning in, or those fuckos who download this on the internet).

Standing nearby, leaning for once against the locker rooms is another person – a woman who doesn't get her own cheer thing because the fans would have to stop to merit another. Her name is Alexandra Pierce, and though Jared isn't dressed to compete, Pierce's Dirty Dozen tournament match is a hell of a lot sooner, so she's ready to go now.

(Who are we kidding, she's been ready to go for a while, probably.)

Pierce: Not that I never wanted to win it – though that never came up, really – but I didn't even want to touch the thing. Seemed like bad luck.

While Sykes and Pierce will never be friends – not really – they do share a frightening number of those little quirks like not putting their name on the thing or not wanting to touch it.

Pierce: Is it heavy?

He doesn’t look up, not yet at least.

Sykes: Not really. But I figure eventually? Yeah, probably will be.

He lifts the belt from his lap and folds the straps carefully, gently, like swaddling an infant. He offers it to her with the same quiet reverence (though with only one hand – he’s not the type you want babysitting).

Sykes: Unless that’s not what you meant. Try it on. Take it for a spin. Just have it back by midnight or I’ll have to ground it for breaking curfew.

Alexandra puts up both hands, stepping back like it were radioactive.

Pierce: Oh, no. If I ever touch it, it will be because I earned it myself. You won it, and you should be the one carrying it. Should have your name on it, too, but... I get where that comes from, so that's none of my business. Congratulations on the win, I know things have been... difficult these last few months, but it might surprise you how high on the list of people I'm happy for you are right now.

Sykes: Well, in fairness, things haven’t ever really been easy, have they?

He sets the belt down on the bench beside him, rubs his thumb across the empty plate, and looks up. The smile, though small, is warm regardless.

Sykes: Thanks, though. I mean it. It’s… it’s an interesting thing, you know? I mean, I’ve wondered what this would be like for years. It sounds crazy to say, but it’s true. Weird thing is, and I know I’ve had a few weeks to think about it, but I’m not quite sure what happens next. Guess compared to ten years a few days don’t really mean much.

Pierce: You'll figure it out. Just make sure you decide for you, not because of people like Wyatt or Terrence. You're the first champion in a while without a fucked-up viewpoint of how to do things, and people will be expecting you to set the tone. Don't... don't let them make you do anything you don't want to do.

Sykes: Guess I should cancel the order on that baby seal piñata then, huh?

Pierce: That could be the most adorable thing that has ever gotten us banned from a network.

The Spider ducks her chin, toeing briefly at the tiled floor.

Pierce: That being said, this is where I ask you to do something you're probably not going to want to do. A long time ago, I stood in a room not terribly different than this one – I remember that the light in the men's room was flickering. I asked the SCCW Universal Champion to do something horrible to a man I barely knew. It's strange that I can claim to have changed my spots and be back here, in a place like this, with a similar question.

Jared simply shrugs.

Sykes: Fire away. I mean, I know things are… well… let’s go with “complicated” between you and I, but I think we’re at a point where you should feel pretty okay about saying whatever’s on your mind. Would I be wrong in guessing that this may or may not have something to do with what happened in Jersey?

Alex's voice is usually deathly quiet – she finds little reason to growl or shout or rage. Which makes the tightness in her voice somewhat jarring?

Pierce: You mean when Jadian Bridden used me as bait to bully my sixteen-year-old daughter into accepting a wrestling match with a grown man? That thing that happened in New Jersey?

Sykes: Lemme ask you something… Who the fuck lets that happen? I’m not talking about you here. I mean, like, on what planet is it cool to actually have someone try and enforce that? I’m not really an expert here, but I’m pretty sure that the legal department wouldn’t let something like that go down.

For a moment their gaze meets, and that’s when the realization sets in. It starts slow at first. First his eyes widen, then the color fades from his cheeks. It ends when his jaw is slightly agape and he’s hunched forward a bit.

Sykes: Holy shit. This is actually happening?

Pierce: I'm sure Quinn could disappear. She's not contracted as a performer here, and Adrienne can't punish me if she catches the flu or something and can't come to Raleigh.

Sykes: Great. So find someone to sneeze on her.

Pierce: She'd never forgive me. She gave her word, see.

There's a touch of ironic amusement in Alex's voice, the impatient mother who's exasperated by her daughter, but... there's pride, too.

Pierce: I'm working on some things, but... it may yet, which means I have to plan as if it will and hope I'm doing so in vain.

Sykes: And this is where I come in, right? Because of the match I have later on and who it’s against.

He loosens his tie (which wasn’t very tight to begin with), balls it up, and lets it fly towards an open duffel bag in the corner of the room.

Sykes: So what’s your move here? What exactly were you gonna ask me?

Pierce: I'm not going to tell you to hospitalize him – I wouldn't put that on your conscience.

It is very rare that the Medusa has a difficulty finding the proper words, but this is one of those few times.

Pierce: I just... I need something, Jared. Something that she can focus on if push comes to shove. She can handle herself okay for a teenager, but if it's a fair fight...

Sykes: No, I know. Even if it’s a fair fight, it’s not really a fair fight. Sixteen was a rough year. One of the worst. But I didn’t have trained professionals who wanted to kick my ass.

He rises from his seat on the bench and presses his palms against his eyelids. His next words are quiet, the musings of a man who sometimes thinks out loud.

Sykes: Alright, well, the way I see it? There really isn’t much of an option here. I can’t not do something, because then I’m part of the problem. Kid doesn’t deserve to deal with this, doesn’t need to deal with this. Probably will still wanna kick my ass, but whatever. Man.

Jared pulls his hands away, sliding them into his pockets.

Sykes: Okay.

Pierce: Thanks. I don't like asking for things, and she will hate me for asking – this thing with you and Amy is harder for her than it is for me. She'll get over it, probably. But I'll worry about that later. I just need her to be okay after Raleigh. I just need...

There's the tiniest of swallows there, and she looks away.

Pierce: In my life, I have balanced the scales with my enemies. I do not think I have done well by those close to me, and I will not let her get hurt.

Sykes: I’ll do what I can to make sure that doesn’t happen. And with Jadian, well, history’s kiiiiinda on our side here. He doesn’t have six friends to save his ass, and without ‘em he’s about yay big.

A point he illustrates with his thumb and forefinger.

Sykes: That’s, like, Tony Gamble small.

Alex nods just a little. It's weird to see her so subdued, but this is a woman who agreed to take a beating from BloodAngel for her daughter, and that hasn't changed.

Pierce: Thank you, Jared. Really, I... I don't have six friends to save my ass, either.

Sykes: Next time you’re bored or you’ve got a free minute you might count again. Number may surprise you.

Pierce: I rather doubt it, and I don't want to get looking too deeply, else I might be surprised whom I'd still count as a friend.

She steps backwards again.

Pierce: I should go. After all this, I'm supposed to wrestle a man who reminds me altogether too much of a child. The universe enjoys playing its tricks on me.

Sykes: It isn’t the same. Not even a little. Good luck with it though, and try not to worry about tonight. I’ll do what I can.

Pierce: Worrying is all I have left to do.

She doesn't turn away immediately, walking backwards without fear or hesitation until she gets to the door. She pushes through and she's gone.

He slides back to the bench where the Universal Title sits. Lifting it, Jared quirks an eyebrow and tests the weight. Strangely, the belt seems a bit heavier.

The feed cuts back to the ring. The lights are dimmed, a lone spotlight shining down into the ring. The fans are rabidly booing. Why wouldn’t they? SCCW’s Pit Viper sits on a chair in the middle of the ring, hunched over and nursing the microphone near his lips. His trademark leather jacket is too worn to shine.

Kingsley: Do I got a story for you.

His glare to the crowd is haunting. His baritone is low and gruff. The Gateway Championship belt is behind him, resting on the shoulder of the Ghost of SCCW. Mackenzie Malone once lived in the lap of luxury, wearing the finest clothes money could buy, showing them off on her flawless figure. Now, she hovered over Terrence Kingsley in nothing more than cast offs from the Salvation Army. Camouflage pants. Tight fitting black tank top. She looks a militant ready to die for a cause.

Kingsley: Not like the one’s I’ve told before. I always kept a bit of truth in my words, in my stories, and left it up to people to figure out just what I meant. This story ain’t like the rest. It ain’t about fighting mutts, or about the snakes in the swamps of Mississippi. This is about my father and the belt and the Bible he found and the reason why I am who I am. Why I do the things I do.

He takes a deep breath, instinctively waiting for Richmond’s flock to simmer down so he can continue. As he waits, his gaze moves back and forth across hundreds of silhouettes in the lower bowl of the building.

Kingsley: There once was a boy. Came from the Deep South. Mississippi. And while he could blame his folks for how they raised him, that’s letting himself off the hook for the stupid things he did. For the people he looked up to. For people he ran with. His father found God in a different way than most folk; he came to him in a fever dream. Said the end days was coming and he had to prepare.

He is oddly calm.

Kingsley: The boy was a Sheppard, then. But as time moved forward, as it always does, he wanted a different life. A life away from the dedication and the responsibility of faith because God never did him any favors. So he left. Left his family behind, his faith behind, and he found a home with the filth of the land. Ragtags who rode on choppers. Folk who cooked crank and ran guns and hustled people out of their money. It was romantic to him. So he became their sword. He was young. Dumb. Doin’ wicked things for wicked people who held him like a son and tossed him away because he was too wild. But he believed in them. Believed in what they were doing. Believed in the dream of the open road.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a cigarette. Lighting it up, he takes a long drag before continuing.

Kingsley: I look at some of you kids out there in the audience and I see that young man. That same young man. He still wore peach fuzz when the law came and took him away from the southern belle he seduced...the one he never deserved. They put him where he belonged...on a wretched plot of worn land where he sweated and toiled and pressed out license plates and pissed only when he asked for permission. He read books while he was there. Wrote letters for the first time. Wrote letters to the girl...the woman...the woman he let down with his foolishness. And between those concrete slabs and barred windows, he realized what he was. And it made him sick.

Another drag. He isn’t able to face the crowd anymore.

Kingsley: When he got out, he walked back into his old haunt. But he was changed. He revered the belle, wanted to make everything up to her. Wanted to pamper her for the times he wasn’t there and for the times he was. Wanted to give her the dream everyone has when they grow up. A quiet home. A small family. An honest life. But he was a felon.

Suddenly, he drops the cigarette and stomps it out. He snorts.

Kingsley: I can’t tell this story like this.

When he looks back up toward the crowd, his eyes are burning. His arms are trembling. The skin of his face is tightened to a harsh scowl.

Kingsley: I was unloading moving trucks from state to state, going through life like I’d always done; like a gypsy. Trust me, I didn’t respect the God I pray to now. I resented him. I resented those people I saw everyday who had the world open to them while I wore the crown of thorns for the animal who wore my skin as his. A dead animal. A Goddamn ignorant child who was too damn selfish for his own good. I wasn’t gifted the smarts to get a degree back then, but even if I walked into a community college now, they’d turn me away because of what I’ve done. Business types? They don’t hire people with my sins. They don’t make pastors out of my kind.

His breathing is harsh. The more pointed his words become, the more his body shifts and moves to articulate his feelings. His disdain. His disgust. His rage. It’s inward and outward and all consuming and it can’t be restrained.

Kingsley: I didn’t choose to do this. I have a back that don’t quit. I’d never be anything more than filth. The crawling underbelly that keeps society moving. So I stopped doing that. I became a wrestler.

A chuckle pierces his quivering body. As quickly as it floated from his lips, though, it’s gone.

Kingsley: Wasn’t glamorous. Wasn’t like some of these people here who stepped right into the limelight and took it for granted. I sweated, bled out in VFW Halls and National Guard Armories. I bummed rides because I didn’t make enough money to pay for gas. But it was better than my old life because it was honest. Professional wrestling will never be respected...but dammit... but dammit...she respected me!

For the first time in SCCW, Kingsley yells. It’s a wretched thing, otherworldly and raw. It startles the audience.

Kingsley: And that’s all I ever needed. To be able to look in the mirror and not puke all over myself. And every moment, every show, every thing I did? It built up hope. Built up the belief. Made me think I could leave the rotten Hellhole I called home. See, I was just a kid who saw the circumstances that fostered my mentality. Saw the people who took me under their wing and put me on the wrong path. I didn’t blame them. I just wanted to run from them. Wanted to get away from it all. I didn’t need a mansion. Didn’t need the accolades and the respect that came with success. I just needed enough to have my own sliver on this Earth that I could rest my head on...that I could look after my love...where I could start again. Maybe be a lumberjack or a factory jockey or an electrician. I didn’t come here because I had a passion for it. I was here to run!

He bolts upright from his chair, grabbing the top rope.

Kingsley: I was decent. Decent enough that Tim Shipley gave me a call that changed my life. Asked me to come out west and stretcher myself out. Put his talent over. But I looked in that mirror again, realized that I wasn’t gonna ever make it out of the cesspool I called home if I kept playing by the rules of those in front of me. It’s one thing to pickpocket an honest man; even if you’re starving, there is no justification for it. It’s another to smile lies to a snake oil salesman. And trust me...as a snake myself...I know all about their kind. So I took Timmy’s money...and I put his little circus animals through the meat grinder. I beat them up. Pinned them. And I made my name. I made my name. Corinth Mississippi had an American Legion building that had a decommissioned tank out in front of it that the kids played on. Three months later...I was in the ring with Devin Shakur. Seeded in a GTT. They thought they were sacrificing a lamb to the slaughter. They did. That faggot didn’t last five minutes.

Most men would take pride in destroying someone of Shakur’s stature. But the Pit Viper’s expression remains sour.

Kingsley: This story is long, but the ending is this. Round three. I was in the main event over guys like Garbage Bag Johnny, over Lane Stevens, over Jared Sykes, over Amy Campbell, over Lance Marshall. I walked into Washington D.C. with my future in my hands. All I needed to do was beat Desade. All I needed. Beat. Desade. And that sliver would be mine. I’d make my future, make enough to get away and never come back. I got in the ring and looked across and saw her for the first time. And she wilted. I beat her down. Beat her around. My fists were hammers. She was hated. You may think I’m cold at heart, but back then, you cheered for me to beat her. Deep down inside, you still do. She was everything that was evil and wretched and horrible in this world, and through me, you could hurt her. Because Jonathan Rhine couldn’t. Because Lance Marshall couldn’t. Because your heroes couldn’t. Amy Campbell watched me beat the White Witch down and I could see the panic in her eyes. They’d made their beds, stacking the deck on good, honest folk. They hurt people for show. Manipulated people for their own twisted perversions.

He gulps.

Kingsley: All I wanted was to escape. And I hit her. Hit her with everything. And she got up. She kicked and got up and kicked and got up and kicked. Then, the lights became hot. I couldn’t breathe. She kept kicking and I couldn’t breathe. Amy Campbell and the Dead Man’s Head clapped and laughed and interfered and I! COULDN’T! BREATHE!

His fist clinches. It slams against his head. Slams against the temple. Again and again and again and again and again, causing him to rock back, causing him to grab at the ropes for support.

Causing him to bleed. His voice is shaky now.

Kingsley: And she kicked my legs out, and she rolled me up, and she beat me. I...lost. It wasn’t a damn dream. I didn’t want to win for the gilded name. I wanted to win because it was the only way I could get away. And she took it from me. Her and her kind took it from me. Through their actions. Through their interferences. And she...laughed. She laughed at me. She laughed at me.

He looks to the canvas and whimpers, powerless now as he was then. But as he brings his head back up, his mood changes. Combing back the nest of tangled hair covering his face, the Pit Viper scowls.

Kingsley: That boy is dead. So that leaves people wondering why. Why I’m here. Actually...that’s not true. You already have it in your heads why I’m here. To collect a token win and shove on off into the night. To get vengeance for those cackles. You look at Thad Denver...at Mackenzie...at Blackberry...and you see a ruthless, gutless man who tore people apart to get a sick laugh. To get a sick thrill. To shock you. To make you all think he’s tough. This snake travels along its own path, taking it wherever it wants to go. I’ve said that. I’ve told you to trust me even when I didn’t mean it. But trust me when I tell you why I’ve hurt and maimed and focused my attentions where I have. You listen to Desade lately? How about Amy Campbell? When I walked in here, the change happened. They pulled the wool over all your eyes and made you believe that because they hit the monsters THEY created that THEY had changed. That they fought for the side of good. When you bring up their pasts, they become belligerent. Confrontational. And I understand why. Before my judge, I was angry as he chastised me for my crimes. But I didn’t pawn off what I’d done as if it never happened. I didn’t grow weak at the knees, mewling like a pathetic bitch as I stared at my own image in the mirror.

His words come out in harsh gasps.

Kingsley: They haven’t paid for their crimes. And that’s the art of deceit; stay ahead of the game, make the folk believe something through calculated measures. They feasted on their corpses and yet the people here give them chance after chance after chance to betray them.

He motions behind him, beckoning his charge from the cover of darkness into the light. The crowd boos as he wraps his arm across her neck, bringing her close to him. Their heads support each other. His blood paints her cheek.

Kingsley: Who do you think was there in the hospital with Mackenzie? Who do you think took care of her? Explained to her what happened, why it happened? I read her passages from my Bible and nursed her back to health. She didn’t take me into her life without me earning her trust. Without me showing her what I am. And she’s with me now because she believes, like I do, that until the toll is paid, until all sins are paid for, then we can’t move on. She wears the scarlet letter for her crimes around her neck, not willingly, but because she must. Just like we all must.

Kissing the barbwire scar around her neck, he lets go of her, quietly speaking into her ear. She stays as close to him as she can, taking his arm into hers, snaking her fingers down his wrist before clasping hands.

Kingsley: You can hate me all you want. I know what I do when I walk out here. I carry the weight of the men I’ve ended. But I don’t ask for your sympathy. I don’t ask for your understanding. I’m not the surgeon removing cancer from the body; I’m the scalpel. An instrument. The things I’ve done? They were to make those heroes put on their capes and fly to the rescue because the day they killed Terrence Kingsley, they laughed. They looked at him as a joke. A conquered joke. Desade spent a decade with people calling for her head and she considered that pissant little boy from Mississippi to be nothing more than a gnat. Unlike her ‘greatest adversaries’, I’m not from her past; I’m born from her actions. I’m born from the same cloth as the dead love of Rhine, the same cloth as countless others who were maimed and hurt and ridiculed and left jobless and laughed at. So I showed them something not even they could match. I became oblivion. My sanctifying light burned hotter and brighter than anything they could ever do. And not through manipulation. Just by will and by my own hands.

He shakes his head.

Kingsley: And yet they acted aloof. They referenced me from a distance, but never did they walk forward to me. They didn’t care for anyone that’d been hurt. They didn’t care for anyone but those within their own little power struggles...their own little world...their own little world so inbred that the gene pool made them all one in the same. But I’ve knocked down their doors. I crossed their horseshit moats and now I scaled the walls of their pristine castle, dynamite in my teeth, barbarians at the gates. And I rended them to rubble. I took that monster you all feared, put boot to throat, reached into her rotten maw, and I ripped out her fangs. Ripped out her tongue. And now? She’s chasing pissants. Taking the easy way out before she rides off into the sunset. Her ego bruised. The image she’d spent so long building…ruined. By the ghost of the boy from Mississippi. Which leads me towards one last person. Jared. Sykes.

That brings a full belted roar from the crowd, but it doesn’t faze him.

Kingsley: They threw a ticker tape parade for you. Turned you overnight from stuttering coward into the greatest knight of all. And the fact is, as I told you when our paths first crossed...I’m not here for you. Yet you insisted in stepping up. In coming to me. Flailing like a child, inflicting pain upon yourself. In another life, we might’ve been allies. Friends. But I am the sword and the shield and you are a corrupt puppet. So the path I blaze takes me to you, now. Not because you’ve beaten me. Not because you hold the Universal Title. But because you embrace a marketing tagline...an image...that is false.

A tepid smile crosses his face as he, once again, untangles the mop of hair flowing down to his face.

Kingsley: You vanquished a dragon, but how whole are you, Jared? You look in the mirror and see your accomplishment and you lie to yourself enough to smile about it. I don’t need to lie. You share a bed of roses with a whore who hurt you, who’s killed members of your family simply for the thrill. You roll around in slop with Wyatt Connors, letting him step in every match throughout that tournament to interfere on your behalf. You’re a walking contradiction. A man who wears a cape bestowed upon him by the same vile, gutless filth that made heroes necessary. I hope you enjoy the glamour, Jared. You may try and come to God on your own for the company you keep. But the reality you have to accept? No man cometh unto the Father, but by me. Trust me. Trust. Me.

Spiking the microphone to the canvas, the Pit Viper and the Ghost of SCCW leave to a chorus of boos.

Save the few people in Richmond who stand on their feet. Clapping their hands. Nodding their heads.

We go elsewhere.

In the back we see a broad set of shoulders doing a good job covering the light that illuminated the Pepsi machine. It had just rejected his dollar bill for the third time in a row.

“This would be so much easier with a toonie. Maybe if I fold it this way this time... just maybe.”

Indifferent to the rising anger in the two hundred and forty pounder it spit out Mr. Washington again.

“To hell with it! Water’s got to be better for you than Mountain Dew.”

And with those words spoken the Sin City Saint spins around, pausing to remember which direction the catering area was. If he had continued on he would have collided with the blur of black hair rushing past.

Quinlan: Didn’t they ever teach you not to run in the halls? Or was that with scissors? Surely you are not carrying scissors and running in the hall.

The girl is in a hurry to get somewhere – she's a teenaged girl, and the increasing weight of her presence is starting to bow those shoulders. Though she doesn't merit an ovation the size of the former LiveWire Champion's, Quinn Gregory still gets that "Hey! I know that girl!" cheer from the crowd – higher pitched, perhaps owing to those few girls in the audience with someone with whom they can emphasize.

Quinn: What?

It's not the most stunningly articulate response, but she's clearly surprised to be addressed – most of the staff backstage has taken to simply avoiding her. Fear of her mother's wrath was a powerful thing.

Quinn: Oh. No, it's just... she's up next with that Clyde Fox guy, and I was...

She thumbs behind her, finishing lamely.

Quinn: I was busy.

Quinlan: Oh no, I get it. Some what. You’re her kid. You get a bigger ovation from the SCCW faithful. And you’re probably getting more cash per fight then they have decided to let me live on for a year. Takes some ba... uh... courage to agree to step into there with Mega-Sleaze. I will give you that.

Quinn: We get paid to do this?

On many other people, it would be snide, mocking, or even droll. On the teenager, it seems far more real.

Quinn: And as for them...

Her hands quickly find her pockets, making her shrug even more pronounced.

Quinn: Didn't have much choice. Not like anyone else would've come to Mom's aid. My friends think it's awesome, like I'm some kind of hero. Like this is the movies and I'm going to kick his ass or something. It's not. I'm not going to win or beat him. I can hold my own in a fight with a bully, sure. Not this.

She seems defeated already, subdued. Her sea-green gaze drops to the tiled floor.

Feeling somewhat more imposing that he wants to be at the moment, Quinlan uncrosses his arms to reveal a pale green TMNT shirt.

Quinlan: That part I get. Sixteen year-old with a chance to get national air time? Must have the seniors crushing on ya. But... hey, let’s see that right.

He holds out an open left palm.

It takes a beat for her to understand.

Quinn: Oh, you want me to—

The jab that hits it is crisp, but the left cross that follows actually drives his hand back a little. Like her mother, she's a southpaw.

Quinn: Not so hard to hit a stationary object.

She demurs immediately, her hands digging back into her pockets

Quinlan: But an important first step none-the-less. I am also going to guess that you’ve had some pretty advanced sparring partners to boot.

Quinn: I mean, yeah... Dusk started my training. Mom's helped. Amy doesn't... Amy doesn't want anything to do with this. But Legion kicked my ass despite Mom running interference. I'm good for a sixteen-year-old, but Jadian's been training since he was eighteen. I'm not going to pretend I'll kick his ass or anything.

A bit of a smile creeps onto her lips, far more Amy Campbell than Alexandra Pierce.

Quinn: Though I'd like to, believe me.

The girl’s smile is contagious and through creased lips the Eagle Place Product opens his mouth.

Quinlan: .... Alright, a few bits of advance, from one pro to another. One: Remember what old Superkick taught ya? Forget it. Just trust me on this one. Never get wrestling advice from a guy in eyeliner.

He paused hoping for a chuckle, but a disinterested look had him hurry to the next bit.

Quinlan: And never give you opponent too much credit. I’ve almost lost count how many times I’ve pinned the weasel. In fact, I do believe I am in line for Sykes’ title should Bridden somehow beat him.

That time, Gregory does chuckle. It's a small, girlish sound, tucking her chin and looking away briefly.

Quinn: It's probably mean of me to say I hope they beat each other up, right? That way, you can be Universal Champion, Jadian would have to cancel, and... meh, I always have unkind thoughts about Jared.

Quinlan: Oh, sorry. It is great to hope they put on a great show by beating the living hell out of each other, yeah. I wasn’t talking about the Universal title though. God knows they are never going to let me get a sniff at that. Nah, what I was talking about was the “Beating Jadian Bridden World Title”. Thirdly, try to have fun out there. You have to know that Jay is going to want to take this further than it should, but that won’t happen. I ain’t going to let him.

Quinn: No offense, but if Mom and Amy can't stop him... I wonder if anyone can.

Her eyes lift, her thumb jabbing her cat's-eye glasses up her nose.

Quinn: I think Adrienne is still mad I called her a... a really bad word. Juli said suspensions and stuff.

Raising a hand to his chin, Mitchell gives a light scratch.

Quinlan: That would be concerning if I had not been Wile E. Coyote: Genius. But seeing as I am not, a barbarian temper should see him at least put to sleep.

A slightly disturbing grin takes the place of the pleasant smile as the former LiveWire champion speaks.

Quinlan: No, suspensions would worry a guy they actually bother to book on a consistent basis. Maybe a guy who isn’t thinking that if I had just thought a little more like your mom, a professional fighter would not be forcing a 16 year old girl to fight.

Gregory shrugs diffidently, glancing down again.

Quinn: You don't have to. I don't want anyone else getting in trouble for me. Mom and Amy will handle it, and I'll... like you said, I'll get some cool scars, right?

"Quinn?"

There's a note of concern in Alexandra Pierce's voice as she turns the corner – it's on the way to the ring. Pierce is dressed to compete, and that hard gray glare settles on Mitchell, though she doesn't approach immediately.

Quinn: I'm fine, Mom. We're just... just talking.

You might recognize the look Mitchell sports as the ‘trying to not be intimidated by the GTT champion’ look.

Quinlan: My fault for slowing her down, Pierce. You got a good one here.

Alex's steps carry her closer, tightening the tape wrapped around her left hand. She doesn't intend to be intimidating, but... this is Alexandra Pierce, after all.

Pierce: I do.

The smile the thought dredges up is at odds with her battle-ready image, and it softens her expression somewhat.

Pierce: Though I had little to do with that.

Quinlan turns his attention away to the younger.

Quinlan: Maybe you ought to remind your mom sometimes that she is not so bad.

It's the first time he earns Quinn's full-on smile, wide and beaming.

Quinn: You tell her that. I've been trying for, like, six months.

Alex's smile freezes on her face, and her fist balls unconsciously.

Pierce: I believe I have a firmer grasp on this than either of you.

Still grinning, Quinn leans forward, cupping her hands around her mouth. The whisper is a stage whisper.

Quinn: She always says that!

Quinlan: Forest for the trees.

Pierce: I see the whole forest, believe me.

Quinlan: She’s never going to change that chant, is she Quinn?

Pierce: Chant?

He takes a look to either side of him, looking for anyone else not getting it.

Quinlan: I am bad. I hate myself. I have done wrong. There is no redemption. The chorus you seem to be stuck on. But that is not how the song will end.

Quinn: It's a really long song, apparently.

Pierce: Yes, well, I have to go attempt harm to a boy who acts like a child. Forgive me if I am not feeling particularly heroic.

Quinlan: Paste-eater? If it helps you I am sure he will forget about it the moment the bell sounds and it reminds him of the kindergarten class he is skipping to be here tonight.

Pierce: Mm.

She adjusts the tape again, her gaze somewhat distant. Quinn takes that as a sign, dropping to her mother's side.

Quinn: On that note...

Quinlan: Right, someone has a match. Well, good luck ladies Pierce.

Pierce: Have a good evening.

Quinn: And Mitch -- can I call you Mitch? Thanks.

Quinlan: Think nothing of it kiddo. And Alex: ten months.

The Spider holds his gaze for a long moment, before she turns to join her daughter. The pair meanders down the hall towards the gorilla position, sharing muted questions.

Pierce: "Mitch"?

Quinn: "Ten months"?

And then they're around the corner, leaving the former LiveWire Champion to try his crumpled one once more to summon his soda.

Have you ever been backstage when there are no cameras around, when the members of the roster do not have to play their parts and keep up appearances? It is like a whole new world back there, Lance Marshall plays with dolls he likes to call action figures, Terrence Kingsley actually smiles, and Alexandra Pierce does nails at a little desk near the production truck.

Nobody is exactly what they are like when they are in front of that camera, hamming it up to please the people in the cheap seats, because let's face it... Even Wyatt Connors can't be an asshole all the time. Okay, after that last one, it should be safe to say that everything being said so far is a lie. Well, except for the comment about Marshall, he really lays out across the floor of his locker room and plays with toys.

No, whether there are cameras around or not, most of the roster is pretty much exactly how they appear on your television screen. Though our focus right now is on two of the people that fall under the not-so-friendly column.

“Put a lot of ranch dressing on there, I don't want to run out while eating my celery sticks.”

Jadian Bridden is standing there, pointing out what he does and does not want on his plate. A plate Julissa Minorez is holding while simultaneously trying to balance herself on her left crutch.

Bridden: Does that carrot look a little dry to you?

Where they are is hospitality, making their way through the buffet that catering has set up for the event.

Minorez: No, it looks fine.

Bridden: I don't like the way it looks, maybe you should go back and get me another one.

Jay taps a finger against his cheek, unsure what else he wants to eat.

"Here's a radical and revolutionary thought: maybe save the girl a trip and get it yourself."

To some he is Sin City's knight in shining armor. To others he's simply a retard covered in tin foil. If asked, he wouldn't claim to be either (though he's probably closer to Derp City, all things considered), but that doesn't mean that Jared Sykes isn't one to shy away from these types of situations.

He stands just inside the door, leaning casually against the wall. His ring attire is in place, complemented by a white on black tee shirt that simply reads "I Backtraced It~!". He exhales a small sigh as he steps deeper into the room. A nasty history of incidents at the hospitality station is nothing to overlook.

Sykes: I mean, I'm just throwing out suggestions here, so stop me whenever you'd like.

Bridden: And they say chivalry is dead. It's times like this that make me proud to be a man.

Jadian has turned to face the new Universal champion, that damn smirk on his face. These two men have a history that does not favor the Ace in the Hole, but you wouldn't be able to tell the way he twirls his finger in excitement.

Bridden: Speaking of being a man, how's Amy?

Jared just sighs.

Sykes: Really? Really? Come on, man. We've been at this for two years and that's the best one you've got? Didn't you just spend the last six months palling around Lane Stevens? Did you learn nothing?

His eyes wander the room, as if searching for something.

Sykes: Speaking of Lane, where's he been lately? I don't recall seeing him around.

And then he snaps his fingers, cocks his head, and lets his eyes fall on the Hand's last soldier.

Sykes: Oh yeah. That's right. She retired him. Again.

Jay is about to say something when he lifts his hand, palm out.

Bridden: Hold on, are you seriously just going to stand there? I'm in the middle of something here and I shouldn't have to hold your hand.

He starts to point out a few things.

Bridden: Get me a couple of chicken salad sandwiches, and a tuna, too. Don't forget about swapping that carrot, either.

He turns back to Sykes.

Bridden: Sometimes I think she's a blonde, you know what I mean... Now where was – Oh yeah, Lane. He's doing swell actually, texted him this morning about you winning the Uni and all. He sends his love.

It is then that he shrugs.

Bridden: Well, sort of, if you can call the names he called you in between LOL's and LMAO's love. But enough about me, how are things with you... Excited about tonight?

Sykes: Good thing that's not a weird question, or anything.

He steps to the table, drawing back a chair and taking a seat opposite the Ace.

Sykes: I mean, hey, it's not like we haven't been here before. I don't think you've got six friends lurking in the shadows, so I'm fairly confident that is isn't going down like last time. Then again, who the fuck knows.

Jared leans in, propping his chin up on his elbows.

Sykes: But here's the thing... Had a little chat with a mutual fr... well, let's go with "acquaintance". I'm not really keen on what I was asked to do. I mean I understand where it comes from, and I can sympathize with it. Hell, I even agreed to it. Pretty fucked up, you know? I'm probably not supposed to be telling you about it. I mean I dunno if that's part of the deal. But here we are.

Bridden: Funny how you're the one with all the friends now, huh.

Jay shrugs his shoulders, grabbing a cherry from the plate his other half (the better half) is holding.

Bridden: I mean, Kat's been busy with other things, Lane's in traction, Cav's not ready to come back anytime soon... Let's not forget about the tin woman finding a heart. Don't get me wrong, I've never been a man short of friends, but I'd like to think that I have a good chance tonight.

He chuckles.

Bridden: I mean, weirder things have happened, right Champ.

Jared tips his head forward, like a teacher peering over his glasses.

Sykes: Yeah? What about your chances with the kid?

Jay extends his arms slightly, giving a slight shrug as to say 'meh'. The lackadaisical smirk on his lips further shows his disinterest.

Bridden: All I've heard this week is how maybe I should cancel it, that she shouldn't be involved in this little tiff with Pierce.

Julissa glances over her shoulder, surprisingly covering up a bit more than usual.

Bridden: Me, I just hope she puts up a little bit of a fight, don't want it to be too easy. Wouldn't really send the message I want to send, and let's face it... Someone needs to break the little girl in. Show her what being like mommy is all about.

Jared purses his lips and stares for a moment, lightly drumming his thumb against the table. There's a riddle here, a puzzle that he's yet to solve. Through it all the room remains eerily silent, broken only by Jay's chewing on a new bit of carrot.

Sykes: What's it worth to you? Like, if you had to put a price on it, what's it worth to you?

Finishing what is left of the carrot in his mouth, Jay's eyebrow peaks in interest. It isn't a question he intended to hear from Sykes, then again he fits the role well.

Bridden: What's it worth to piss Alex off, or to get my hands on her demon spawn? Because while they are different things, they are very similar.

Sykes: More the second one than the first one. Kid's what, sixteen? No real experience, either. I mean I hear she used to hang with Dusk, but... it's fucking Dusk, dude. Not like "No Selling 101" is gonna be that effective, you know?

He leans back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest.

Sykes: You wanna piss off her mom, then whatever. Not gonna tell you to stop. You've got your issues. Fine. Great. Thing is, even the best generals don't attack the civilians first, dude. You're toeing a line you probably don't wanna cross. If you'd like I can make a lion analogy here. Watched something on the Discovery Channel this week. Pretty cool. You'd probably hate it, but the story would fit. See where I'm going with this?

Bridden: I see it, thing is, I'm at a point where I could really care less. You see, you might not believe me, but I put a lot of thought into this. I didn't ask for this match just to hurt Alex, though you better believe it ranks right up there as the number one reason.

Jay wags his finger in Jared's direction.

Bridden: No, this has a little to do with the wool she's been pulling over everyone's eyes. Do I think Dusk taught her how to succeed in the ring, definitely not. The guy had enough trouble figuring out how to do that for himself, but I don't think that's been the extent of her training... And I definitely don't think she's as innocent as you all think she is. You know who her mother is, and I can tell you that Juli over there wasn't much older when Pierce dug her hooks into her.

It is Jay's turn to fold his arms across his chest.

Bridden: So excuse me if I don't buy the little girl in pigtails being all innocent routine she usually fronts. Blame it on being so close to the womb from which she escaped, but I think she may be a lot more like her mother than anyone realizes.

Jared throws himself forward, slamming a palm hard enough on the table that Julissa flinches.

Sykes: Six! Teen!

Jadian shakes his head, staring down at the black Chuck Taylors tied tight on his feet.

Bridden: I'm taking it you have a problem with her age, more than anything else.

He looks up, nodding slightly.

Bridden: I'll take it under advisement, but I doubt it will change anything. But just for shits and giggles, say it again. Only this time, make it more of a guttural growl.

Sykes: You know goddamn well it's not the only issue I have. You know what I think, what I believe, how I feel about this shit. My history on the subject is well documented. But nooo, you have to make a point. You have to try and show the world little Quinn is just as bad as her big, mean momma was, huh? You get to throw morality aside because it fits your twisted little fucked-up vision of how the world works, and what justice means. Go ahead then. Question my ethics. Watch what it gets you.

For most of his Sin City career Jared Sykes has been something of a joke. He's the awkward guy, the one with a problem expressing himself around members of the opposite sex. It is a rare thing to see him truly, legitimately angry.

Sykes: You want to make a statement? You want to prove a point? Watch what it gets you.

He braces his palms against the table and pushes himself to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in the process.

Sykes: Excited for tonight? You have no idea.

Bridden: That's the spirit.

Jay fist pumps with such tenacity, The Situation is filing copyright infringement papers as we speak. His smile is so wide, Tony Gamble is doing the same thing.

Bridden: Nice set of balls you got there, Sykes. Biggest set I've seen in a long time.

The remark causes Jared to break stride and turn, but he doesn't pause very long.

Sykes: Whatever.

With a scoff and a shake of the head, the Universal Champion heads for the door.

Bridden: Whatever.

Jay mocks the Universal champion as the door closes behind him. Laughing, he turns to Julissa with that damn smirk.

Bridden: I love my job. Hey, where's my bag?

Minorez: You didn't get it?

Bridden: Now why would I get it?

Minorez: Cause it's your bag. I was getting my crutches out of the back seat, you can't expect me to carry everything.

It is then that Jay's gleeful expression fades away, replaced now by anger. He yanks her arm to turn her around, sending the plate of food she was holding flying across the table.

Bridden: I expect you to do what the hell I say. Now, after you're done cleaning this mess up, serve me another plate then hobble your fine ass back out to the car to get my bag. Is that plain enough for you, or do I need to write the shit down?

Jay releases his hold, then makes his own exit.

We now come upon the "Devastator From Doddtown" with his bag slung over his shoulder, towel around his neck and thin shades covering his eyes as he heads for the exit. In his ear is a hands free device which is attached to his cell which is presently attached to his hip. Well, it's in a pouch that's attached to his hip, but we digress. As he heads for his car, he finds his MP3 listening session interrupted by a phone call. Per his usual annoyance anytime his song vibing mood is interrupted, he stops walking to see the number on the caller ID. Looking, he smiles as he presses the button and that suave half of his persona emerges.

Leonard: Well hello beautiful. What's going on?

There's a short pause, as Aarons resumes walking albeit at a slower pace.

Leonard: Yup. Made a rather devastating first impression at the expense of Mister Jones tonight.

Another pause, as he listens nodding his head.

Leonard: Ya know, it felt different. But at the same time, I felt about ten years younger out there. I think the time off really did my body some good.

Yet another pause, curse these folk for not letting us hear what they're saying.

Leonard: You sure? I mean, I really didn't have any intentions on...

A much shorter pause than the previous few...followed by a rather exasperated sigh. You know, the one where you pretty much acknowledge the battle's done before you can get off another round of return fire? Yeah, that's the one.

Leonard: Alright then. Guess I'll see you next week then.

He hangs up and arrives at the trunk of his 2000 Ford Expedition when go figure, another call comes in. He doesn't bother checking the caller ID, because he's thinking it's the last person he got off the phone with.

Leonard: Look we'll talk...

The slow turn from happy to 'why in the hell are you calling me' more or less says it all on Len's face. His dismay is evident as he slings his bag into the trunk and sits down, wanting to hang up on the caller but knowing...he can't.

Leonard: What do you want?

Short pause as Leonard cranks his neck back and slowly closes his eyes.

Leonard: Yeah, I'm back in the game. Your actions forced my hand in this matter.

Another short pause. While he's unfamiliar with whomever it is on the other end, the other end is more than familiar with him. Only problem is, when you've made the enemies he's made over the years, it's hard to lock down the 'who' in the 'who is this ringing my phone and irritating me greatly' department.

Leonard: It's not a fad. It's legitimate. I'm done with the man I was. With the demon that I was. It's a new day and things have changed for me. Now is there a point to this or can I go about my merry way?

The next pause is longer than the last, but there is no reply from Aarons as the unidentified caller hangs up. Aarons starts breathing in and out, his hands clenching into fists as he pops up off of the back and snarls. His hands fix themselves on the trunk itself as they dig in as deep as possible, metal be damned, L's hands are wishing they could be locked around the throat of whomever that mystery caller was. He starts to slam the trunk door shut, but he closes it rather gently, giving it a slight nudge to ensure it's closed as he removes his earbuds and heads for the driver's side.

Leonard: Fuck em'.

He gets in and shuts the door behind him as the camera cuts back to the announce position.

Dim, gloomy, and artsy, a shot of a masked man's torso looking down upon a tombstone. Covered in a lambskin jacket, the wind blows lightly. Although theatrically grey-scaled, the picture is crisp yet maintains an eerieness akin to a David Lynch or Richard Kelly film.

A Spanish voice speaks calmly over the shot, translated at the bottom of the screen.

"Two years ago, a tragedy shook my heart. My father, who I had known my entire life, passed away."

The obnoxious "CAW!" of a crow flying overhead follows, catching the attention of the masked man. He turns his head skyward, prompting a close-up to show a single tear forming at the corner of his left eye.

"He was a good man. A great wrestler. A hero to all."

Panning back out, a single tumbleweed crosses the plane in front of us. (Even though this is not a desert, and that you may swear to god that you saw a little string pulling it across, stay with us.) The "crow" (which may or may not be someone's hands forming a shadow puppet) "flies" (crashes) down onto the tumbleweed and balances on it with ease. This is an omen.

"And now, I must continue his legacy."

Walking toward the horizon and (accidentally) tripping over the lining of the gravel plot, the masked man in the lambskin coat is revealed to have on a pair of tight pink trunks. There are two Rolling Stones-style mouths on each butt cheek, with both tongues delicately tickling the edge of the crack. The crow gives another "CAW!" and then turns into a Snickers bar. Just kidding, it's a log of shit.

"ME LLAMO UN EL CULO HOMBREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Panning down, our final shot is what gives us closure to this dramatic piece: the epitaph carved (written in magic marker on a piece of paper and taped) on the grave stone.

Here Lies Mr. Ass. "He loved to shove em."

After the show-opener and the subsequent run-in with Terrence Kingsley, cameras haven't been far behind Amy Campbell at any point tonight. These crews are paid to tape every second of drama they can, after all, and she seems to be an endless well of it.

Even if it's not by her own doing.

''Watch i--oooh, look at you!''

Amy never saw it coming, but the cameras did. Adrienne St. Germaine made a beeline for the little redhead when she saw their paths were about to cross in the hall, 'accidentally' allowing the currently distant, absent-minded redhead to bump into her. Now, she's faking interest. Aimz is having none of it.

Aimz: Shouldn't you be finding teenagers to throw on the card?

She moves to go around St. Germaine, but Adrienne puts a hand across the former champion's chest to stop her in her tracks. It's not that she's strong, so much as Amy's shocked that she dared to touch her.

ASG: Now, now, Amy. I'm your boss - the least you can do is stop and chat! After all, you seem pretty opinionated when it comes to me. I heard what you said earlier... a little harsh, no?

Aimz: Honestly? Fuck off. I get that you don't like me... but I don't need any of your political shit tonight, 'kay? It's bad enough you're embarassing the company by allowing...

ASG: Oh, I think I know where you're going with this! Back to the Quinn thing, right? Don't be foolish. Alexandra was very willing to pony up the insurance money herself - as if I'd sink that low!

Aimz: And she knows what I think about that. Now you do, too. It's all such a goddamn joke at this point.

St. Germaine giggles.

ASG: Something like your record in this company, hm?

Aimz: ... Excuse me?

ASG: Oh, nothing. Just a playful rib.

Amy Campbell has been a constant thorn in Adrienne's side. Not so much as Alexandra Pierce - primarily because she'd managed to avoid many head-on collisions with the smaller redhead - but it was enough for those bitter feelings to breed. More than enough to give Amy a reasonable opportunity to rebuild some of the fighting spirit she'd lost at the top of the show.

Aimz: Don't make me move you.

ASG: Oh, sweetie, I'll just be a moment. I saw what happened earlier, how upset you seemed. I can't have my talent moping around like this! I mean... it's a shame to see Connors bringing up the dead, don't you think? I didn't know her, but I can imagine Katie Malick would just be livid--

Adrienne knows the button she pushed. She actually smiles when Amy grabs her by the throat, thrusting them both into a wall.

Aimz: You do not say that name.

ASG: I'd say I'm not afraid of your tomboy threats, but we both know I should be, hm? After all, you're the one who put Mr. Duluth down. Is that what's bothering you tonight? That the number of people these fans have seen you break is catching up to that tally on your bedpost?

Blink. When your eyes open again, Adrienne will have a bloodied lip.

Aimz: The fuck is your game here? You wanna be on that list?!

Security uniforms blacken the end of the hallway, drawing close quite quickly.

ASG: See... (She wipes her lip) If you channeled that energy, we could do some great business. But you just haven't been nearly as quick to get under my thumb as you were to kneel under Desade's desk, and that's a real problem for your caree--ooh, look at that little fist of fury! Are you going to hit me again? You're predictable. So simple.

Aimz: You're digging--

ASG: I'm not digging anything but a hole in your head. I'll live there with the rest of the people who can't stand your little act. You're so wholesome now, aren't you? You don't even have the pay scale to keep up with the fines for little stunts like this anymore. It's fun to watch. I came here and you thought nothing would change for you. You thought you'd keep that pretty little whore head high and everything would work out in the end, because you'd licked and sucked your way to the top once already. Aren't you having fun losing matches, losing fans, having everybody tell you exactly what you are?

Security's swarmed Campbell already, pulling her away from the other woman.

ASG: You're exposed now, Amy, and I think I've had enough of you arguing my decisions. I've found so many fun ways to punish Pierce, and your buttons are so much more obvious. You don't run this company anymore, hon.

Aimz: And you'll run it into the fucking groun--

Now it's Adrienne's turn to let loose with a slap. The security guards are on her payroll, after all.

ASG: Money talks, sweetheart. It's one thing you don't have anymore. I'll find any reason to fine or suspend you to keep it that way, too. Just like Alexandra having to pony up insurance money. You're particularly fun when you don't have the cash to pull your stunts -- don't think I don't know that money's what your little goodie-goodie streak is about, either. People got sick of you, you stopped winning matches and suddenly nobody was buying your t-shirts. I hope your lies succeed so those sales can line my pockets, but I'm not buying a minute of this self-righteous claptrap.

Aimz: So you'll line that mini-skirt with cash from ratings for a fucking little girl wrestling a grown man, huh? Turn my home into a circus? You're only in business anymore because of people like Jared, people like m--

Adrienne dabs a kerchief on her lip, then laughs.

ASG: I don't need to toy with your boyfriend - he'll fail on his own soon enou--ahem!

For a split second, Campbell escapes security. It's only enough time to shove the other woman into the concrete wall before she's buried under the uniforms once more.

ASG: Your persistence is irritating, Amy. This is why we can't seem to have nice things. As for Quinn facing Bridden... if you've got such a problem with me profiting from it, why don't we give you the prime spot on next week's show?

Aimz: Excuse me?

ASG: You can have the main event! I just need to think of something people would tune into--ah! I've got it! No no, boys, let her stay for a moment.

The security team - including an apologetic Benji, who's taken a liking to Campbell recently - pause while dragging the Red Raver away.

ASG: You've recently had quite the losing streak against anyone wearing a belt. In spite of everything you think of me, I'm a fair woman. I'll give you a chance to overcome your little slump. Now, Jared's wrestling tonight, and he just laid you down quite convincingly a week ago, so why don't we... ah! From what I hear, you're fairly comfortable taking two people at a time, and I've really been meaning to give our new tag champions a little extra spotlight.

Aimz: All this for what? Because I regret what I've been and you don't want that, or because I called you on what you are? I don't need this shit...

ASG: And I didn't need to be namedropped during your little speech earlier. Maybe this time next week, you won't be so quick to critique what I do around here.

St. Germaine nods to one of the guards, and Amy's heels drag on the floor as the team not-so-gently guides her away. Adrienne's parting words come with a sinister-yet-sweet smile and an infuriatingly false little wave.

ASG: You're thick, Aimzy, but you're certainly not unbreakable. You'll learn to keep those lips wrapped around the next Universal Champion and out of my business soon enough, sweetheart.

She shrugs, laughing.

ASG: That, or you'll OD in a hotel room after crumbling under the weight of all that guilt. The boys will take you to your locker room, maybe you can start counting down the number of careers you've ruined.

Amy Campbell already feels two inches tall tonight.

ASG: Don't forget to include yours!

Standing so short in her own mind, these mountains seem impossible to climb.

Elsewhere...

We get a shot of the backstage area and our intrepid reporter, Barry Kitna. It would appear as though the camera started broadcasting just a few seconds before the producer gave the signal, as he twirls the microphone in his hand. There’s the sign, and now the wind-up.

Kitna: Please welcome my guest at this time, Mitchell Quinlan.

There is the polite ovation, more a thanks for not being a complete asshole, when he first appears on screen. He holds a hand over his chin, rubbing it lightly. When he pulls back, he holds out three fingers. It is a message.

There is a second, louder ovation than the first when the camera pans back, revealing the black t-shirt he wears. It reads, “Jared Sykes is my Role Model” in simple white text.

Convinced that all the cheering is out of the way, Barry gets down to the task.

Kitna: Mitchell, at Sin on Spike 5, you engaged in a brawl with Jadian Bridden just minutes before you were scheduled to defend what was your LiveWire championship. Was that a mistake?

A look of obviousness paints Quinlan’s face.

Quinlan: Barry, that brawl was just the warm-up I needed before a big fight like that.

Kitna: But...

Quinlan: Yeah, I know you are going to make some mention about how much lighter my shoulder is. Listen, I realized something about myself that night in Jersey. It dawned on me when they held up that disgraceful pink and rhinestone eyesore. It was exactly at the moment that the redneck put another member of this locker room into early retirement. That was what it really took to be a champion in Sin City. And I didn’t have it.

He casts his gaze to the ground, roll his head around his shoulders and pop back with a confidence.

Quinlan: Miss Larsson showed she had it. That competitive edge that anywhere but here is called cheating. But apparently we work on Raider Rules. We battled to another standstill, and she showed the balls enough to get over.

The clapping of his hands is combined with an intense stare deep into the camera.

Quinlan: Larsson, that title is meant to be the standard against everything this place is. Pure athletic competition. Ten minutes to thrill the Sin City faithful. Larsson, you are the title holder, but I am still the champion of those ideals. You cannot take that from me.

In an attempt to redirect the interview, Barry pulls the stick back.

Kitna: And tonight that title is defended against Legion.

Quinlan: And that one goes next, right? Ought to be a hell of a fight.

Kitna: And with you losing your rematch...

Quinlan: Isn’t that just a bitch, huh?

Kitna: I wanted to get an idea for what the future holds for you here in SCCW.

The 6’3” Eagle Place Product stands with an annoyed face for a few seconds.

Quinlan: Well, shit. You stumped me. The eight-ball always comes up ‘it is unclear at this time’ and psychics are frauds, so I guess all I really know at this point is what happens next week. A big man decides that to get a win he has to fight a 16 year old girl. Actually, come to think of it, wasn’t Legion the first to try that? That’s got to warrant something like at least three back fists, right Suzie?

The Sin City Saint smiles as he looks back down to his t-shirt.

Quinlan: Or, hey, Jared could smash enough forearms into that shit eating grin to straighten out Mega-Sleaze before he even gets the opportunity. But beyond that, who knows? If Blondie or the Doc book me, I’ll be there. It never changes: give these people their money worth.

Kitna: Thank you for your time.

Quinlan: Got plenty of it, Kits. But now it is time for the LiveWire title match; Susanne Larsson’s first defence against Legion. Wake up Ware. Take it away Dave.

And following the former champion’s command, we go to ringside where one broadcaster sits the image of professionalism, and the other is slumped over on the desk and his rather large middle girth.

Newton’s first law states that force is proportional to the mass and acceleration of bodies.

In the backstage area of wherever SCCW broadcasts it can always be assure that massive bodies would be walking around. Often times these bodies move free of vision, caught in a thousand mile stare as they think about their next match, staffers with heads down trying to stay off camera, those closing their eyes to enjoy the music they pumped into their ears just a little too much, and on this occasion, a man tilting his head up to take the first sip from a bottle of Mountain Dew. The acceleration bit comes in when he is halted, colliding with an errant security guard walking out of catering. The result is a soaked, sticky floor.

Quinlan: Ah man. You have no idea how hard I worked to get that.

Guard: Sorry.

With that he went about to whatever destination he had, leaving our former LiveWire Champion before a puddle of what was to be refreshing and hydrating goodness. But his time to wallow in the mellow smoothness lost is short as his Spidey-Sense kicks into gear. (Where he grew up it is called the ‘know when you are about to get your ass jumped’ sense.)

Quinlan: And it is just the couple I really hoped I could go without seeing. But how are we doing Slick? Four-legs?

Bridden: Well if it isn't the man that was going to change the world one dark match at a time.

Jay adjusts the duffel bag slung over Julissa's shoulder, frustrated that she has nearly dropped his stuff twice since they walked into the arena.

Bridden: Look, I've been thinking about exercising my rematch clause. I want to... Wait, did you lose it already?

Jay rushes over and looks behind Quinlan, thinking maybe he is hiding it from him.


Bridden: Dammit, what happened to that big old spiel you gave me at Sin on Spike. That settles it, I'm never trusting a Canadian again. You'd think I would've learned my lesson with Searle.

Minorez: Xander wasn't Canadian.

The Ace in the Hole chuckles softly, turning to his other half (the better half) with a half smile on his lips.


Bridden: Thanks for pointing that out. Next time wait til I stick something in your slot, mkay.

The last year’s worth of instances running through his mind, Mitchell splits his attention on both the hobbled Minx and the former GateWire champion.

Quinlan: And here I was hoping that I could mend the broken ties Canadians and Americans have. Guess us Canucks are always going to know Americans are assholes. Ah, shit. I just gave away the national secret.

Bridden: Seems like you've been giving a lot of stuff away lately. Hey, maybe next week you can put your personality on the line, I'd love...

He slaps his hand against his forehead.

Bridden: Sorry, man, forgot you never had one of those. Luckily, you don't need one. I mean, when you're stuck facing Legion, Varga, and Vince Jones on a weekly basis, you're probably ahead of the curve.

Quinlan: And you can’t even keep up with that crowd, so you have to pick a fight with a 16 year old girl?

The comment garners a snicker from the Mexican Minx, one that doesn't sit well with the Ace in the Hole. He stares a hole through her, his nostrils flaring a bit. He composes himself slightly.

Bridden: Yeah, well, if you're going to play in the spider's web, you kind of need to know where to hurt her the most. Does it make me look like an asshole if I use the little bitch to do it...

Jadian shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders.

Bridden: Well then take a damn good look at me, because it's probably the only ass you're going to be close to in a long while.

Quinlan: Ponder this than for me. Had you not been impotent, if maybe your testacies did drop during puberty, and God forbid, there was Asshole Jr. Bridden walking around. Is your first born fair game?

Bridden: I wouldn't be stupid enough to drag him along to a place like this, to give an asshole like me the opportunity. Quinn wants to be here, she wants to live this life... Well, I'm more than glad to give her the education Legion wasn't prepared to give her. Pop her cherry, so to speak.

A quick wink and a kiss are delivered in Julissa's direction, to which she merely forces a smile to her lips.

Quinlan: Yeah, you’d fit the bill for statutory rapist. But I don’t think you really understand the dynamics of this place anymore. Stevens is out. I am pretty sure Kathryn is content to tease Heath all night. The one with any real in-ring talent is standing beside you on crutches. I couldn’t think of why you would want to go and poke the bear, hell, bears. She knows how loosely Pierce is wired right now, and if Stevens can spit it through the wire they got his jaw closed with, he’d tell you that Aimz is primed to do some damage.

Bridden: So I should be scared because I don't have an army behind me... I remember a time when you told me I was nothing without them. What's the matter, scared I'm gonna prove you wrong?

Quinlan: Not at all. I am just afraid that they will put you so out of repair that we couldn’t get in that ring another time or two and knock skulls.

Bridden: Oh, trust me, Q-ball, I have things under control. Guy like me, with a girl like that...

He jabs his thumb over in Julissa's direction.

Bridden: Let's just say I'm always prepared to take care of business, and I'm ready, willing, and able to handle anything Pierce, Marshall, or Aimz decide to sling my way.

Quinlan again takes pause to look over Julissa once more, seeing the reddened skin irritated from the crutches, the aircast boot which for a fashion fiend would be tantamount to cutting off a hand to sell an injury, before turning back to that waiting grin.

Quinlan: Now you really do have a two-fold problem there. One being that while you deem fit to use this one as a pack mule, I really don’t think your backup plan is all the air tight. I mean seriously, I could beat you in a 100 metre crutch race giving you a 20 metre head start. Got to be a bit of a demon on those sticks back in the day. Oh, right, back to the two-fold problem. First, no, wait, secondly, you can’t count. That little girl has more than just those three ready and willing to back her up.

Jadian does little at the revelation. His face very devil may care, right down to the yawn he thinks for half a second about stifling, before exaggerating it more so.

Quinlan: If you are going to count in Aimz, you might as well count in the Universal champion. Yeah, that guy you fight tonight. The one guy I think that you’ve lost to more than me. So, come on now, count with me. That’s one... ah ha ha ha. Two... ah ha ha ha. Three, four and five.

Jay approaches Quinlan, extending fingers as his lips move without words coming out.

Bridden: Five, six... Seven, eight... Hell, why don't you start in the double digits, because I really don't care if the rest of the roster wants to treat her like some innocent victim in all of this. They can all stop me in the hallway and plead for me to change my mind, tell me that if I know ay better I'd let it go. Thing is, Q, I welcome the damn challenge.

Quinlan: Of all the usual cabal, it is the fifth you should worry about. A guy who doesn’t get booked on a regular enough basis to care about whatever Blondie will throw. A guy who is highly skilled and creative in applications of pain. A guy who kind of had this meeting with this cute little raven haired girl and made a promise that he would see her safe. And a guy who is really thinking this is dumb to use the third person.

Jay begins to chuckle, realizing that Q had been dying to tell him this all night.

Bridden: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. It's just that, well, I thought you'd be smarter than that. Okay, that's a lie. I've never known you to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. Thing is, I did think you knew better than to trust Pierce. Guess she has convinced the world the devil never existed.

Quinlan: And I thought you’d know that getting stabbed with a dull blade makes for a worse cut. Can’t trust Pierce as far as I can throw her, but still can’t stand by when a minor is in a fight with a professional, in the loosest term of the word.

Bridden: Well, you do what you gotta do, but I can tell you right now that this is a fight you don't want to get involved in.

He shakes his head and starts down the hall, glancing back over his shoulder a little more peeved than when this conversation began.

Bridden: Come on, hop-a-long, I don't have all damn night.

Julissa glances over at Quinlan, then closes her eyes and begins to follow her other half (the worst half).

Quinlan: I did say I was creative, didn’t I?

The question is enough to stall the Mexican Minx for just long enough for his message to be delivered.

Quinlan: So you thought it cute to have everyone banned from ringside? You’d do best get that man of yours in line. Should he go over any spirit of competition out there next week, as judged by me, I will be waiting for him. Behind the curtain. With a baseball bat.

Bag and crutches, she then slowly tries to catch up to the impatient Ace in the Hole.

Gibson: Well, we're back here on Temptation: Richmond, and we're getting word that Phillip Kennedy has asked for some time.

Ware: As well he should! He announces he's making his glorious return, and he can't even get a match this week?

Gibson: Match or no match, when our talent asks for time, we tend to give it to them, so without any further ado--

The opening notes of Bob Seger's "Turn the Page," now familar to the Sin City crowd, herald the arrival of the man of the hour. The SINScreen gives us further evidence for anyone who needs; the words "Sin City Savior" appear, quickly to be replaced by the image of SCCW's master of the lariat.

On a long and lonesome highway
East of Omaha
You can listen to the engine
Moanin' out his one note song
You can think about the woman
Or the girl you knew the night before

Two men emerge from behind the curtain. They are both familiar, but to differing degrees. The man on the right is tall, African-American, and far better dressed than Phillip Kennedy has ever managed to pull off. As he walks alongside his charge, he shoos away fan attention; and his rather frightening glare is enough to dissuade most people.

Ware: That would be Michael Vain, Phil's bodyguard. We saw him a few times before Kennedy disappeared. Apparently, Phil's dotted all of his i's before coming back.

Gibson: Vain has also been spending a lot of his time in one of our training facilities in Las Vegas to make the transition from mixed martial artist to professional wrestler. I've been hearing good things out of our trainers, but make no mistake, Vain is a dangerous man, and if I'm Kennedy, I feel pretty damned comfortable with him protecting me.

But your thoughts will soon be wandering
The way they always do
When you're ridin' sixteen hours
And there's nothin' much to do
And you don't feel much like ridin',
You just wish the trip was through

On the left is, of course, Phillip Kennedy. There's a smile a mile wide on his face and a black cowboy hat on his head. Of course, he's got his jeans and cowboy boots to complete what is, more or less, his out of the ring uniform.

The cheers and jeers that he receives seem equally flattering to the Stack, who is slowly reacclimating himself to the bright lights and loud crowds of SCCW.

Gibson: I'll give him this much, it doesn't look like he's stopped going to the gym during his time at the poker tables.

Ware: If anything, I'm more worried about his head. He's suffered at least one confirmed confussion in an SCCW ring, possibly two. I can't imagine he'd be allowed back in by doctors if they didn't clear him, but...

Here I am
On the road again
There I am
Up on the stage

Vain and Kennedy's walk to the ring is largely uneventful. There's not much posing or preening. What there is, though, is two guys sliding under the bottom turnbuckle, and Michael Vain intimidating ringside officials into giving him a microphone.

From there, it's just a matter of waiting for the song to fade.

Here I go
Playin' star again
There I go
Turn the page

Vain: Friends! Sinners! Fellow appreciators of fiiiiine women! I give to you the next SCCW Universal Champion! You know and love him as Phillip Kennedy. Phil, lay down some science.

The microphone is handed over, and the former Gateway Champion's smile is still there, still broad. For several moments, Kennedy just soaks it up.

Kennedy: Damn, it's been a long time since I've heard this.

There are some cheers. A lot of boos. Some chants of "welcome back!"

Kennedy: It's been a while, hasn't it? I mean, I come back from a few months off, and Sin City's been turned on its ass!

Phillip Kennedy is a lot of things. Arrogant, definitely. Crude, a lot of the time. But on that list, you've pretty much got to add "comfortable with a microphone in his hand."

Kennedy: Lane Stevens has ridden off into the sunset, and Xavier Kannon's back in the Barbados banging that Barbie doll of a wife of his -- I'm sorry, that could be seen as insulting the intelligence of the average Barbie doll. Jadian Bridden, for so long attached to Alexandra Pierce's teet like a parasite while doing absolutely nothing of use, has finally decided to attempt to make something of himself here in Sin City! Sorry Jadian, but when it came down to being the Dead Man's Hand's ace, there's one guy who could stake that claim, and you're lookin' at him.

Gibson: Some things don't change, it seems.

Ware: Yeah. Phil still doesn't really have a concept of "picking his battles" much. I love the guy, but he's not the brainiest creature we've ever seen in SCCW.

Kennedy: And, to top it all off, I come back and find something truly horrible. Something awful. Something so terrible that I can barely process it. I...Jared Sykes is the Universal Champion.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: It looks like most of our faithful disagree with Kennedy's sentiment.

Ware: They're sheep, Ware. Black Sheep, no less.

Kennedy: This is probably the part where I start rambling on about how I'm going to kick Jared's ass because I've got a win over him, and the Universal Title's mine, and all of that other good shit. But Hell, I watched the PPV last week, and I saw what he went through. Guy that survived all that ain't the same man who I beat once upon a time. So, all BS aside, Jared. I give you props. I give you props because when I come for you and take that belt off of your shoulder, it's gonna mean that much more.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Kennedy: So let's get down to business. I ain't here to Alex Pierce shit up. No more crusades against Jonathan Rhine, no more attacking Amy Campbell's husband--

Ware: What? Why would you give up things like that VOLUNTARILY?

Kennedy: --none of it. My goal is to be the SCCW Universal Champion. I came within a goddamned eyelash of it once upon a time in a steel cage, and all that did is make me want it that much more. So to all of you out there who I know....Lance, Alex, Amy, hell, let's throw Jadian in there too, why not...I'll be knock-knocking on your doors soon enough. And to those of you who I don't know, Suzanne Larsson, Terrence Kingsley, Leonard Aarons...I'll be making myself known soon enough.

Gibson: He's always been an ambitious kid. I'll give him that much. And with that bodyguard of his, anyone who's taking on Phillip Kennedy is going to need to watch his or her back.

Kennedy: The Dead Man's Hand is dead and buried, in spite of Jadian's best efforts to give it mouth to mouth. It's the end of an era in this company, and as we move forward into a shining, marvelous future....SCCW needs but one thing. It needs someone to stand above the heap and show the wrestling world that this company is and always will be the best damned place to compete on Earth.

There's cheering at that comment, but the fans (and Eugene and Dave, for that matter) are pretty sure they can see where this is going.

Kennedy: It needs a gladiator who can fight his way through every single warrior here and stake a claim to being the best. It needs a man who will raise this company's banner higher than all others. It needs the best damned homegrown talent Sin City Championship Wrestling has EVER produced. And that man, folks? You're lookin' at him.

The silent, suit-clad Michael Vain moves to the ropes, holding them open for the Stack as Kennedy exits the ring. Vain follows soon after, stepping in front of Phillip to fend off those who would slap Kennedy's hand if given the chance on the way back to the ring.

Gibson: Phillip Kennedy has put the rest of SCCW on notice tonight, folks. He's here for the Universal Championship, and he's going to take on anyone who gets in his way on the trip up the ladder.

Ware: And he's got the ability to do just that, Dave. Let's not forget that he's the longest reigning Gateway Champion ever, and defended it successfully free time. Hand or not, help or not, Kennedy's one hell of a competitor.

Gibson: I'll give you that. But for now, we've got business to take care of, so we'll be right back with more from Richmond!

See Lance Marshall. Hear one crowd go apeshit.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Superman doesn't get all the publicity that Batman or Spider-Man might have, but if the Man of Steel appeared on the TV screen, admit it, you'd be like, "Fuck, yeah, that's Superman!" Such is the case with wrestling's Lion, currently picking through the refuse of the catering area. This late in a show, it was slim pickings, devoured by hungry wrestlers that had already competed.

Marshall wasn't scheduled to wrestle, but he still made the trip from California all the way to Virginia. He did it out of rote and he did it because the powers that be said they wanted to have a chat with him. If he was being honest, he was lingering in the catering area because he didn't particularly want to go into that office. Something wasn't sitting right.

"Touch the last jelly and I'll cut you."

The voice came over Lance's shoulder, while under ordinary circumstances, he might have taken offense, this speaker just drew a smile to his lips.

Marshall: I don't think you've got it in you.

Lance turns, and the camera shifts to catch both he and his guest, the waif-like Devil's Daughter, Quinn Gregory. She gets a little cheer – as with earlier, most of the cheers come from the few teenaged girls in the crowd, with the boys cheering mostly because:
a.) She's hot in that kinda goth, underaged way, and
b.) Her mom is super-awesome.

Quinn: You'd be surprised, especially tonight.

Lance steps to the side, allowing Quinn to slip in beside him.

Marshall: Tough night?

Quinn: First time Mom and Amy have seen each other since I agreed to the match.

Marshall: Oh, *ouch*.

Quinn: Tell me about it. They're probably still yelling in there.

A small hand claims a jelly doughnut from the stack, dropping it onto a small paper plate.

Quinn: And it's fine... I mean, I can't make them stop, I just wish they'd acknowledge I was in the room.

Marshall: It's hard. I mean, I haven't even thought about what happens if Zach wants to grow up in the business.

Quinn: My advice? Don't let him come on the shows till he can handle himself in a fight.

Their sustenance chosen, Marshall and Gregory make their way to a pair of crates nearby.

Marshall: Does that mean you can't handle yourself or that you can?

Quinn: I... I don't know.

There's a sigh, long and exasperated.

Quinn: Amy thinks I'm too young – I think she's scared I'm going to make the same choices she did. Mom... Mom has a hard time not seeing people as chess pieces, and she's really mad at Jadian.

Marshall: Can I be honest with you?

The teen laughs, a soft puff of sound.

Quinn: You're the first person who's asked first in, like, two weeks.

Marshall: You have to understand – what I do, what Alex and Amy do... it's hard on the people around us. When your mother steps into that ring, when someone drops her on her head, what's the first thing you think?

The Devil's Daughter lifted her doughnut with great dignity and gravitas.

Quinn: Guess you've got a point.

Marshall: They're just turning it all back. Your Mom is... sometimes, I think I know her better than almost anyone else. I've seen her change and grow, and I know what I'd be thinking if Zach was your age and had been forced into this position.

Quinn: "Rar, fire bad!"

She takes a large bite from the doughnut, grinning. The Lion's rumble of a chuckle surprises even him, and he covers his mouth with the back of his hand. The levity is short-lived, however, and she's back to dropping her gaze.

Quinn: They just... they can't see straight when each other are involved. So pent-up and... and angry and guilty all the time. It's exhausting.

Marshall: I can't pretend to know all that happened between them, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to. I know they have their issues to work out, but at least for the next couple weeks, try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Remember, at least when Alex wrestles, you know she's trained for it. They're still seeing you as a little girl, even if you've just threatened to cut me over a doughnut.

Quinn: In my defense, I don't have a knife on me, unless you count some plastic silverware I could've grabbed.

Lance's smile is wide and paternal, something many would argue has been missing in Quinn's life for almost two years now.

Marshall: Those things can sting, believe me.

Quinn: You're right. I mean, everyone's been right.

Marshall: Let me ask you something – what do you want to do? If it was your choice?

Quinn: I don't know. I've seen the good and the bad. I want to try, but I'm scared I'm going to get hurt.

Marshall: That's good, though. I've seen a lot of people come through that curtain in my time, and some of them haven't been afraid of what getting hurt, and those... those are the guys that get hurt. They get hurt bad because they're willing to try anything if they think they'll get an advantage. I'm not saying that you should let the fear win, but the fear is good.

Gregory nods a little bit, her irrepressible smile coming back to life.

Quinn: Do you get scared?

Marshall: All the time. I wrestled your mom, remember? She's pretty scary.

The girl's expression doesn't get any brighter, and Marshall leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

Marshall: Whatever happens, you'll get through it. But if you want, I can take Jadian for a walk around the block beforehand.

Quinn: You're the second person who's offered tonight, but I think I'll be fine, sir.

Marshall: Well, of course. If all else fails, you can always cut him.

That draws a laugh, brighter than a girl so dour might seem capable of.

Quinn: Don't even tempt me. Thanks, I needed that.

Lance rises then, his smile still in place.

Marshall: Then my work here is done.

Quinn: Oh, hey, I didn't even think to ask you how you are.

Marshall: I'm fine. Just... it's tough, you know? Being away so much. I feel like I'm missing out on things. Like I'm a bad father or something.

Quinn: You're not. You're not.

Lance nods, skimming a hand across his hair.

Quinn: How many kids would give their eyeteeth to be Superman's son? And not that crappy Superman Returns kid, but actually the child of the closest thing anyone's ever seen to a superhero?

Marshall: I'm not a superhero.

Quinn: To his friends, you probably are. You certainly are to me. I'm pretty sure that if I fell off a building, you'd be there to catch me.

This time Lance's grin is the one that widens.

Marshall: Thanks. Look, Nigel wants to see me, so I should be going.

Quinn: Sure, no problem. You want me to cut him? Or at least kick him in the shins?

Marshall: I'll get back to you on that.

Quinn: Okay. I may not be experienced at cutting people, but I'm an expert shin-kicker, and there's often a line.

Lance steps away, his voice trailing behind him.

Marshall: I'll keep that in mind.

And we're away.

The evening had started well enough, at least at first. The glow from sharing the ring together as the First Couple of Professional Wrestling had faded the minute Wyatt Connors stepped through the curtain and made his presence felt, ruthlessly running down the pair in front of the Richmond audience. Things didn't get much better from there. Campbell had been forced to deal with Terrence Kingsley's psychotic rhetoric. Sykes had been asked Alexandra Pierce to insure her daughter's safety by setting out to injure Jadian Bridden. It felt strangely like a mob hit.

The two hadn't seen each other since the opening moments of the show, which is why the Universal Champion took it upon himself to get comfortable against a stack of equipment crates just beyond the "Gorilla position". From here he could watch his love's match against Eegor. Here he could get a moment of her time. He'd already dressed for battle with plenty of time to kill.

When the moment comes he winces a little. As hard as it is to watch her lose, he knows that whatever she's feeling is worse. But he's there when she steps back through the curtains, still glistening with sweat as a result of the match. He pushes away from the crates and steps towards her, just happy to be back in her presence.

Sykes: Hey. I'm sorry about what happened out there. There anything I can do to make it better?

She's generally good at keeping her temper under control around Sykes, but Amy lets loose for a moment to drive her palms forward, shoving a wheeled crate hard into the wall.

Aimz: Maybe if you can find where I dropped my career.

She cringes, sighing.

Aimz: Sorry, I know what that makes you think. It's not meant to guilt you. Just... this isn't what it's supposed to be like for me.

Sykes: I... really don't know what to say to that. Everything that springs to mind is either gonna come off as cliched, or contrived, and you and I both know that you're not gonna buy it anyway. So, yeah. Kind of at a loss here.

Aimz: I'm drowning, Jared. Did you see that? I can't seem to get back to shore. I don't think I even know the direction to tread water in anymore.

Still breathing heavily, Campbell pulls an elastic from her back pocket, binding back sweat-dampened hair.

Aimz: I... yeah. I'm gonna stay back here during the main, okay? I was trying to keep away from you after what happened. It's... just... I don't know. Me always standing beside you, always being in people's faces when they see you... that's not good. That's a bitter aftertaste for a lot of people, and it can only hurt you.

Sykes: Don't really give much of a fuck what people think about my image, Amy. I mean, not for nothing? Blueberry suit, okay. Blueberry suit. Mask. Cape. Even had a Segway with tassles and a horn.

He shrugs.

Sykes: There's a pretty large group of people who're convinced I don't belong here. You should see the shit that's out there on the 'net. "Sin City has a basketcase champion". "He's not main event material". Blah blah blah. Fuck, maybe they're right. Maybe this is all just a fluke, and in a week or two it'll just be a memory. Everyone can sit around and think "whew, thank god that's over", but right now I'm gonna enjoy it however I want. I'd like to be able to share it with you, but if you wanna step back I'll understand. I won't force it or anything. I mean, don't get me wrong - it'll suck, but I'll understand.

And again.

Sykes: Your call.

For her part, Amy grimaces. She loves it by his side, but it's a nightmare in others' eyes.

Aimz: People just... you heard some of the shit that got said. I'm only manipulating you so I can still be on top, I'm this and that...

She bows her head.

Aimz: I've always been able to shake them off, but I can't stand this. I can't handle hurting your career, even if you don't mind me doing it. People see you as something truly good, something fresh and fantastic for this company. Then they look at me standing there and get nauseous for all I've done, all I did to push things the other way. I don't... I don't deserve to still have that taste of the top, okay? I know that. The fact that everybody's saying all this shit about me and I have no excuse, no possible retaliation for any of it? That's killing me. It's killing you, too, if you can't understand that having my name associated with your accolades is a bad, bad idea. You've earned this run - I'm not letting you tarnish it. I thought I could go out and say what I said, that maybe someone would understand... but it's too soon. I'm willing to accept that. I just can't stand to think that people like Wyatt, people like fucking Kingsley... they're right about me. I'll choke the life out of you, if not only by association.

Jared's about to interrupt, but Amy raises a hand. She steps closer to him for a brief kiss and he's ready to argue again, but this time her words cut him off.

Aimz: So we'll lay low with the public stuff for a while. I'm not letting them win by splitting us apart... but people shouldn't have to think of me and all the shit I've pulled when they think of you. They shouldn't have to close an eye so they can't see me off to the side when they look at their champion. I need to become someone worthy of a place at your side, and it's gonna take more than an apology to get there. Just... I need you to know that all of this shit, it's not me trying to be associated, okay? I think you know that already, I just have to remind you. Someone manipulated me when I was on top and it ruined everything, it's thrown my career into the trash can. I'm not that. I'll never be that. I'm stepping aside so you don't have to deal with claims of the same shit I went through.

Sykes: If you really thought that I knew, if you honestly believed it, then you wouldn't have to remind me of anything. You'd just be able to trust me. I have your back here, Amy. I hoped that might count for something. Maybe it doesn't. I dunno. I'm not ten thousand people, but I can cheer pretty damn loud when I want to. But if you're not giving me the chance...

He shakes his head and eases away from his perch. His first night as champion, what was supposed to be a day of celebration, and piece by piece it's become unravelled.

Sykes: I dunno.

Aimz: I want you to cheer. I need you to cheer, and I'm cheering you on. But your career is worth so much more than me getting a bit of shine by walking to the ring with you. I don't have to do that to cheer you, and you don't need to let me to support me. I'm not going to let this harm your life, okay? You're too good for my reputation. Just... I dunno. Try to understand that.

His eyes fall to the floor. For someone with everything he's ever wanted at his fingertips, still Jared finds himself a little sad. It shows in his voice, hushed and withdrawn.

Sykes: When do we get to stop having this conversation, Ames? Today? Tomorrow? A week from now? A year? I was kinda hoping we'd moved beyond the "who's good enough for who" thing. I thought we put it past us last week. Let me worry about me, okay?

A few short steps close the gap between them, and he only looks up when he takes her hands in his own.

Sykes: I meant the things I said. I really did. It's just, like... I don't know what I can do to convince you. Sometimes I feel like you don't believe me, or you think I'm making it up because it's what you wanna hear. It's like I'm beating my head against the wall trying to prove it. And I know how that sounds, and I don't mean it in a bad way, just... No matter how many times I say it, I feel like you don't accept it. Like you don't trust that it's real.

Aimz: I've got a hard time feeling like I deserve anything, but I believe you. I'm not sure if it's tricking you or not, but I think it's real. I just can't let you suffer for your choice to stick up for me when nobody really should. To make anything in my past any better, people need to rip me apart - I just need to minimize how much of the damage splashes your future. So I'll be a bit of a ghost on the shows, okay? It doesn't mean I won't be waiting here the second you've won. It's just what's best for... for you, really. And for my conscience.

His hands slide into the pocket on the front of his sweatshirt as he backs away. Her words sting, and hiding that is hard. Charley Crisp, Spacely, Baron Von Blackberry, and Jonathan Rhine. No longer do any of them wander the halls of Sin City Championship Wrestling. Friends and allies come and go at the drop of a hat, but never did he think one so close would want to shy away from the responsibility.

Sykes: Look, if... If that's what you wanna do, if you just wanna lay low then I'm not gonna force you. I don't want to try and shoulder this alone, but... It's your call, okay? If you really think you need to do this... and not for me, because whatever... then... do what you want, I guess.

He reaches back and pulls the hood up over his head, wondering if the night can possibly get worse.

Sykes: Not quite sure about that damage though. There's more of them than there are of me. Even more skewed now, apparently. Guess that means they win eventually. I probably wasn't gonna last long anyway, huh.

Jared steps past the crates towards heavy curtain, beyond which lies the hall that will lead him back to his locker room. He turns, the hood still covering most of his face, and feigns a weak smile.

Sykes: Guess I'll catch up with you later then.

It's not the first time tonight that Amy Campbell has harmed an inanimate object.

Aimz: Jared! Look, I...

When she sees that he's already rounded the corner, the little redhead curses. That crate she shoved gets another stiff punt from her foot - and her sneaker gets caught in the fracture it just caused. As things fade away, there's another curse from the woman who's taken a hundred kinds of fire already tonight.

Aimz: God damnit!

We turn our attention now to the portion of the backstage that SCCW has commandeered for on-site office space during this particular episode of Temptation. As usual, we find Nigel Kensington at his desk, busily working away at a mountain of paperwork. For all the pomp and theater and color happening in the ring, a professional wrestling federation is, at its heart, a business, complete with all the day to day drudgery that entails. And while he was certainly grateful for the influx of funds Adrienne St. Germaine provided SCCW, Nigel noted that his co-owner wasn’t exactly fond of having to deal with the day to day things.

Nigel sighs. While it was true that professional wrestling was never really a field he envisioned himself in, it’s one that he’s come to appreciate, even enjoy, during his time at the head of SCCW. But there are always unpleasant aspects of any business, parts of the day to day that you wish you didn’t have to deal with at all. Actions you didn’t want to take, conversations you didn’t want to have.

Such as the one he was about to have now.

Nigel jumps slightly at the knock on the door, shaken out of his reverie. He didn’t want to do this; didn’t want to have this conversation, to say the things he was about to say. But his wasn’t the only decision, his wasn’t the only voice heard. And it had been made very clear that he didn’t have a choice.

Nigel Kensington: Please come in.

Lance Marshall walks through the door and into the office. He walks slowly over, stopping in front of the desk where Nigel is sitting. His face is a mixture of confusion, concern and the slightest hint of anxiety.

Lance Marshall: You wanted to see me, sir?

Nigel gestures at the plastic folding chair next to Lance.

Nigel Kensington: Please, Mr. Marshall, have a seat.

Lance lowers himself into the chair, his eyes never leaving Nigel’s. He chuckles softly.

Lance Marshall: Why do I feel I’m getting called into the principal’s office?

Nigel sighs again. This was really not going to be easy.

Nigel Kensington: I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this, Mister Marshall, so I’ll just get straight to it. After the events of Sin On Spike, we have conducted a review of the current situation regarding the talent here in SCCW. I’m afraid it’s my duty to inform you…

Lance holds up his right hand, breaking Nigel’s train of thought.

Lance Marshall: Hold on a second. Are you firing me?

There is no anger in Lance Marshall’s voice. Surprise, yes, but not anger.

Nigel Kensington: Certainly not. But we have had to take a look at the landscape here in SCCW and I’m afraid…

Nigel takes a deep breath. This next part will not be easy.

Nigel Kensington: …I’m afraid we have nothing for you at this time.

There is no reaction from Lance at all. No explosion of anger, no outburst of surprise, nothing. It stays this way for the longest of minutes. Finally, Lance blinks, an indefinable look crossing his face.

Lance Marshall: Wow. I think I would have preferred “you’re fired”.

Nigel continues on, almost as if he hadn’t heard what Lance has said.

Nigel Kensington: Please understand, Mr. Marshall, that we will certainly do our best to find you something as soon as possible.

Lance Marshall: You’re willing to let a sixteen year old girl step inside the ring with Jadian Bridden but you’re telling me you have nothing for me.

Nigel Kensington: The decision is not mine alone, Mr. Marshall. There are other in this company who believe that a match between Ms. Gregory and Mr. Bridden will increase viewership…and, like any company, we must ultimately be concerned with our bottom line.

Lance Marshall: They do understand my situation, right? We’re still paying down Lani’s medical bills, she’s got follow up treatment to deal with, I need to take care of my son…

Nigel Kensington: They do, Mr. Marshall. But with the depth of talent in this federation, there are those who believe it would be cost effective to focus our attentions…elsewhere…for the time being.
Again, there is no reaction from Lance. An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air for a moment, maybe two. It’s Nigel who breaks the silence, eager to get this over with.

Nigel Kensington: Once again, Mr. Marshall, I am sorry…

Lance cuts him off, a look of enlightenment dawning in his eyes. If this were a cartoon, you’d be to see the light bulb glowing brightly over his head.

Lance Marshall: What if I could offer you an alternative?

Nigel blinks, confused.

Nigel Kensington: Excuse me?

Lance Marshall: I think I have the solution to both our problems.

Nigel Kensington: Which is?

Lance Marshall: Treat me like the new boy.

This was most certainly not the answer Nigel was expecting.

Nigel Kensington: Absolutely not! You are a valued member of this federation and have proven you worth to us time and again!

Lance stands up, his hands planted on the surface of the desk. His eyes bore into Nigel’s, the trademark Lance Marshall burning within them.

Lance Marshall: Then let me do it one more time. They want to make this about money? Fine. Cut my guarantees, cut my perks, do whatever you want. Just bump up the per-match and book me every week and we’ll be fine. Give me the chance to show them what a mistake they’re making.

Nigel pauses for a moment.

Nigel Kensingtonl: I…I will certainly present this to my partners. I can’t promise you anything, certainly…

Lance Marshall: I’m only asking that you do your best to convince them.

Nigel Kensington: And I shall. You have my word.

Lance Marshall: Good. That’s all I needed. Let me know what they have to say.

With that, Lance Marshall turns and walks away, the door closing slowly shut behind him as he leaves. It is only once the door is completely closed that Nigel allows himself to exhale, relieved that things had not gone quite the way he expected.

And then, he does something he definitely never expected being able to do at the beginning of this particular meeting.

He smiles.

Myers: Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for... OUR MAIN EVENT!!!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Guitars.

Josey Scott.

ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!

Saliva. "Survival of the Sickest."

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Myers: Coming to the ring!

I'M THE HAND UP MONA LISA'S DRESS
I'M A SMILE ON EVERY CRIMINAL WHO'S EVER ACQUIT
I'M THE THINGS YOU'VE DONE YOU'D NEVER ADMIT
'CAUSE ONE HAND IS ON THE BIBLE AND THE OTHER'S IN SHIT

Myers: From San Antonio, Texas!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


BUT RIGHT NOW - YOUR FACE IS IN THE CROWD
I'M SHOUTING OUT LOUD - THE ONE YOU COUNTED OUT OF THE GAME
OH, WOW! TAKE A GOOD LOOK AT ME NOW!
SHOULD HAVE NEVER HAD A DOUBT
IS THAT YOU I HEAR SCREAMIN' MY NAME?

**RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT**

Explosions above the entranceway immediately precede the arrival of a small man, arms out, hair damp. The chorus of boos hit Jadian Bridden the moment he steps out onto the stage like a wave; it just stretches that damn smirk. His wrestling tights are simple but shiny in gold with "JADIAN" inscribed down one leg. The black t-shirt with "Pierce This" across the front in red, is darker around the neck where the moisture from his hair has decided to settle.

I'M A ROLLER, I'M A RIDER
A NUMBER-ONE MOTHERFUCKIN' SURVIVOR
SO MOVE OVER, I'M THE DRIVER
'CAUSE I'M HIGH AND I'LL KEEP GETTING HIGHER

Myers: He is JAAAAAAADIAN!!! BRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIDDEN!!!!!!!

Jadian makes his way toward the ring, sliding under the bottom rope and snatching the microphone away from Myers before he even realizes what is happening. Julissa finally makes her way down the ramp and positions herself a few feet away from Eugene.


Gibson: Well, this is a bit different.

Ware: Jay's always been a bit of an innovator.

Gibson: He has a microphone, not the cure for cancer.

Ware: Oh, he has that too... He just hates the World.

Bridden: HEEELLOOO RIIIIICHMOND!!!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Bridden: Is it me, or does this place suck?

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Bridden: Come on now, even Cleveland laughs at you... And EVERYONE laughs at Cleveland. Hell, they can't even pay someone to live there, but at least they had the opportunity... Am I right?

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Bridden: Boo! Yay! One day I'd like to hear a crowd scream “WHEE!” just to hear something different, but that's like asking Lance Marshall to do something other than pound his chest and be big and menacing. I know you have to go with what works, but for twelve years...

He shakes his head and lets out a sigh.

Gibson: Lance Marshall may be the last person Bridden wants to piss off here tonight.

Ware: He is going to have a match with Quinn Gregory next week, Dave... He's already pissing off Pierce and Aimz, do you think he's worried about the Lame Lion? Or is Aarons the Lame Lion now?

Bridden: There's a lot of people in this world that decide not to change. I'm unsure if it is convenience or fear that keeps them following the same routines on a daily basis, but the one person that decided to change recently isn't really one of my biggest fans. Oh, Alex –

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


The cheers from the crowd cut the former GateWire champion off, but it only makes him smile wider.

Bridden: Listen to you people, cheering the woman that once made you want to pelt her in the head with your still full cups of beer and soda... freaking buckets of popcorn use to litter this ring whenever she stepped into it. But now, because she went digging around in Aimz's cave of no hope and found a sliver of a conscience, you want to praise her like the second coming of Christ!

Ware: Second coming... I thought he was a virgin?

Gibson: I – Wow... Just gonna let that one go.

Bridden: Well I got news for you people... And not just the losers that decided to waste their money here, thinking their shitty lives would somehow get better because Jared Sykes is the new champ, and gee whiz... That guys just swell.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Gibson: These fans are not happy with Bridden here tonight.

Ware: You say that like it's a surprise.

Bridden: No, this is also for the cool kids sitting at home with their hands stuffed down the front of their pants, hoping to get a glimpse of Julissa's cheeks when she hops up and down in those really short skirts of hers.

He looks over to his other half, what most would consider the better one as of late, and just flashes that damn smirk.

Bridden: That's all little hop-a-long can wear lately, but let me tell you that I never waste a chance to flip that flap up around her waist and get balls deep if you know what I'm saying. I'll go ahead and give you boys some time to wipe up, not like she's going to run in here and slap some sense into me... right, babe.

He blows her a kiss, then winks before addressing the masses once more. Or at least he would have if the crackle of static did not echo through the PA system just as the Sin*Screen begins to flicker to life with the approval of the crowd.

"Jadian, Jadian, Jadian..."

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


The whisper-soft voice of the Spider in the Web gets his attention, that icy, stone-eyed stare blaring through louder than the words.

Zoom out slowly from those eyes to the rest of her. The very first thing Dave Gibson asks is the very same question the Ace in the Hole is clearly wondering, since his head is on a swivel.

Gibson: Where is she?

Alex stands in a featureless hallway somewhere in the arena, her hands folded at her waist, likely to keep them calm.

Pierce: I could have forgiven a lot of things. I could have forgiven your ego raging out of control despite the fact that you haven't done anything but lose things that other people gained for you. I could have forgiven your hatred for me simply for the fact that I wanted to grow as a person. I could even have forgiven you turning Julissa Minorez into a prop to prove you're "hardcore".

She doesn't move, but there's an anger that radiates off her, just in the slightest raise of her brow.

Pierce: But then you had to get my child involved. You used me as bait for a hook, and I'd respect you for that... but she's my little girl. So I will give you one chance – one – to renege on this. Back out now. Let me stand in her place. Give me an out here, Jay. Because I know what lurks on the other side of this door, and I want it even less than you do.

Jay's chuckle is heard over the speaker system, but it only lasts a few seconds. He moves over to the ropes, draping himself over the top one.

Bridden: You know, Alex, there was a time when I would see that look in your eyes and I'd worry. I would think of all the despicable things you were responsible for, and I thought twice about speaking out of turn or stepping over my boundaries. Thing is, Alex, your words and your looks have become just as threatening as, I don't know...

He shrugs his shoulders.

Bridden: Dusk. Just like that grand leader of men, you have slowly become just another name on the roster, instead of the Black Widow that once controlled Sin City like a fifteen year old playing Modern Warfare Two. So, please, take your requests and file them under “Fuck, I'm worthless.” because that is exactly what I think of you right now.

Gibson: He's not scared of her, but his challenge was to a teenaged girl? What kind of man is that?

Ware: She totally sucker-punched him, remember! Kid like that, you've gotta show her a firm hand.

A smile dances through her lips, but it doesn't catch hold. There's nothing there to laugh at.

Pierce: I said earlier tonight that I had been leashing that monster you used to fear. I did it for Amy, I did it for Quinn. I did it for myself. You have to understand, Jadian... I simply cannot allow her to become target du jour. So I am afraid I must teach this gods-forsaken place a lesson. I'm afraid that you've forced me to let the beast off the leash. When I am standing over you as they load you into the back of an ambulance... remember that I did give you this way out.

She steps forward, suddenly – altogether too close to the camera's lens.

Pierce: I cannot deter you. But I cannot deter her, either. You have these fantasies of what you will do to Quinn in Raleigh. How you will make her scream. Make me beg you to end this. How you will finally pick up the mantle that I discarded – the one that Lane Stevens dropped when Amy caved his head in. The one that Terrence wants so very badly. If you believe nothing else, believe me when I say this.

There's a small pause, a short, sharp tinge of a smile touching the corner of her lips.

Pierce: It. Will. Not. Happen.

Each word is precise, careful, controlled – and that is when she is most dangerous.

Pierce: No matter the cost to me. No matter who I must cut down. I will end you for this. Perhaps not now – Jared has asked for the opportunity to soften you up, but you have two weeks to make it through. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Twenty thousand minutes. Do you think, as well as you know me – as well as Julissa knows me – that I will not find a way? That I will not spend every hour, every waking minute, finding that one time you will be vulnerable? And even if I fail, Jay...

There's a burst of static through the screen, like a bad edit – the sound is enough to make at least Minorez' head snap around behind them. Then the person standing in that hallway isn't Alexandra Pierce. It's Quinn Gregory – lean, tall, with intense eyes and a t-shirt that reads "Sorry About What Happens Later" – with her mother's glare.

Quinn: Even if she fails, who's to say I'll go down without a fight?

And there she is, much to the delight of the man currently peeling himself away from the ropes. He glances toward Julissa, motioning toward the screen with his left hand. He tucks the microphone under his left arm and begins to clap... Slowly at first, but the repetitions increase gradually. He stops, grabbing the microphone and bringing it to his lips.

Bridden: You guys should be on America's Got Talent, because that act belongs in Vegas!

This is the moment Jay was supposed to get nervous. He was supposed to start stuttering and backpedaling, but gone is the little boy that ran out for coffee while the adults talked about who they were going to maim by the end of the evening. No, a byproduct of the violence that the Hand once caused, Jadian Bridden is far from what he once was.

Bridden: Maybe you should give Ol' Kestrel a call, I'm sure Old McDonald would love to add a few new animals to his collection. Though I cannot for the life of me think of an animal that eats as much pie as your mother does. Lucky for you, the position of turtle is still available.

Quinn: Is that all you've got?

The screen jimmies again, and again, it's Alex.

Pierce: Do you really think I'll rise to juvenile jokes?

Static. The Devil's Daughter.

Quinn: I'll be ready, Jay.

Screen-wipe. The Devil Herself, with apologizes to the family Oswald.

Pierce: If you can still walk. If I haven't gotten you first. If Jared doesn't get you first. If Lance doesn't. Or Mitchell Quinlan. Or Amy. Or some intern or reporter or chauffeur or crewmember. If you'd just picked a fight with me, if it was Jadian Bridden versus Alexandra Pierce, you could have overwhelmed me, because there's a whole locker room of people that I have stepped on to get here. But you made it about a girl who hasn't hurt a soul. You'll find this building is full of people with children. Three hundred and thirty-six hours, Jadian. Good luck against Jared. And beware of shadows—

Snap-cut, the Ladies Pierce moving over each other, like an afterimage. Both turn into a savate kick, right at the camera. It's the teen that's left on-screen.

Quinn: They move when you're not looking.

Jadian tosses the microphone across the ring, stretching his arms out to welcome the threat with open arms. It isn't the Spider or her child running down the ramp that brings the crowd to their feet, but the first few notes of “Save Me” by Killswitch Engage. The music draws a sneer from the Ace in the Hole, who quickly removes his shirt and tosses it over the ropes.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"