Libertarian Sonnets.

[Kyle]

Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.
~James Joyce

Before the scene fades in, viewers can hear a large roar of voices, leaving them to wonder where this particular promo. Speculation is brief, though, as the scene focuses in, with the cameraman standing amongst a crowd of people, waiting in a line at a ticket booth. The camera pans upward, allowing the viewers to see what it was that these people were waiting in line for: Romeo and Juliet performed by the San Diego High School Drama Club. This explained two things to the viewers: one, it answered the question about why there were no men in this line, and two, that the scene was in San Diego. All around was the chatter of people, and then, there wasn't; all had gone silent, except for a single voice.

"What's done can't be undone."

The camera pans around looking for the voice who had spoken, only to notice a side door leading to the auditorium had opened. Stepping forth, slowly at first, the cameraman soon decides to just head through the door. Upon entrance, viewers find themselves in the back of the auditorium, with most of the seats already filled with people. And then the form of an usher fills the screen, probably with choice words to the man who had just entered without paying for a ticket. Actually the men tells the cameraman that he had a reserved seat waiting for him on the front row, but viewers hear none of it, seeing only a mouth moving without sound coming forth.

"The golden age is before us, not behind us"

The camera follows the usher as he leads the viewers to their front row seat. Once seated, the lights dim, and a man steps forward, gray of hair and small of stature, to a podium on the edge of the stage. Tapping the microphone once, the man begins to speak to the crowd about how well his students had prepared, how they had been long awaiting this night. While the man spoke, a hook begins to appear from off-stage, like a scene straight out of a cartoon. The hook gets within yanking distance of the man, and yet he continue talking, still oblivious to the humorous scene brewing behind him. Silence envelops the viewers once more.

"Farewell, fair cruelty."

Suddenly, the hooked pole rears back and smacks the unsuspecting man in the back of his head. The man bounces off the podium, before falling off the stage back first, where he lands in front of the cameraman, lying still with his eyes closed. Silence follows. . . only this time, there wasn't some interference by an outside party. This time, the entire crowd had fallen silent, uncertain of what was going on.

STATIC

The scene cuts abruptly to what appears to be an art studio, with all white walls and little to no furniture. On display for the viewers was eight photos, eight portraits. Each picture depicts a different visage, with each member of the Ultimate Showdown match being shown. And then the lights are gone, shrouding all eight portraits in darkness.

"Like the Drama Instructor, Odin Balfore shall be knocked off the big stage, allowing the real show to perform."

A spot light appears, showing the viewers only the image of Odin Balfore.

"Like the salesman who spends too long pitching at one's door, like the preacher goes past noon with his sermon, like child who keeps asking the same question over and over. . . in all things, after a certain point, they get annoying. This, in itself, is the story behind Odin Balfore. The veteran of the business, the man who has wrestled near on a thousand matches, the man who has been doing his own thing for years.

The man who shouldn't be in this match.

This company, this world. . . all of this is a place for the young, for the bold. We live in a place where to be the best, you have to win a victory not over your opponents, but time itself. Relevance is judged not by accomplishments, but by the age you achieved those accomplishments. You can win the World Championships, War, the Main Event of One; anything can be done except one thing: You cannot stop yourself from growing old.

There comes a point where you become irrelevant by default, without anything of your own doing.

Odin Balfore, you've reached that point. . . no, you've fucking passed that point, probably already lapped it in this whole race to the grave. You're history with two legs and gray hair; you're the past, living in the present, trying to secure himself an even better future. Here you are, the man who couldn't beat Jonathan Jakobs, thinking he could actually win Ultimate Showdown.

Its fucking pathetic, really.

I sit here and can't do anything but shake my head. In a match with some of the biggest names this company has ever had in the past two years stands a single rock, a rock that will not move out of the way. Men like Eric Price and I are paving new roads in this business, and you're a rock that is preventing these roads from continuing forward. What can we do, but try to move you? Thing is, Odin, when I reach out, when I attempt to prevent you from ruining your career any further. . ."

A red hand reaches out from off-screen, touching portrait. Almost instantly, the images disintegrates, disappearing from view.

"The slightest touch, and you crumble to dust, Odin Balfore.

The rock, what was once a mighty boulder, has been eroded, worn away, from the rigors of the new world around you. The rock that was once covered in the mightiest of gold has all but chipped away, revealing all the cracks in the body. With each failure, each loss, the cracks grow wider, sink deeper, held a part only by the willpower, the fortitude of the mind.

Unhindered, the rock could hold itself together, but with the right touch from the right person, and it will fall apart.

I intend on being that right touch this Sunday, Odin Balfore. Over the years, you had climbed to the top of the business, a name that no one would ever forget. You could've stayed there, a symbol all generations to follow. You could've remained in a position that everyone else would've worked their asses off to achieve for themselves. People would tell themselves that they wanted to be like 'Odin Balfore, the World Champion.'

But instead of remaining on the top, you've looked down that tall mountain to see what was happening at the base, and you lost your grip. You began sliding down, falling back down to the valley below; eventually, you found yourselves back where you started, so many years ago. You remember how difficult it was to get to the top the first time. Did you ever consider how difficult it would be going back up the second time.

I implore you to reflect on your past decisions, because after this Sunday, I'm uncertain where your future lies.

Because no matter where you desire to be on the metaphorical mountain when you finally hang those boots up, I'm not going to give you a chance. Most likely, none of my other opponents will go easy on you either. Because when you were on the top of that mountain, you were untouchable, a being seen but not felt. This Sunday, though, you're in reach of us all, a legend among seven others who want to become a legend. You were safe when you were considered the best, but in the eyes of all of us, you're not the best anymore.

You're just an old man who needs to be knocked off the stage for good."

STATIC

Back to the auditorium, where Nathan von Liebert steps onto the stage, dropping the cane that he had carried out with him. Stepping over to the podium, the Devil's Right Hand scans the crowd for a moment, before speaking into the camera for them all.

"Two stables, both alike in profession
In fair Jersey, where we lay our scene
From old hatreds break to new war
Where guilty blood makes guilty hands unclean
From forth the fatal toils of these two foes
Seven wrestlers fail at greatness;
Whose pitiful attempts at victory
Do with their failure advance another.
The storied passage of their loveless battles,
and the continuance of the stables' conflicts
Which, but one monster's victory, naught could conclude
Is now the viewing pleasure on our stage
The which, if you with uncertainty shall attend,
where here proves little, Sunday will the rest."

The curtains part at the conclusion of the sonnet, and the audience find themselves looking at a wrestling ring. Six people filled the ring, broken off into three groups. In one corner of the ring stood three individuals who happened to look like the Polar Phantasm, Jeff Purse, and Jay Price. Eric Price stands off in another corner with Steeltoe Joe alongside him, and viewers know that come Sunday that NvL would be there too in Bravado's corner. And then in a third corner stands The Rookie, a lone man among warring factions.

"Bated breathes, suspense building,
focused eyes wait for the carnage to begin.
Taunts fly from all corners,
coupled with the chants from those around.
This was not a fight of eight,
but a fight of millions,
rooting for one, watching all.
War is waged, not with fists
but with the mind
All know the importance.
All are ready.
All but one.
Three teams become two
as one gives up before the bell tolls."

While the monologue is being spoken, the six actors in the ring go along with the narrative. The biting of thumbs is mixed with the flicking of fingers between all, a blend of classic and modern. A man with the outfit of a referee has stepped into the ring, and all the wrestlers poise themselves, ready for the fight to begin. And then, suddenly, The Rookie falls flat on her face, a loud smack that echoes across the auditorium.

STATIC

"Like Lady Montague, The Rookie will succumb to the stress of Ultimate Showdown, losing before the bell even sounds."

The spotlight is on the portrait of The Rookie.

"When discussions about greatness begin around the wrestling chatrooms, and forums, there are many names that comes up. Eric Price, Sarah Twilight, Nathan von Liebert. . . name after name is listed off by the marks and the wrestling nerds, some I approve of, some I believe don't deserve such recognition. But do you know what one name I never mentioned in those discussions?

Thomas fucking Buckley.

Your nickname says it all, Thomas: you're the rookie, the greenhorn, the man who should be working the curtain for the upcoming PPV, not headlining the namesake match for the show. Two months ago, you were sitting at home, watching the Polar Phantasms and the Jeff Purses battle it out, and now you're in the match with them. You always had it in your head that you would be in this situation; you dreamed of the chance to beat seven other stars of the business. But let's be honest. . .

You never once expected you'll ever get to this point.

Here you are, coming off a fresh loss against Jay Price of all people, losing in the Internet Title Match that would've proved you deserved a spot in this match. You had the chance to actually prove yourself, and you fucking failed. You lost. You 'took Jay Price to his limits'" A chuckle breaks up the dialogue " but you still lost. Had it not been for a last minute decision by Seth, you wouldn't have been in this match at all. The bosses made the change, and now you're here.

But you won't be for long.

Thomas, you're a rookie walking into a match against six future legends in this company, plus Jay Price is here too, the man you couldn't step up to beat. Any man of your status would be feeling the stress, feel the nervousness that comes with facing one of us in this ring. In your instance, that stress is multiplied by seven, plus the stresses of fighting in the biggest match of your career.

Basically, you're fucked.

Thomas, you're going to lose this match before you even begin. When you're standing in that ring, looking around at all of your opponents, you're going to ask yourself how you ended up in that situation? With the seconds ticking away, the crowd roaring for the match to begin, that feeling of hopelessness is going to continue to build. Before that bell even tolls, in your mind, you tell yourself that you've already been pinned.

And shortly after that bell does toll, your mind will be telling the truth.

You're not a threat in this match, Thomas Buckley.

You're just Lady Montague, the woman who died not by another's hand, nor her own hand, but the stresses of an impossible situation."

A red hand reaches out, touching the portrait lightly, knocking it off its stand. The picture falls out of view, as the scene grows dark.

STATIC

Back onstage, the referee pushes the dead weight known as The Rookie out with his foot, before calling for the bell. A pause, and then the remaining five men in the ring launch themselves at each other.

"The dead out of sight
with more to soon follow,
the fight begins.
Bravado versus Cryogenix
foe versus foe,
friend versus friend,
the battle rages.
The ring becomes a board,
the wrestling a strategic
chess game.
Each move, each turn
sets up the next.
A pawn is sacrificed,
to get closer to the king."

In the ring, Eric Price and Steeltoe Joe had broken on to take on their three counterparts from Cyrogenix, with Price taking on Jeff Purse, while STJ takes on Jay Price and the Polar Phantasm. Purse and Price are going at it evenly, but the Polar Phantasm and Jay Price are slowly overwhelming STJ despite all his efforts to defend himself. Out of no where, Price strikes STJ under the jaw with a superkick, followed by eliminating the People's Preacher.

STATIC

"Like Mercutio, Steeltoe Joe is nothing more than a detail, a pawn, to move the story along."

Spotlight on STJ's portrait, the People's Title resting on his shoulder.

"In every story, ever plot, there are the main characters and the secondary characters. This is a continuity that will never change, in anything, there are people who matter and people who don't. Bravado would collapse if Eric Price fell out.

It will not collapse if Steeltoe Joe falls out.

Joe, you've always been the secondary character to everything in this company. In my own rise to stardom, you were nothing more than just my stepping stone. In Bravado, you're nothing more than a grunt that is at the beck and call of Sarah and Eric. The very title you hold in this company is the belt placed in the middle of the show to get everyone hyped for the rest of the matches to come. Besides a lone shot at the World Title, you've done nothing that put you in the limelight of this company. Had it not been for a change to the Ultimate Showdown match prerequisites, you may have not made it into the match at all.

You're stepping into a whole new world, Joe.

A world where men like you do not win.

I have no doubt that you're going to put up a fight, Joe. I've fought against you several times in my career, and each time, you brought your best. But your best was never enough against me, and it won't be enough this Sunday either. You're going to do what you do best.

You're going to put others over."

The red hand reaches out, an several objects dangling off of its fingers. A few moments, several stickers displaying the heads of various members of the Ultimate Showdown match were placed on the portrait, covering STJ.

"Joe, I say none of this to degrade you, or to make fun of you. We share the same employers now, so I feel that I should at least be a friend to you. And a real friend would tell you the truth, no matter how it would hurt.

And the truth is, Joe, you will not win this Sunday.

This match is something you're not prepared for. You can train all week, twenty-four seven, and still not be ready. One is born to become an Ultimate Showdown Winner, and you were not born for this great honor.

You were born only to be a Mercutio, a minuscule detail to the whole story, a pawn to the chess game."

The scene darkens once more.

STATIC

Jay Price is rising off of STJ as the scene cuts back to the ring, with the People's Preacher. Phantasm pats Price on the shoulder, congratulating him on the elimination. Meanwhile, Price is battling it out with Purse, the EPPW owner oblivious to the fact that he was sorely outnumbered.

"War is easy when
you fight only the enemy.
War is simple
when you target only
those who oppose you.
The real difficulty
is knowing that your friends
are also your enemies.
Soon, choices must be made.
Do you pick the best
or do you pick randomly?
Neither. In war,
pick not the strongest,
but the one no one else likes."

Jay Price makes an attempt to join Jeff Purse, only to have the Polar Phantasm grab him by the shoulder and whip him around into a big right hand. One Ice Cap later, and Jay Price is joining STJ in the loser's circle.

STATIC

"Like Tybalt, no one fucking likes Jay Price, no matter which side they stand upon."

Spotlight on a Jay Price portrait. Unlike all of the others to this point, this portrait was hand-drawn instead of photographed. The image falls under the category of "stick figures" which a crudely drawn circle, two mismatching eyes, and a lack of any definition is evident.

"I have heard it said that Pantheon was a great stable, a great faction, ruined by the involvement of Jay Price. Other times, I've heard that Torture's return match at One would have been so much better had it not been Jay Price as his opponent. And I've while I never heard this, I could only imagine Seth sitting at home, telling himself that 'WCF lasted so long because Jay Price was not around but for the later half years.'

From the top to bottom, WCF or EPPW, Bravado or even Cryogenix, Jay Price is disliked the masses.

And quite frankly, I cannot understand why Price is ridiculed so much. There is a possibility that it might be his successes that make him atrocious in the eyes of the wrestling world. I mean, he has held almost every belt in this company, from the most prestigious to the lowest; I honestly believe he tells people in private that he's held the WCF Women's Championship. I mean, granted, many of his victories may not love so nice on paper. Two months with the Hardcore Title, two months with the tag titles, two fucking weeks as the World Champion. Nothing, shall you say, impressive.

Maybe its his associations that brings the hatred upon him. I for one don't like him, especially since he decided to join up with my enemies during both acts of the stable wars. Before that, he was apart of the original ToT, which surely didn't earn him many friends either. Good or bad, face or heel, funny or downright serious. . .its just so hard to like this guy. The AA use him as their example of what alcohol can do for you, he's on the hitlist for PETA, and wrestling companies all over the world now refer to losing a title within a month as a 'Jay Price.'

I mean somewhere down the line, Jay, you fucked up.

I can name a few examples off the top of my head right now. Obviously your loss to Jonny Fly two weeks after beating him is on the top of the list, but there are also a few that I remember. I seem to remember at the End of the World, followed by beating you again a few weeks later. I remember watching you walk away from the Hellimination Chamber. . . at least for a few seconds, and then I had to focus on the match itself, you know the one I made it to the very end of. Frankly, I've been in the ring with you several times over my career, and never once did you impress me.

In fact, you haven't impressed anyone since 2010.

You can reference the wins over Logan at One, the feuds of year against all of the WCF. You can point me to all the history, all the accolades, all the championships, and you still won't change my opinion. Because like I said to Odin earlier, you did all of that in the old era. The era without the Jonny Flys, the Sarah Twilights, the NvLs. You can pull the names. Dake Ken, Skyler Striker. You can even throw yourself into the mix. In all cases, it'll be the same.

I beat Dake Ken

I beat Skyler Striker.

And I fucking beat Jay 'Sixteen Days' Price."

The red hand reaches out once more, and crumples the pitiful excuse of a portrait in his hand.

"Ultimate Showdown is one of the few matches in the WCF that is meant to showcase the very best in the company, and yet space is wasted on the likes of you. I sit here and I find myself getting angrier and angrier at whoever changed the format of this match. Had this match remained the same, I wouldn't have to put up with the likes of The Rookie or even you Jay Price. Yeah, let that sink in, Jay.

If the secondary titles were not in this match, neither would you.

Jay Price, the World Champion, the Triple Crown Winner, the man who has held almost every title this company offers or has ever offered. . . that man barely made it into the match. How can a man have so much hype, so much fluff, so much of the stuff people want to brag back, and still barely have the ability to use all of it? Jay Price, you're a Grand Slam champion in this company, and yet people struggle to distinguish you from the mid-carders in this company.

On paper, you look like the big shit.

But in reality, you're just a big piece of shit.

And you're shit that won't last long in this company. The Rookie sees you as a stepping stone to possible greatness. Odin Balfore sees you as a waste of the veteran label, someone he needs to jobber kill. Bravado sees you as an enemy and your own fucking teammates see you as an expendable piece, someone they won't bat an eyelash as they kick your ass around the ring. You're stepping into a match where no one looks you as the newcomer of the year in '09, or the man who drops titles faster than Steve Orbit drops his hoes. They do not see you as Jay Price, the threat to victory.

They see you as Tybalt, the man no one likes, no matter where they stand."

Fade out.

STATIC

The crowd, despite the fact that they came here originally for a traditional Shakespeare play, is getting into the action. As Jay Price is pushed out of the ring, there is a mixture of cheers and boos, cheers to see the Other Price gone, but boos to see his stablemate be the one who beat him. Now with three men left in the ring, Eric Price truly is alone. Despite this, he knocks fake Jeff Purse into his ass, before bull rushing the Polar Phantasm. A lariat stuns the man, and then, out of nowhere, a Reversal of Fate. The Polar Phantasm drops to the mat, seemingly unconscious, with Price standing over top of him.

"Forced upon the world,
the rightful choice,
the answer to all the problems
and the struggles of society,
stands dominant against
all opposition.
Alone, or alongside his comrades
he fights on.
he conquers.
he stands tall,
above all others.
And yet he falls, a
victim to his weakness.
Friendship."

Eric Price drops to his knees, ready to make the pin and the sure elimination, when suddenly Jeff Purse is behind him to deliver The Spoke to the back of his head. Price drops to the mat like a log, The Future rolling him over for the one, two, three.

STATIC

"Like Paris, Eric Price embodies the best qualities, and yet he still falls short."

The spotlight is on Eric Price, with the EPPW owner holding his United States Title held high.

"My mind drifts to the past, to the last time Eric and I last fought in a match as opponents, not partners. The memories of that night is ingrained in my head; I'm asleep at night, and I can still feel the kicks, the strikes, the punishment that was given to my body on that fateful. I relive that fatal clash like a soldier remembers his tours.

War was hell, especially when Eric Price let me down, let me fall, let me lose.

Granted, he and I weren't partners at the time, probably not even friends. We were two men who held the other's respect, two men that knew they were dominant figures in the match. Yet I still recall that fateful night when Eric Price eliminated me that night, putting my at third that night. I was so close, so fucking close to that World Title, the thing I have sought after and bled for my entire career. I was within grasp, yet Eric Price swatted me away, dropped me on my head, and squashed any dreams of carrying that belt on my shoulder. I was so close, and failed.

And I will not let that happen again.

Nearly a year after that night, Eric, and I still haven't forgotten. You dropped me to get closer to that victory, without regret or remorse. That was before Bravado, before you and I considered ourselves teammates, but I don't believe that is going to change this time, at Ultimate Showdown. Given the chance, you will take me out to get one person closer to that contendership. You would screw me over, given the chance.

Difference is that this time, I will return this favor.

I anguished over that feeling of betrayal for ten fucking months, Eric. I watched you rise to greatness, carry the belt that should've been mine. I've seen you rise to the heights that I had always wanted to be at. I watched you looking down from the top, knowing I should be the one looking down, and you the one looking up. Despite our friendship, despite our partnership, despite all of that. . .

I'm going to let you fall."

Again, the portrait falls off of its stand, except this time there was no sign of the red hand. It had remained by its master sign, making no move to save the painting.

"Eric, many people believe you are the man who is going to win this match. You're a former World Champion, the runner-up of the War Match. . . you're a man who is used to winning, someone who does it often and does it well. Even when you lose, you lose spectacularly, making it so close that you're the second winner in the match, not the first loser. As a teammate, I should say I want to see you get so close again. The obvious choice I should be saying is that I want an Eric Price versus Nathan von Liebert finale, the winner going on to face Sarah Twilight, the retaining World Champion. As a Bravado member, the logical choice would be Bravado versus Bravado.

I say fuck logic.

Eric Price, I don't want you to get close, won't let you get close. I want you standing over somebody's unconscious body, be it Jeff Purse, Polar Phantasm, hell even Jay Price. I want you to stand tall over a member of our rival group.

And then I want you to fucking fail.

I want Jay Price to drop you on your head. I want Jeff Purse to kick your teeth down your throat. I want the Polar Phantasm to break your neck. Despite the involvement of The Rookie and Odin Balfore, Ultimate Showdown truly is a match between Cryogenix and Bravado. And despite what all is said on the opposite side, Purse, Phantasm, and the Other Price will work together. They will single you out, Eric Price, and take you out first. They will target STJ, target myself, target Balfore, target Buckley. If you aren't them, you're a target.

Cryogenix will be working as a team this week.

Bravado will not.

Eric Price, I will let you fall this Sunday, just like you let me fall at War. When you're lying on your back, hoping for me to come to your aid, I will only watch. And then you will watch, backstage, as I continue fighting. You'll watch while I overcome seven other competitors to win Ultimate Showdown. You'll watch in the same seat, the same place, that I was ten months ago.

At War, I was dropped.

At Ultimate Showdown, you will be the one who was dropped, Eric.

After this Sunday, Eric, we can rebuild our friendship, continue our partnership. You and I can go back to ruling the EPWF with an iron, red fist. You point them out, and I'll go break them. But it won't be like that this week.

This week, Eric, I want you to hate me like I hated you so many months ago.

Paris was so close to getting the one thing he wanted, and failed.

Eric, you were Paris ten months ago at War, and come Ultimate Showdown, you will still be Paris."

Fade out.

STATIC

Two men are left in the ring as "Eric Price" rolls out of the ring, the Future Elements, Jeff Purse and Polar Phantasm, the latter of which is still unconscious on the mat. Jeff Purse drops to his knees, over top his partner's still body. He reaches out, grabbing the hand of Phantasm, looking down at his face.

"Partners believes themselves
alone, finally free of
struggles and conflicts.
Alas, this proved not
a happy ending where
they walk out as equals.
This was Hunger Games,
the prize the World Title,
the victor being one, not two.
Fame over Friendship?
Friendship over Fame?
A choice is made, or is it
even a choice? Some may
consider the outcome fate."

Shocking the crowd, fake Jeff Purse drops to his shoulders, draping his partner's arm atop his chest. The referee, somewhat reluctantly, begins the count, ending with the elimination of Jeff Purse

STATIC

"Like Romeo, Jeff Purse plays second fiddle to his partner."

Spotlight falls onto the portrait of Jeff Purse.

"When Pantheon was officially announced, Jeff Purse stood in the shadows of his teammates. Yes, they considered one another equals, but in the eyes of the wrestling universe, Jeff Purse did not compare to Jonny Fly and Kid Phantasm. Months went by, titles changed, and almost surprisingly, Jeff became the World Champion of the WCF. Jonny Fly was gone and Jeff Purse was at the top of the company.

And yet Phantasm took over, becoming of the leader the Pantheon even though he wasn't qualified for the task at hand.

Fast forward to the fall of Pantheon, and the rise of Cryogenix. Jeff Purse had survived it all. He may have lost his title belt, but through it all, Jeff Purse remained a part of this company. Jonny Fly was gone for a time, Kid P. and Nightmare disappeared, but Jeff Purse never left. He was always here, always fighting, always shining. The fans cheered his name, booed any who faced him. While he hardly at the top, he was so close the entire time. And then Phantasm returns, and suddenly he's back down, within the shadow of his partner.

First sighting of the Phantasm, and Jeff returns to being the man's bitch.

Jeff Purse, you and I have more history than I have with anyone else in this company. For years, you and I have competed in matches against one another; I would win some, you would win some. I never have liked you, but after each match, I felt myself feeling something very few people get from me; respect. I hated you with a passion, Jeff, but I respected you. Respected the effort you put forth, the ability you had. When I dropped you on your head, I didn't ask myself 'how many wins is that now.' I asked myself 'is he going to get up this time?' Sometimes you did, sometimes you didn't. Regardless of the outcome, I considered you a good rival.

Come this Sunday, though, you won't be facing a man that respects you anymore, Jeff.

No, you're stepping into a ring with a man whose disgusted by your actions. Jeff, you were so high on that mountain. World Champion, fan favorite, a man everyone looked up to you. I envied the success you had achieved, but I also know I'd rather have my old rival up there anyone else. You had broken away from Phantasm, from Jonny Fly, from everyone you'd had been hanging onto anymore. You were not labeled a member of Pantheon, or a member of the Future Elements.

You were Jeff Purse, and only Jeff Purse.

But now all you are is Cryogenix 2, a number again instead of an individual.

You tossed away all the great things you had for another run with your best friend, Phantasm. You needed to hear your friend's jokes. You needed his shoulder to cry on after Twilight broke your heart. You needed the past so much that you were willing to give up the present and ruin your future for it.

As Jeff Purse, quite possibly you may have won this whole match.

As Cryogenix 2, though, your chances have just gone out the window."

The red hand reaches out, tipping the portrait over slightly, so it wasn't completely straight. It was now crooked.

"Jeff, I don't believe you're going you to lay down and let the Phantasm pin you, at least not literally. But in the end, I don't see you ever overstepping your precious friend. You never could do it when he was around, and when he was gone, you were only passing the time until he returned. Yes you have won War, yes you won the World Title. Yes you're a Triple Crown Winner, a Main Eventer of One, and so much more. You did so much for yourself, and yet Polar still surpassed you.

You weren't the wrestler of the year. . . Polar Phantasm was.

You weren't the most respected man backstage. . . Polar Phantasm was.

You weren't the face of Pantheon, the face of Cryogenix, the face of WCF wrestling itself. . . Polar Phantasm was.

Jeff Purse, this isn't War, where your partner had been eliminated, leaving you to do as you please. This isn't Hellimination where you got the chance to lead Pantheon after Phantasm was eliminated early once more, a chance to lead that you squandered. This is Ultimate Showdown, the Polar Phantasm is back and he is in his prime form once more. If it ended up with Jeff Purse and Phantasm in the final three, I wouldn't be surprised. Then. . . then, you're going to face a choice. Either you step over your friend, Jeff, or you let him step over you. You can say you won't say you're past stuff like that, but don't blame me if I'm doubtful.

I mean, once a bitch, always a bitch, right?

But even if you somehow regain your manhood for this Sunday, there is still one obstacle in the way that I believe you're unprepared for: me. Jeff, we haven't faced each other since the end of last year. I've gotten stronger, faster, and most importantly, I've gotten more focused. Sitting back, while I wasting away with the likes of FPV and Waylon Cash, men who weren't getting my anywhere, I had to watch you battling it out for the World Title. Losing War after getting so close was one thing, but you getting the overall win hurt so much more. I still remembered when I was beating you every time we faced each other. And then you started winning, and winning, winning so often that I almost forgot what it felt like to beat you.

Jeff, I don't like that feeling one. fucking. bit.

So this Sunday, I'm coming at you harder than I have ever done before. Harder than One. Harder than War. Harder than Hellimination. I want to beat you, need to beat you, Jeff, and I won't stop. Be Phantasm's bitch, or make him your bitch for all I care. Either way, I am going to come out on top. There is going to be no more wondering which one of us is the best from the ACW bunch.

You will be a challenge this Sunday. You will take me to my very limits, push to me to a zone I haven't been to in the longest time. But in the end, this will still end the way it should.

You will be Romeo and you will perish."

STATIC

Back in the ring, Jeff Purse stands to his feet, taking one last look at his partner before exiting the ring. All is silent, as the Polar Phantasm is still unmoving in the ring. And then a haunting tune breaks out as Nathan steps into the ring, whistling into the microphone. He walks over to Polar's prone body, toeing it with the tip of his boot. Beneath him, the Polar Phantasm begins to stir.

"War has been waged.
Friends and foes,
broken and battered,
are scattered across
both the land, and
the minds of the people.
Darkness, light,
light, darkness.
The feeling, that fear
to wake up and find
yourself all alone.
Except you're not alone.
Turn, look at the victor
in his eyes. Look at Death."

The Polar Phantasm sits up, rubbing the stars and the grogginess out of his eyes. And then he locks eyes with Nathan.

STATIC

"Like Juliet, the Polar Phantasm will find himself alone. . . only he isn't alone."

The spotlight is on the Polar Phantasm, television title resting on his shoulder.

"You knew this was coming, Polar, didn't you? You knew sitting at home, preparing for the return to the ring. . . you knew sooner or later you and I would cross paths again. You knew it, and yet you still returned. After I repeatedly broke you, broke your girlfriend, broke your life. . . you came back. Kidnapping, arson, assault with weapons, even fucking branding who keep you away. I mean take a hint, bastard.

You were safer when you were gone.

I mean, you truly were safe had you stayed away. I burned your home down, thinking, hoping that I took you and your girl down with it. No bodies were found, but I was adamant that I had finished what was started over six months before. Following that night, I thought I had won, thought I had finally gotten back at you for what you did to Rocky, to me. I had moved on, eager for what the future had to give me.

Turns out the future is just giving me a big part of my past.

Now, two weeks ago, I gave you your official welcome back to the company when I beat you over the head with the chair. And let me tell you. . . I sure did miss doing that. I missed kicking your ass around the ring. I hadn't done it in so long, but with the first ring of that chair against your skull, it all came rushing back. All the beatdowns, the mind games, the torture and the threats. . . I remembered it all.

I remembered just how much of a pussy you are, Phantasm.

Did you know you never avenged your girl after I gave her that pretty tattoo? I tried so hard to push you to the point, and it just never came to fruition. I pushed you, and pushed you, pushed you so close to edge that I was very nearly holding you up, preventing you from falling. And yet you would not react, you would not fight back. You took the turmoil of your girlfriend like a grain of salt; you saw it, you recognized it, but you didn't do anything about it.

You had the chance to put a stop to it, and you didn't.

And now its too late.

Because those chair shots I mentioned earlier, they weren't just memories being relived; they were like taking a drug after months of being clean. Watching your blood fly, feeling Him rumbling inside of me; it was a high I hadn't felt in so long, a high that I want to feel again. I gave you an ultimatum; beat me, and I step out of your life. But that offer? That offer is gone, off the table. I don't wanna walk away anymore. I had a taste of that drug after so long, so why would I let it walk out of my life after one use?

I wanna break you, Polar, everyday, every hour, every minute, every fucking second. I want my hands, my words, my name branded in every crevice of your mind. When you breath, I want you to feel the hurting I put on you. When you look somewhere, I want you to see me there, even when I'm not. When you speak, I want NvL oozing out. I never want you to forget me, Phantasm.

And I don't want to forget you, either."

The red hand reaches out, pressing a rod of sort against the portrait. Once the hand pulls away, viewers realize that a branding iron had been pressed against the portrait, branding the word NvL across the portrait. The image had caught fire from the extreme heat of the iron, though, so the portrait began to burn away. The word was left, though, a permanent mark on the wall behind the picture.

"Getting a victory at Ultimate Showdown this Sunday would ensure me that I would never forget either. This is one of the biggest matches of my career, against some of the toughest opponents the EPWF has to offer. Winning it all would cement this memory in my mind, brain it on the front of my brain. And getting a pin over you, Polar, would make it so much better. Do I think I can? Most definitely. I mean, I pinned you and your girl at Hellimination, I lasted longer than you at War, and I have bested you in most encounters in our career.

But I won't underestimate you, either, because I know you have something fueling you this week that few others else have; you want that contendership for the World Title. Eric, Jeff, Jay, Odin. . . they've all held the belt in their career, they've felt the prestigious title around their waist, savored it, whether they held it for six months or two weeks. But you, Polar, have never held that title, and that's a fuel that is going to make you so much more dangerous.

A lion who has already eaten is dangerous, a lion who has not, even more so.

Polar, you will be entering this match not as someone who would settle with third or fourth place, but a man who wants only the biggest prize of them all. You will enter this match mad, and will leave mad unless you leave alone. But you're not the only one that wants the big prize. I have never tasted that gold, either, Polar, never worn that belt around my waist. I've gotten much closer to it than you have, too, only to fail.

I fucking hate to fail.

So at Ultimate Showdown, I'm going to fight my ass off to get first in line for the next meal, the next chance at the World Championship. I'm willing to forgo friendships, break bodies, and fight until I'm down to my last breath. I will beat men I've already beaten before, beat men I haven't beat in a long time, beat men I've never faced before in my career.

I will beat you, Polar.

You may fall first, or you make it to the very end. Either way, don't you ever think you're alone in that ring.

You may be Juliet, who thought she was all alone in her own life, but she wasn't.

The Devil's Right Hand had been there the whole time, pulling the strings to everyone's demise."

STATIC

Back onstage, Nathan finally breaks the staredown, knocking the fake Phantasm across the face with his microphone. Grabbing his rival by the hair, he elbows him across the face once, twice, three times to wear him down, before finally tucking his head, beneath his arm. Turning to face the crowd, Nathan closes his eyes, looking skyward as he speaks.

"All around, carnage lies in
fair Jersey, where the scene
was laid so long ago.
From forth the fatal loins,
seven wrestlers fail at greatness:
the blood and sweat wasted
only a reminder of their failure.
Sixteen hands clashed,
only one is lifted in victory.
The battle was won, the war still undone
Who next shall cross the victor's path?
The pimp, the hick, or the witch?
The future is uncertain.
Best to bask in the glorious present."

Nathan lifts the fake Phantasm up, letting up as he reaches the peak, allowing the actor to fall to the mat below. Nathan ignores the man behind him, raising a single fist in the air. And then the scene fades out.