Watch the World Burn

[FPV]

It is the night after One. The White Gran Torino owned by Frank Venable is driving down a long black road in the middle of god knows where. Most probably in Baltimore, because Baltimore is where Edgar Allen Poe died, and Edgar Allen Poe was a creepy man, thus making Baltimore creepy by association. Or it could be somewhere like Detroit or something, all that's known is that this place just feels really offbeat. Mr. FPV is driving Vic to an unknown location. Noises can be heard from Vic in the trunk that sound like he might be started to piss himself. FPV pays no attention to him and keeps driving, a smug look on his face.

Finally, they reach their destination. The Gran Torino pulls over into the driveway of a mansion. Mr. FPV gets out of the car and opens the trunk, exposing Vic to outside light to the first time, although that is irrelevent considering he's been blindfolded with about 5 layers of electric tape, along with most of the rest of his body. From the look on his face, you could probably tell FPV is just doing this to scare the crap out of Vic before finally ending the mission he started.

FPV hauls Vics body out of the trunk and picks him up on his shoulders and brings him into the mansion. FPV can feel a warm spot on his back, yep, Vic has really let himself go.

The camera cuts to one of the rooms inside the mansion. It is barely lit, the only light coming a giant compnuter screen illuminating a white light. On the screen is are many different thing, opened documents, security camera footage of what looks like a prison cell, and other things. The light outlines the shape of its user, a man at least in his early fifties who looks unusually well for his age, with only a few wrinkles on his eyes and a well built physique, although his hair has turned to a ghastly white. In his mouth a cigerrete is dangling, burning away. Many packs of the stuff are strewn across the floor, it's obvious this man likes to smoke. The door opens, offering more light into the room, showing that while the large computer takes up quite an amount of space, the room is still rather spacious. The smoking man turns his attention to his butler.

Butler: Mr. Venable is here, sir.

Smoking Man: (smiling) Good. Send him in.

The butler nods and walks off. A few moments later FPV, still carrying Vic on him comes into the room. Once he is in, he lets down Vic violently. He and the Smoking Man make eye-contact. The Man inhales some more of his cigerrete before speaking.

Smoking Man: Frank Patrick Venable, in the flesh, it's good to finally meet you in person, you look a lot different then you sound on the telephone I might add.

FPV: Uhm, thanks. I'm sorry, but I forgot to ask you your name on the phone.

Smoking Man: Oh that's not important, just call me Helms. Not Mr. Helms, not Sir Helms, just Helms, got it.

FPV: Sure. Well, here's my entry project. Want me to give you the rundown.

Helms: Of course.

FPV: His name is Vic, no last name known. Noted anarchist. Guilty of instigating fights at bars, torture, illegal tree-cutting, disturbing the peace, torturing the same man againt through nightmares, and that's just this year. He just recently attempted to hijack a live pay-per-view show. That was when I came in.


Helms: I saw that. Lied about taking him to the police, eh? I like it! Well, he fits the bill of a low-life to a tee. I think you should remove that tape from his face so he can see his new home.

With pleasure, FPV slowly unravels the electric tape covering Vics face, slowly revealing his eyes, then his nose, and finally his mouth. He seems extremly distraught and is shaking violently.

Vic: Wha-WHA-WHAAA! WHAT IS THIS?! THIS ISN'T THE POLICE!

FPV: No, it's not. Wheather it's for better or worse is your decision.

Vic: WHERE THE FLYING FUCK DID YOU TAKE ME, VENABLE?!

Helms: Your new home, Vicky-boy.

Vic: DID I ASK YOU, OLD MAN?!

FPV: All right then. This is your new home Vicky-boy.

FPV lets out a cheeky grin to Vics face in defiance showing that FPV has won this fight. Vic scowls at him.

Helms: Guards, take him to waiting room with all the other prisoners waiting to be entered.

At once two burly men in black overcoats not entirely different to FPV's walk in and grab the furious Vic out of the room, leaving FPV and Helms alone again.

Helms: Quite a catch you've gotten us Mr. Venable. You'll make an excellent addition to our team. Consider yourself a member of the Vigilante Squad of America.

FPV: Thank you, Helms. It is an honor to be working for a place like this. I'm glad there are people who view injustice the way I do.

Helms: As I'm sure you are. Now, let me assure you, you may keep working as a wrestler in addition to your new position here. Also, I assume that industry is where you plan to find a few criminals.

FPV: You'd be right. It's surprising how dirty it can be. There is a thin line between sportsmanship and crime. So yeah, I will look out at my job.

Helms: As you wish. (as FPV walks away) May I advise you, if at ANY time you see some form of violent injustice, you apprehend the one responsible.

FPV: I'll be sure to remember that.

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A few minutes later, it begins to rain heavily. It pours down everywhere, soaking everything in reach. As it reaches midnight it is pitch black making it almost impossible to see. About the only thing visible is the yellow line along the road. Then a flashlight shines a light.

FPV: My god that's bright.

Holding the light is Mr. FPV. He has changed a little bit since he was last in WCF. He has grown a black goatee and now wears a cowboy hat. Otherwise he looks mostly the same, with his signature duster coat intact, although getting very wet at the moment.

FPV: I suppose reintroductions are in order for the un initiated. My name is Frank Patrick Venable, but you may call me FPV for short. I'm what you'd call "Someone not to fuck with." Just ask any of the people who tried to take me. Jay Williams, Doc Henry, Jay Price.Those are just some of the people I've trifled with before. A few really big names there.

Poor thing is, those are just all old farts. One of the things I thought was bad about WCF back then was that it was very hard to get new guys in who would stay. Sure, we got a few, but not much. I come back, and my prayers are answered. So to all the new guys here, welcome to my personal boneyard.

What happenned at One was just me taking care of some business and getting that piece of crap Vic out of the way. That right there is reason enough to be thankful for me. But I'm generous, I'll give you more to be thankful for. Much more. If I may even quote Tim Curry, I'll make you shiver with antici...(pauses)...PATION!

But enough about me, let's talk about my match. My first match back is for a title I technically never lost, so by all means why wouldn't I be pissed off for having to earn it again, and why wouldn't I try my darndest to get them back? There's no reason I would'nt, that's what, and I know Roy well enough to know he'll put aside whatever little three-way catfight he's gotten himself into to get those titles back as well. Seriously, it's like all the feuds the guy gets into nowadays involves him and two women. Kinda funny actually.

And what's the all mighty team of death that will stop us from achieving the Irish Birthright of Champions of the GODS THEMSELVES?! A redneck and his fuck buddy.. Mother. Fucking. Groan. One thing that hasn't changed about WCF is its love to put me against rednecks. It seems everytime Adam Young's coke pile runs dry he always comes back to WCF with a different redneck to rip us off and waste our time. Adam Young, you're a shining example of someone with very bad delusions of adequacy. You make yourself out to be this big bad force of destruction, when in reality, be honest, when was the last time you won a match. Oh, I'd say about HALF PAST BUTT FUCK NEVER! And Hunter? It's motherfuckers like you that make me embarrassed to come from Atlanta. No scratch that, from this country. No scratch that, from this fucking planet. No scratch THAT, from existence itself. That's how bad. So at Slam, I'mma do what Adam Young was already gonna' do anyway and widen your asshole with both of my goddamned boots.

And so, one step higher on the food chain is Nightrider. Nighty...yeah, you mind if I call you Nighty? No? Allright, so Nighty, let me get one thing clear first, you're not the first biker dude I've gone toe-to-toe with, hell, I was supposed to partner with one a while back. But that's not what makes me sure that you'll lose. It's the fact that you and your partner just had a big match at One and have a bit of a rocky aliance going on. Yeah...that's gonna' do ya' a world of good. In fact, when you think about it, me and Roy are the only team in this match that has actual chemistry as a team. And no, The Redneck Express does not count as a team because they go together about as well as cake with brocolli drizzelled all over it.

And probably the most honorable motherfucker out of the whole bunch, Jeff Purse. Jeff, I could talk about how you have a funny last name, or how you remind me of someone who would fit in more in a boy band then a wrestling ring, and how my little sister would probably want to bang the shit out of you, or how my mom would probably want to bang the shit out of you, but I won't, because all that bullshhit is irrelevent. What is relevent is your wrestling prowess. I must admit, you have alot of it. You are most certainly the only person in this turnbuckle salsa that I have any amount of respect for. As much as I would like to praise you, bro, there are two fatal mistakes you have made that will almost guarantee my victory.

First off, you admited yourself that you have not done any homework on me, therefore, you based all facts about me on your own wild imaginations and bullshit hypothese'. So when you walk into the ring Sunday, you have zero idea what you're going up against. Well let me clear up your curiousness and fill your mind with nightmares. When you leave Sunday, you'll most probably be leaving in a body bag. And little Kari wouldn't want that, would she? Yes, you may not have done any homework on me, but I've done my homework on you! So I know about your little obsessive tendancies and your BMX history and all that other creamy goodness.

That's where your second flaw comes in. Your obsessive tendencies. I know that in our match you'll find just one thing wrong with anything, Zach's tie isn't straight, a rope is sagging lower then the others, the entire fucking titantron is unaligned, and when you could easily pin me and end your nightmare, you're going to go out and either starighten Zachs tie like a dad teaching his son how to tie a knot, tighten the rope yourself, or get on your phone and call up an entire fucking construction team to re-align the tron. In that window of time, I will have either gotten up and tagged Roy in, strangle one of the Buttfuck Bunch into submission, or just full out convince the referee to disqualify your from existence. I have done that before. Either way, you lose. I bang the shit out of Kari. The end.

So Sunday, all of you brotherfuckers get ready to see the crowning of the true tag team kings.

FPV turns his flashlight of and begins to walk away.

"Some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money
they can't be bought, bullied, reasoned, or negotiated with
some men...
just want to watch the world burn."