The Slammy for Best RP goes to...

[Xtreme]

The scene opens on Hades Avenger, seated at a bar with some... questionable... company. He takes a swig of his beer, slapping it back down on the bar. He laughs, one of the ladies planting a smooch on his cheek. A male patron walks up, a pen and notebook in hand.

Mr. Starr? Can I get...

An autograph? Sure, mate. To whom is this being made out to?

Actually, sir, I...

Axe Kelly? Okay, Mr Kelly, here ya go...

No, sir, I'm not looking for...

Cooking? No, thanks; I'm not hungry at the moment. Appreciate it, though.

No, sir, I'm with Pro Wrestling Illustrated...

Lucy motions to the barkeep, who lowers the volume of the jukebox. Starr holds up his hands so his fans will calm down.

Sorry, kid. Place is loud. What's up?

The man clears his throat, taking a moment.

I'm with the PWI. I was hoping to get a word with you about your match against Andre and having to team up with him at the next Slam...

Lucious takes a moment, scratching his chin. He takes a breath, shrugs.

Andre? Y'know, I could be upset. I could be mad. I could be pissed the fuck off, and not a single person could blame me.

But I'm not. In fact, I'm happy for Holmes. He put up a hell of a fight last week, he took me to my limit, and he pulled off the win. No hate from me. In fact, when you write this, tell Dre I said to win that damn TV Title and keep it warm for our next encounter.

As far as teaming up with him this week? I think it's a great opportunity. Look at what we accomplished at One. I got in my shots, Andre through out a hell of an effort and almost won Torneo Cibernetico... Clearly, the man has talent and this is a great chance to showcase what we can do when we work together.

The reporter finishes jotting down some notes, extending a hand.

Thank you, Lucious. This should make a hell of an article.

No problem, kid. Keep the John Hancock.

Lucious shakes the reporter's hand, a nod. The reporter turns, leaving the bar as the music comes back up and Starr goes back to his booze and bitches.

Later

The scene opens up on a rest stop somewhere between here and there. We find ourselves gazing upon the majesty that is a Ducati Monster Diesel, jet black with a silver decal of a skull and the letters "OoC". Lucious walks out, noticing the camera. He sits with his bottle of Mug, a grin.

So I'm on my way out to North Carolina for the next Slam. Had to make a pit stop back at home so I could check in with some people.

Plus, the bar at home is THE scene. Fucking Chuggers, buddy.

So I had some writer ask me earlier this week about the TV Title Contendership match. And I'll tell y'all the same thing I told him about that match.

Lucious takes a moment for effect, leaning in.

No harm, no foul. Every dog has its day, ladies and germs. Last week was Andre's night, plain and simple. He showed heart and tenacity at Torneo Cibernetico, and last week, he displayed talent and willpower.

Andre, you're a talented motherfucker. You got a clean win, fair and square. You earned my respect, Dre.

This week, we have the pleasure of teaming up again. I'm sure you're thinking the same thing I am, Dre. We leave the past in the past, give our all this week and come out with the win. My personal suggestion is that we meet up somewhere before Slam and talk strategy. My number is out there, hit me up.

As far as this week's opponents are concerned, I'm not going to worry myself too much. I mean, a washed-up former Internet Champion and a never-will-be that he couldn't beat. Act like I care.

A swig of root beer, Lucious scoffs. He takes a moment to think, clearing his throat.

Look, Punkin, congrats on being a bronze level competitor for whatever small portion of your career was at all relevant. Really, that you held one of the lowest titles in this fed just etches that pretty little asterisk on your résumé that makes people say 'huh, this guy might be important to someone at some point in time'. Yeah.

Tell you what, Punky Brewster. I'm going to do you a solid this week. I'm gonna let you do what so many have done over the years, and let you ride my coattails. I'm going to do everything possible to make you look like you're not a complete joke and give you the chance to regain some status in WCF. Let you squander around in the minor leagues again while Andre and I shuffle up the proverbial ladder and forget about you.

I think it's safe to say I'm done addressing you. Not much to address anyways, and I spent more time than you really deserved. So... There's that.

Another swig of his root beer, Lucious looks skyward. He swallows, takes a breath, and turns back to the camera. A moment, he speaks.

And then, there's Doggonit. The never-will-be who took Punkass to his limits last week and managed to gain a co-contendership via count-out. And no, Dagnabbit, that does NOT make you better than me. The fact that I pushed my opponent to prove himself worthy is far more admirable and honorable than taking an easy out just to add your name to a match.

Honestly, Bedridden. What kind of talentless hack would settle rather than prove his greatness? That's the difference between us- well, one of many. I would rather have the honor of defeat than to have an asterisk on my record. But I guess not all of us have the talent to call ourselves 'competitors', right? Poor Goddammit.

Lucious takes a moment, puzzling something in his head. He nods, taking another swig of his root beer and sealing the cap, placing the bottle in a backpack. He turns back.

Okay, folks. So I told off Punkbitch, I laid the law down with Dog biscuit, I offered a truce to Andre... Yeah, I think we're about done here.

Andre, I hope to hear from you before Slam. Punk, Digdug, don't get too excited about losing to greatness. It was going to happen at some point. Fans, get ready for an amazing show. Anyone else... Well, tune in. You won't want to miss this shit.

Lucious nods, putting on his helmet. He mounts his bike, revs the engine and takes off down the highway, racing out of view. The camera pans the scene as we fade... to... black...