Hashtag Bitch Faces

[Xtreme]

The scene opens on a vacated property. Grass is a little green, but unkept. The house itself isn't too shabby; from the outside, the only real issue is that a few shutters are loose and the gutters could use a cleaning. A shadow is seen moving about the inside. One would normally think 'run! Run away and don't look back!' But not this day. No, on this day, the person behind the camera heads right into the front door... Which is apparently unlocked.

Yeah, that's not a bad sign.

The entryway is dark, but empty. An old table with an empty vase, a couple of pictures with cobwebs strewn about. There's a room to the left, a set of stairs on the right, and what appears to be the dining hall straight ahead. The camera pans into the room on the left. A desk sits neatly catty-cornered between two walls, the dust almost covering the outlines of the old TV that once sat there. The indents on the floor a few feet back indicate the presence of a couch now gone, but there's a broken chaise a few steps from that. Nothing else in here but dust and spider webs, so back into the main hall.

Home. They say it's where the heart is.

But really, who has a heart anymore? Today's society is filled with jealous, selfish animals who want only for themselves. They want everything right the fuck NOW, and when they don't get it, they complain and threaten the world.

The camera pans into the dining hall, a mess of broken chairs and a large table. It looks like a fight happened here. Or a tornado. Broken dishes line the wall, and a dry spritz of blood decorates the frame between the dining room and the kitchen.

The kitchen floor is lined with old pots and pans. A few utensils hang from a hardly secure fixture on the ceiling, dangling down over a prep table that looks... Well, let's just say apartment buildings have been fumigated for that shit. The fridge is tipped over, leaving a small choice of molding foods scattered nearby.

Life isn't always easy. Many times, we get pummeled with hardship. We get blasted by a particularly difficult circumstance that seemingly cripples us to the core. Life is nothing if not a battle; nay, a WAR, against not only outside influences, but our inner demons as well. Sides are taken, blood is spilt and we find ourselves on proverbial battlegrounds, fighting for our very existence.

We win a few battles. Take glory in our triumphs and push forward. Other times, we lose. Find ourselves crippled, destroyed. And the worst part is when we're torn apart internally. Physical wounds will heal, limbs can be replaced, but our heart, our self-esteem...

That's a realm science has yet to conquer. One can only hope against hope that they can find the willpower to overcome their depths. For that power only comes from deep within one's self, and only if one can dig deep enough to find it. If not...

They have defeated themselves.

The camera heads back into the main hall, turning up the staircase. A few spots on the wall are less dusty than others, indicating some form of framed work was present here. At the top of the staircase is a hall, lined with several rooms. A shadow moves in one, the camera cautiously approaching. As it peers through the doorframe, one sees plaques lining the walls. Trophies adorn the shelves of a pair of cases, lit brightly from within. In the center of the room is a comfortable padded lounge chair, seated on a spinning platform so as to scan the room. The chair spins around, Lucious Starr seated with his hands folded and a grin on his face. A deep breath, he continues.

The victories, however. Those are the times when our demons are conquered, our fears are faced, and we sit on the throne of accomplishment. We sit before our trophies, knowing the hell we went through but knowing the greatness we accomplished despite our setbacks. There's a serenity to seeing both our accomplishments and failures, knowing that we grow no matter what life throws out way. It's beautiful.

This week, I team with two men to take on members of the Hashtag bitch crew. Johnny Rabid and Kyle Kemp, the reigning and defending Tag Team Champions. And Wade Moor, the now former World Champion. Three men who, over the last year or so, have proved that they can dominate when the time comes to put up or shut up. And yet, in that same right, they have learned to deal with loss.

Lucious shrugs, lifting his jacket just enough to reveal a belt. The light glimmers off the golden plates, PWA World Heavyweight Champion inscribed on the middle. Starr nods, focused.

Wade. You just lost the World Title. Having been in your position... Well, a similar position, anyways... I know how you must be feeling right now. Doesn't matter if it's a rookie, a legend, a powerhouse or a high-flyer. Doesn't matter if they're great or lackluster. Losing something so richly contested is a hit to the ego in so many ways, and some never recover from the despair that comes from being knocked off the top of the mountain. I sympathize with your plight, Wade, and I understand the fragile state your mind must be in. If the skill and determination you had to gain the World Title and keep it for so long is still inside you. See, I'm sure you have it. I'm sure you'd normally be down for a fight. We'd duke it out, throw everything at each other and let the best man win.

But you're not the top dog anymore. You're not the king looking down; you're one of the common peasants looking up. Do you still have the drive, Wade, or have you succumbed to your defeat and lost your will to fight? I've been looking for the opportunity to test myself, put in a challenge against a World Champion contender. But now that I've been given one, I have to know, Wade: am I getting World Champion Wade Moor, or down-on-his-luck, broken and defeated Wade Moor?

A moment passes as Starr allows this thought to sink in, covering his title. He turns his attention to a pair of silk covers over the chair. He pulls them off, revealing a set of Tag Team Titles. Another grin, Lucious folds his hands again.

And then there's Rabid and Kemp. The Tag Champs. How are you, boys? Looking pretty high up there, ain't ya? Thinking everything is going your way, your hands keep coming up spades. Feeling pretty good about yourself, I'll bet.

Look, I know being a team is great. I've been on a few. Four time former World Tag Champ here. With two partners. I've been in two highly dominant factions, one of which spans the globe. I know a few things about gang warfare. The fun part of a successful tag team is that there's always ONE aspect that's lacking. One weakness that even the most skilled tag professional- hello- can't find. But I've been there. I've seen it. I've spent years upon years examining the team aspect. And I have you pegged, Beach Nuts. I know your weakness. I can see that one fatal flaw in your team, the one scratch I can and will exploit this week.

You're both talented. I give you that. And yes, I'm in a ragtag group in what I feel can only be a Bitch Tits setup to regain position. But what you may fail to realize is that I'm infallible. I win, I get my hand raised in victory. I lose, I learn both a weakness in my form and the style with which my opponent fights. I better myself and come back stronger.

I don't know this Raymond Hatcher very well. And I'll be honest in saying that Adam Young is far from my favorite person. But for this week, the enemy of my enemy is my teammate, and if I have to take a proverbial bullet for Young or Hatcher for us to come out victorious, I'll bite the fucking bullet.

Starr stands, grabbing his tag belts and heading for the door. He places them carefully in a duffle bag stashed by the door, picking it up. He looks back to the camera, stern.

This week, a former World Champion and tag specialist teams up with a gangbanger and... Well, whatever Hatcher is. Against a former World Champion and the Tag Champs.

Which team has the advantage? One would think Beach Cunt. But based on the mood of our now former World Champion, one may be far from correct. I guess we'll see what happens when the fierce and the fury meet the Beach Boys of WCF. Later, fellas.

Lucious turns, exiting the room. The camera pans the room, taking the time to absorb the amount of awards displayed before we fade to black.