Post by Deleted on Jul 10, 2011 20:16:56 GMT -5
{{A bright yellow light shines directly into your eyes. You squint and hold your hands up to try to shield your eyes from the light. You attempt to scan your surroundings to detect the source of the light as well as your current location, but all that you're able to detect is that the light is far too bright for your eyes to handle AND it appears to be pouring from every orifice of your surroundings. You close your eyes. Ahh... finally, relief.
You take a moment to revel in the darkness. Suddenly you notice the sound of a low-pitched frequency. It's so low that it's almost inaudible, but it's there. Gradually the frequency grows louder and higher-pitched. You cover your ears to protect them from the increased tone and volume, but that only works for so long. That high-pitched tone is now piercing your eardrums. You open your eyes, searching for the source of the tone and immediately your vision is overwhelmed by a bright orange light. This orange light is brighter even than the yellow light that came before it, a harsh reality that momentarily distracts you from the fact that the high-pitched tone has disappeared. You don't know quite what to do in order to escape from your predicament, so instinctively you close your eyes to shield them from the light.
Once again your eyes feel the relief that comes with the darkness, although you can still see the remnants of that orange glow, as if it were burned into your retinas. You feel nervous because you're uncertain as to what's happening to you, but as the moments pass you gradually begin to feel a sense of comfort. With little choice but to keep your eyes closed, you might even use this opportunity to catch up on your rest. You take a deep breath in and then exhale. That's when the sound returns, a moderate tone at first but rapidly increasing in pitch. You muffle your ears with your hands as best you can, but it's not enough. Again your eyes pop open and you demand to know the source of that ear-piercing noise!
This time when you open your eyes they're nearly blinded by a bright red light. You immediately shut your eyes. Thankfully that high-pitched tone has ceased, but you suddenly feel the sense of falling. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to be permanently blinded by the red light, and let out a scream as you find yourself spiraling downwards ever faster. You frantically reach out with both hands in a desperate, flailing attempt to grab hold of something, anything, to halt your descent.
Suddenly you hit bottom, with a thud. You find yourself breathless, your body aching, your eyes open but seeing only darkness. You attempt to stand, and eventually you do though you're unsteady on your feet. As you gain your balance and your breath, a row of dim white lights suddenly blink to life above you. You look around, finally having the opportunity to gain your bearings. You find yourself in the midst of a long corridor. A mechanical whirring sound drones to life, slowly at first and then slightly faster until settling at a steady pace.
You look around to study your surroundings more carefully. There are white plaster walls to either side of you and long, chest-high metal shelves attached to both walls. There are large glass jars lined up in a row on each shelf for as far as your eyes can see in this dim white light. Each jar is filled with an orange-yellow liquid. You plant one foot in front of the other on teal-colored tiles as you walk closer to the first jar in the row to your right. You study the jar. It must be holding at least five gallons of the orange-yellow liquid. What is that liquid? It looks familiar, but you can't put your finger on it.
A feeling of repulsion washes over you as you realize what that liquid is... human urine. You stumble backwards, aimlessly bumping into the metal shelf behind you. You spin around and find another urine-filled jar staring you in the face. You cover your eyes with your hands and shake your head in disbelief. What the hell is going on? Where are you? Why are you here? You have to get out of here, you tell yourself. You launch your body into a full-on sprint, running past jar after jar of putrid human urine. You're not sure how long you'll have to run in order to get out of here, you just know that you must escape this place, whatever it is.
As you run you hear the chattering of indistinct male and female voices. You can't make out a word that they're saying, though their voices appear to be circling you in every direction. You're not going to stop for them. Nothing can make you stop. Whoever these people are, they must be the ones that brought you here, the ones that are holding you captive. You try to ignore their voices, but their voices become clearer, more audible and distinct. They're impossible to ignore. You're uncertain as to whether they're speaking to you or to each other, but you can't help but listen to them as you continue sprinting towards the possibility of freedom.}}
THE VOICES
"Independence Day has been ruined."
"Add alcohol to the membrane. He's almost ready to snap, we just need to push him a little further."
"Baines should target Deruty and make an example out of him."
"Deruty isn't even American. I heard he's French-Canadian."
"Baines can apply the choke hold to her wiener."
"I think he should piss on the cross."
{{The voices make no sense to you. You try your damnedest to ignore them while pushing forward in your quest for escape. You keep running in a straight line for what feels like hours until you come to a stop in front of a white metal door with a red metal handle. You bite your bottom lip as you reach for the handle, hoping that the door is unlocked, begging for this to be an exit from your excruciating captivity. You push the door open. Your hopes sink as you find not an exit, but a room. The room is lit by a dim orange glow. Not knowing what else to do you step into the room.
There's nothing here except for blank white walls in every direction. The metal door clanks shut behind you. You turn around to reopen it, only to find that the door has disappeared, replaced by another white wall. You pound the wall with clenched fists to no avail. White walls and white floors... that's all that you find in the dim orange light. Dejected, you spin around... and let out a gasp. You're taken aback by what you find: A naked white male seated on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of crimson liquid. The man has one leg extended on the floor, in the puddle. The knee on his other leg is raised and the man's forehead is pressed against his knee, in a sort of crouched position. The man's long-flowing black hair hangs down in front of his face, further obscuring his identity. The man's arms are down by his sides, his hands resting with palms down in the red puddle.
You find yourself frozen in your tracks. You don't know whether to approach this man, call out to him, or just stand there. Finally you manage to utter a greeting to the man. It's indecipherable but there's an obvious tone of concern in your voice. The man slowly raises his head and as he does his long black hair parts to the sides, allowing you to see his face. Your jaw drops as you're hit with an immediate and shocking sense of recognition. This man is Phillip Baines. This man is you. You are Phillip Baines. You stare at this version of you, this version of Baines in awe. His face is bereft of emotion as he stares back at you. Suddenly his eyes grow wide, his mouth opens and he lets out a scream. You become him. You become Baines. You are screaming.}}
Phillip Baines: "HUURREEAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
{{You shake yourself awake from your nightmare and find yourself in the comfort of your bed at home. Your girlfriend Gina, the woman whom you love, is sitting up in bed next to you, a worried look on her face.}}
Gina De Carlo: "Phil, are you ok? You were having a bad dream! You were screaming!"
{{You try to shake the images of that bizarre dream from your brain as you look into Gina's sweet brown eyes.}}
Phil: "I'm sorry about that, babe. I don't know what got into me. I was having a dream where I was me, but I wasn't me until the end, and there were these jars of urine, and bright lights shining in my eyes, and a puddle of blood on the floor..."
{{You rub your forehead, perplexed by the shit that transpired in your sleep. Gina reaches out and strokes your thigh with her silky soft hand.}}
Gina: "I told you not to drink so much before bed, babe. Here, come here... come to mama."
{{Gina beckons to you, her D-sized breasts uncovered and yearning for your attention. You move close to her. She wraps her hands around your head and pulls your face in toward her cleavage. This is your medicine, boobs to soothe a ravaged psyche. You indulge.}}
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{{The scene jumps to life with the sounds and images of a full-contact training session at Crimson House Dojo. Baines is in the ring with a man of similar size and build, a Caucasian male with short curly black hair and a goatee, both men wearing their wrestling gear. It is known to those within Phil's inner circle that he does not respect the goatee as a form of facial hair. Mustache? Ok. Beard? No problem. Goatees are just lame. That's how Baines feels about it anyway.
Phil's opponent appears to be taunting him with that goatee, intentionally or otherwise, as the two men grapple for positioning in what looks to be a rather technical affair. Both men are looking to score the takedown with throws and/or suplexes, and each is denying the other with equally impressive counters. Finally, Phil captures the man's leg and tosses him overhead with a vicious suplex. The man lands awkwardly on his neck and lets out a pained yell. The man is rolling around in pain on the mat, but Phil shows no mercy as he stalks his prey. Phil pulls the man to his feet and sets him up in a vertical suplex position. Phil lifts the man into the air, slingshots his body off the top rope, spins and drops the man on his head in the middle of the ring with an especially violent brainbuster. The man's body twitches on the mat. Phil stands over the man and glares at him for a minute, before speaking to him.}}
Phil: "You have a concussion now. Get help for that."
{{Phil hops out of the ring and grabs a bottle of electrolytes from ringside. The Crimson House medical staff rushes into the ring and begins feverishly working on the man that Baines just destroyed. Baines takes a drink from his bottle as he walks over to where his mentor Bobby Cairo is finishing up a conversation with some dude.}}
Bobby Cairo: "And that's why personally I buy into the tomato as a hand fruit."
{{Bobby nods his head at the dude. The dude walks away just as Baines approaches Cairo.}}
Phil: "What up, Beezy?"
Bobby: "What?"
Phil: "I said what up, Bobby?"
Bobby: "No. You said Beezy, not Bobby."
Phil: "Word?"
Bobby: "Word."
{{Baines shrugs his shoulders and takes a long drink of electrolytes.}}
Bobby: "Are you feeling ok, man? You haven't been acting like yourself for the last few days."
{{Baines caps his bottle.}}
Phil: "I'm not going to lie, Bobby. I wasn't happy about what happened on Monday night. You saw me after the match. I didn't say a word to anybody. Normally I'm a chatterbox, eager to fill the public's demand to hear my voice."
{{Bobby nods his head in understanding.}}
Bobby: "You got a raw deal on Slam. There's no doubt about it, Phil. I've been in your shoes before. Through the years I've come to learn that no matter how much preparation one puts forth, sometimes you just can't anticipate the bad shit. It's bound to happen. They wanted to put a loss on your record and they did. It's all politics, my man. You can fight the good fight and maybe even win the support of the people, but it's never enough. The powers that be will leave you straddled to a cactus with needles stuck in your sack and a prick that's spilling blood."
Phil: "That's poignant, Bobby."
Bobby: "Ain't it though?"
{{Bobby casts a glance toward the frenzied scene in the ring, where medics continue to work on Phil's incapacitated training partner.}}
Bobby: "You know, that man that you crippled is the Australian Heavyweight Champion?"
{{Phil appears unfazed by this revelation.}}
Phil: "I'll notify his family to send me the belt. It will look nice in my collection."
{{Bobby sighs.}}
Bobby: "You're a cold man, Phil."
Phil: "It's a cold world, Bobby."
{{Phil looks down at the ground and clears his throat.}}
Phil: "I don't mean to cut this short, Bobby, but I have to go cut a promo for my match against Santiago."
Bobby: "Alright, well... give me a call when you're done, alright?"
{{Bobby pats Phil on the shoulder. Phil nods his head and walks away without saying another word. Bobby looks on with concern for his friend. As the scene fades, we hear the pained yells of the Australian Heavyweight Champion, who has finally been revived by the medical staff.}}
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{{The scene opens with a shot of an empty black leather chair in a lighted room with a black backdrop. Phillip Baines walks into the frame. He's wearing a black button-down shirt, blue jeans and black Dickies. The top few buttons of Phil's shirt are undone, exposing his muscular chest, which is something that the ladies who are watching this will surely enjoy. Phil covers his mouth with his hand and clears his throat. He looks straight at you with a focused, unflinching look in his eyes.}}
Phil: "Hey, Santi. How's it going? Got any old school wrestling DVD's you wanna sell me? Oh, how silly of me. I must be thinking of someone else. You're not a pitchman. You're a wrestler, right? Yeah, I think I've seen you on the TV a few times. I never bothered to get an up close and personal glimpse of you. I never cared enough about you. Yes, sir, it's safe to say that I do not hold you in high regard, Mr. Santiago. WCF has seen its share of coattail riding con artists through the years and you fit that description to a motherfucking T. I have to wonder if anyone would even know the name Michael Santiago if you weren't BFF's with the reigning WCF United States Champion?
"Now I don't want to come across as a hypocrite on that issue, because being friends with a WCF Hall of Famer named Bobby Cairo certainly helped me get my foot in through the door. The difference between you and I is that since I've been in WCF I've set the place on fire, literally at times. I've reigned as Hardcore Champion for more than three months, leaving a twisted mass of human wreckage in my wake after each successive title defense. I've reset the standards of violence and innovation within the Hardcore Division. I've added much-needed prestige to a Hardcore Championship that had previously been lacking in that department. I am undefeated in singles competition with victories over men such as Greenfever, Oblivion, Jason Kash, Creeping Death and Mr. FPV. Every single one of those men has been a champion in this company and I've defeated them all.
"I know that you're familiar with most of those men for one reason or another, Santiago, but perhaps the name Greenfever is unfamiliar to your ears? Allow me to enlighten you and explain why that is. Shortly before you arrived in the hallowed halls of Dub See Eff, I competed against Greenfever at a show called XIII. Our match wasn't just any regular Hardcore Title bout, it was a Flatliner Match whereby the only way to claim victory over your opponent was to make his heart stop beating. You see, Greenfever was not only a decorated World, Hardcore and Tag Team Champion in WCF. He was also an infamous serial killer who had spent the majority of his formative years bouncing in and out of mental institutions in the American South. The man was whacked out of his skull, a real sick puppy. He was the only man insane enough to concoct the idea for the Flatliner Match and I was the only one fearless enough to accept his challenge.
"Santiago, do you know what I did the night that Greenie and I faced off in the first and only Flatliner Match in professional wrestling history? Do you want to hazard a guess? No? Well here goes: I jabbed a syringe filled with bleach through his eyeball and into his brain, and then I injected him with that lethal poison. The man was dead within seconds."
{{Baines glares at you through the icy cold eyes of a murderer.}}
Phil: "That's who you're facing on Monday night, Santiago. A man who will literally kill to defend his championship. Do you think that I'm impressed by anything that you've done around here? Do you think that I'm impressed by the way that you and your silver-haired Nordic friend roughed up that corporate shill Seth Lerch? I've faced the real boss man around here, Creeping Death, and I beat him at his own game in the WCF Classic. In the second match of my professional wrestling career I ended Creeping Death's three-year undefeated streak in the Classic by seven-twenty powerbombing his ass into a sea of metal folding chairs. You cannot even begin to comprehend what that means, Santiago. You're a veteran of the bush leagues, but you're a n00b around here where it really counts.
"You talk a big game about how The Perfect Alliance is going to war with WCF. You claim that you're going to take all of the championship belts for yourselves."
{{Baines flashes a wry smile.}}
Phil: "That is outrageous, Santiago. You can't even beat the girls around here and you think that you're going to steamroll through me and take my property, the WCF Hardcore Championship? Let me tell you something, asshole: The hardcore environment is MY world. I've never been beaten there and I never will be. I hope you bring that big dumb bastard Odin Balfore down to the ring with you. I hope he interferes in my match. I hope I get the chance to send both of your sorry asses back to the minor league circuit where you belong.
"Just look at your track record in WCF, Santiago. You're fresh off another defeat at female hands on Monday night after being pinned by Ms. Aubrey Summers in the middle of the ring. That might be Roy Speede's idea of a good time, but for a man with your boasts it's simply pathetic. Now this happened a mere two weeks after your defeat to the reigning WCF Television Champion, Kaylyn James Evans. Sandwiched in between those two losses you did actually manage a win against Ana Valentine, albeit a slumping Ana Valentine who's been going through the motions and mailing in her performances for months. After that match you decided to take out your aggression on Ana by holding in your Death Lock even in the face of disqualification by the ref."
{{Phil shakes his head in bewilderment.}}
Phil: "I don't know what your game is, Santiago. I don't know whether you're a dom or a sub. I don't know whether you have a thing for female domination, or femdom as it's known in the fetish community. If you do then I sympathize with you. I'm the same way, but I keep that shit out of the ring and I keep it out of my matches. The ring is my temple and inside of it I'm a bad ass Shaolin monk who wields the power of ten-thousand years of secret Kung Fu techniques. You might enjoy having your shoulders pinned down by the ladies, but you won't enjoy getting your ass kicked by me. I don't make it fun for my opponents inside of the ring. I unleash pure hell in and around that ring. The line of bodies that I've stacked up at the door should tell you exactly what's going to happen during our match on Slam.
"It's time to face facts, Santiago. You cannot do this work. This is not a line of work where you can be successful. This Wrestling Championship Federation work is work for Phillip Baines and I have no qualms about this work that I must do. If you don't understand that now then you will very shortly. When I destroy you and end your career on Monday night I'm going to put an end to the so-called "TPA revolution" in short order. That's going to be my light load for the week because I have much more important business to which I must attend than you, Santiago. I am a man with World Championship aspirations, and wouldn't you know it? As a result of winning the WCF Classic back in April, I have a World Title shot in my back pocket which I can exercise at any time.
"Of course maybe I should have just gone out there and stolen a replica of the World Championship like you? That certainly would have been easier than working my way through a field of sixteen superstars to earn that title shot with one bloody, hard-fought battle after another. Maybe we should all be like you, Santiago, and just pretend to be World Champions instead of actually going out there and earning the belt, you know what I mean? Why work your way up the ladder when you can live in a fantasy land? Why shed blood, sweat and tears when you can prop your feet up on a corporate executive's desk and proclaim ultimate victory without lifting so much as a finger in combat? It sounds like a hell of a plan, Santiago, there's just one flaw."
{{Phil slides forward in his chair and leans in close to you.}}
Phil: "I'm not Seth Lerch. Do you understand me? You are not going to bully me. You are not going to intimidate me. You are not going to manhandle me. I am the bully. I am the intimidator. I am the motherfucker who manhandles other grown men. You can play all of the little games and work all of the comedy skits that you want to before you have to face me, Santiago. When you step into that ring with Baines playtime will be over, asshole. I could lie to you and tell you that a little bit of bloodletting does a body good, but what would be the point? The autumn of your career will arrive on July 11th. I don't want you to be scared though, Beezy. I want you to walk with me. Walk with me through Hell. Walk with me... through Baines World."
{{Darkness fills the room, darkness everywhere except for those cold, dead eyes of Baines.}}
You take a moment to revel in the darkness. Suddenly you notice the sound of a low-pitched frequency. It's so low that it's almost inaudible, but it's there. Gradually the frequency grows louder and higher-pitched. You cover your ears to protect them from the increased tone and volume, but that only works for so long. That high-pitched tone is now piercing your eardrums. You open your eyes, searching for the source of the tone and immediately your vision is overwhelmed by a bright orange light. This orange light is brighter even than the yellow light that came before it, a harsh reality that momentarily distracts you from the fact that the high-pitched tone has disappeared. You don't know quite what to do in order to escape from your predicament, so instinctively you close your eyes to shield them from the light.
Once again your eyes feel the relief that comes with the darkness, although you can still see the remnants of that orange glow, as if it were burned into your retinas. You feel nervous because you're uncertain as to what's happening to you, but as the moments pass you gradually begin to feel a sense of comfort. With little choice but to keep your eyes closed, you might even use this opportunity to catch up on your rest. You take a deep breath in and then exhale. That's when the sound returns, a moderate tone at first but rapidly increasing in pitch. You muffle your ears with your hands as best you can, but it's not enough. Again your eyes pop open and you demand to know the source of that ear-piercing noise!
This time when you open your eyes they're nearly blinded by a bright red light. You immediately shut your eyes. Thankfully that high-pitched tone has ceased, but you suddenly feel the sense of falling. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to be permanently blinded by the red light, and let out a scream as you find yourself spiraling downwards ever faster. You frantically reach out with both hands in a desperate, flailing attempt to grab hold of something, anything, to halt your descent.
Suddenly you hit bottom, with a thud. You find yourself breathless, your body aching, your eyes open but seeing only darkness. You attempt to stand, and eventually you do though you're unsteady on your feet. As you gain your balance and your breath, a row of dim white lights suddenly blink to life above you. You look around, finally having the opportunity to gain your bearings. You find yourself in the midst of a long corridor. A mechanical whirring sound drones to life, slowly at first and then slightly faster until settling at a steady pace.
You look around to study your surroundings more carefully. There are white plaster walls to either side of you and long, chest-high metal shelves attached to both walls. There are large glass jars lined up in a row on each shelf for as far as your eyes can see in this dim white light. Each jar is filled with an orange-yellow liquid. You plant one foot in front of the other on teal-colored tiles as you walk closer to the first jar in the row to your right. You study the jar. It must be holding at least five gallons of the orange-yellow liquid. What is that liquid? It looks familiar, but you can't put your finger on it.
A feeling of repulsion washes over you as you realize what that liquid is... human urine. You stumble backwards, aimlessly bumping into the metal shelf behind you. You spin around and find another urine-filled jar staring you in the face. You cover your eyes with your hands and shake your head in disbelief. What the hell is going on? Where are you? Why are you here? You have to get out of here, you tell yourself. You launch your body into a full-on sprint, running past jar after jar of putrid human urine. You're not sure how long you'll have to run in order to get out of here, you just know that you must escape this place, whatever it is.
As you run you hear the chattering of indistinct male and female voices. You can't make out a word that they're saying, though their voices appear to be circling you in every direction. You're not going to stop for them. Nothing can make you stop. Whoever these people are, they must be the ones that brought you here, the ones that are holding you captive. You try to ignore their voices, but their voices become clearer, more audible and distinct. They're impossible to ignore. You're uncertain as to whether they're speaking to you or to each other, but you can't help but listen to them as you continue sprinting towards the possibility of freedom.}}
THE VOICES
"Independence Day has been ruined."
"Add alcohol to the membrane. He's almost ready to snap, we just need to push him a little further."
"Baines should target Deruty and make an example out of him."
"Deruty isn't even American. I heard he's French-Canadian."
"Baines can apply the choke hold to her wiener."
"I think he should piss on the cross."
{{The voices make no sense to you. You try your damnedest to ignore them while pushing forward in your quest for escape. You keep running in a straight line for what feels like hours until you come to a stop in front of a white metal door with a red metal handle. You bite your bottom lip as you reach for the handle, hoping that the door is unlocked, begging for this to be an exit from your excruciating captivity. You push the door open. Your hopes sink as you find not an exit, but a room. The room is lit by a dim orange glow. Not knowing what else to do you step into the room.
There's nothing here except for blank white walls in every direction. The metal door clanks shut behind you. You turn around to reopen it, only to find that the door has disappeared, replaced by another white wall. You pound the wall with clenched fists to no avail. White walls and white floors... that's all that you find in the dim orange light. Dejected, you spin around... and let out a gasp. You're taken aback by what you find: A naked white male seated on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of crimson liquid. The man has one leg extended on the floor, in the puddle. The knee on his other leg is raised and the man's forehead is pressed against his knee, in a sort of crouched position. The man's long-flowing black hair hangs down in front of his face, further obscuring his identity. The man's arms are down by his sides, his hands resting with palms down in the red puddle.
You find yourself frozen in your tracks. You don't know whether to approach this man, call out to him, or just stand there. Finally you manage to utter a greeting to the man. It's indecipherable but there's an obvious tone of concern in your voice. The man slowly raises his head and as he does his long black hair parts to the sides, allowing you to see his face. Your jaw drops as you're hit with an immediate and shocking sense of recognition. This man is Phillip Baines. This man is you. You are Phillip Baines. You stare at this version of you, this version of Baines in awe. His face is bereft of emotion as he stares back at you. Suddenly his eyes grow wide, his mouth opens and he lets out a scream. You become him. You become Baines. You are screaming.}}
Phillip Baines: "HUURREEAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
{{You shake yourself awake from your nightmare and find yourself in the comfort of your bed at home. Your girlfriend Gina, the woman whom you love, is sitting up in bed next to you, a worried look on her face.}}
Gina De Carlo: "Phil, are you ok? You were having a bad dream! You were screaming!"
{{You try to shake the images of that bizarre dream from your brain as you look into Gina's sweet brown eyes.}}
Phil: "I'm sorry about that, babe. I don't know what got into me. I was having a dream where I was me, but I wasn't me until the end, and there were these jars of urine, and bright lights shining in my eyes, and a puddle of blood on the floor..."
{{You rub your forehead, perplexed by the shit that transpired in your sleep. Gina reaches out and strokes your thigh with her silky soft hand.}}
Gina: "I told you not to drink so much before bed, babe. Here, come here... come to mama."
{{Gina beckons to you, her D-sized breasts uncovered and yearning for your attention. You move close to her. She wraps her hands around your head and pulls your face in toward her cleavage. This is your medicine, boobs to soothe a ravaged psyche. You indulge.}}
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{{The scene jumps to life with the sounds and images of a full-contact training session at Crimson House Dojo. Baines is in the ring with a man of similar size and build, a Caucasian male with short curly black hair and a goatee, both men wearing their wrestling gear. It is known to those within Phil's inner circle that he does not respect the goatee as a form of facial hair. Mustache? Ok. Beard? No problem. Goatees are just lame. That's how Baines feels about it anyway.
Phil's opponent appears to be taunting him with that goatee, intentionally or otherwise, as the two men grapple for positioning in what looks to be a rather technical affair. Both men are looking to score the takedown with throws and/or suplexes, and each is denying the other with equally impressive counters. Finally, Phil captures the man's leg and tosses him overhead with a vicious suplex. The man lands awkwardly on his neck and lets out a pained yell. The man is rolling around in pain on the mat, but Phil shows no mercy as he stalks his prey. Phil pulls the man to his feet and sets him up in a vertical suplex position. Phil lifts the man into the air, slingshots his body off the top rope, spins and drops the man on his head in the middle of the ring with an especially violent brainbuster. The man's body twitches on the mat. Phil stands over the man and glares at him for a minute, before speaking to him.}}
Phil: "You have a concussion now. Get help for that."
{{Phil hops out of the ring and grabs a bottle of electrolytes from ringside. The Crimson House medical staff rushes into the ring and begins feverishly working on the man that Baines just destroyed. Baines takes a drink from his bottle as he walks over to where his mentor Bobby Cairo is finishing up a conversation with some dude.}}
Bobby Cairo: "And that's why personally I buy into the tomato as a hand fruit."
{{Bobby nods his head at the dude. The dude walks away just as Baines approaches Cairo.}}
Phil: "What up, Beezy?"
Bobby: "What?"
Phil: "I said what up, Bobby?"
Bobby: "No. You said Beezy, not Bobby."
Phil: "Word?"
Bobby: "Word."
{{Baines shrugs his shoulders and takes a long drink of electrolytes.}}
Bobby: "Are you feeling ok, man? You haven't been acting like yourself for the last few days."
{{Baines caps his bottle.}}
Phil: "I'm not going to lie, Bobby. I wasn't happy about what happened on Monday night. You saw me after the match. I didn't say a word to anybody. Normally I'm a chatterbox, eager to fill the public's demand to hear my voice."
{{Bobby nods his head in understanding.}}
Bobby: "You got a raw deal on Slam. There's no doubt about it, Phil. I've been in your shoes before. Through the years I've come to learn that no matter how much preparation one puts forth, sometimes you just can't anticipate the bad shit. It's bound to happen. They wanted to put a loss on your record and they did. It's all politics, my man. You can fight the good fight and maybe even win the support of the people, but it's never enough. The powers that be will leave you straddled to a cactus with needles stuck in your sack and a prick that's spilling blood."
Phil: "That's poignant, Bobby."
Bobby: "Ain't it though?"
{{Bobby casts a glance toward the frenzied scene in the ring, where medics continue to work on Phil's incapacitated training partner.}}
Bobby: "You know, that man that you crippled is the Australian Heavyweight Champion?"
{{Phil appears unfazed by this revelation.}}
Phil: "I'll notify his family to send me the belt. It will look nice in my collection."
{{Bobby sighs.}}
Bobby: "You're a cold man, Phil."
Phil: "It's a cold world, Bobby."
{{Phil looks down at the ground and clears his throat.}}
Phil: "I don't mean to cut this short, Bobby, but I have to go cut a promo for my match against Santiago."
Bobby: "Alright, well... give me a call when you're done, alright?"
{{Bobby pats Phil on the shoulder. Phil nods his head and walks away without saying another word. Bobby looks on with concern for his friend. As the scene fades, we hear the pained yells of the Australian Heavyweight Champion, who has finally been revived by the medical staff.}}
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{{The scene opens with a shot of an empty black leather chair in a lighted room with a black backdrop. Phillip Baines walks into the frame. He's wearing a black button-down shirt, blue jeans and black Dickies. The top few buttons of Phil's shirt are undone, exposing his muscular chest, which is something that the ladies who are watching this will surely enjoy. Phil covers his mouth with his hand and clears his throat. He looks straight at you with a focused, unflinching look in his eyes.}}
Phil: "Hey, Santi. How's it going? Got any old school wrestling DVD's you wanna sell me? Oh, how silly of me. I must be thinking of someone else. You're not a pitchman. You're a wrestler, right? Yeah, I think I've seen you on the TV a few times. I never bothered to get an up close and personal glimpse of you. I never cared enough about you. Yes, sir, it's safe to say that I do not hold you in high regard, Mr. Santiago. WCF has seen its share of coattail riding con artists through the years and you fit that description to a motherfucking T. I have to wonder if anyone would even know the name Michael Santiago if you weren't BFF's with the reigning WCF United States Champion?
"Now I don't want to come across as a hypocrite on that issue, because being friends with a WCF Hall of Famer named Bobby Cairo certainly helped me get my foot in through the door. The difference between you and I is that since I've been in WCF I've set the place on fire, literally at times. I've reigned as Hardcore Champion for more than three months, leaving a twisted mass of human wreckage in my wake after each successive title defense. I've reset the standards of violence and innovation within the Hardcore Division. I've added much-needed prestige to a Hardcore Championship that had previously been lacking in that department. I am undefeated in singles competition with victories over men such as Greenfever, Oblivion, Jason Kash, Creeping Death and Mr. FPV. Every single one of those men has been a champion in this company and I've defeated them all.
"I know that you're familiar with most of those men for one reason or another, Santiago, but perhaps the name Greenfever is unfamiliar to your ears? Allow me to enlighten you and explain why that is. Shortly before you arrived in the hallowed halls of Dub See Eff, I competed against Greenfever at a show called XIII. Our match wasn't just any regular Hardcore Title bout, it was a Flatliner Match whereby the only way to claim victory over your opponent was to make his heart stop beating. You see, Greenfever was not only a decorated World, Hardcore and Tag Team Champion in WCF. He was also an infamous serial killer who had spent the majority of his formative years bouncing in and out of mental institutions in the American South. The man was whacked out of his skull, a real sick puppy. He was the only man insane enough to concoct the idea for the Flatliner Match and I was the only one fearless enough to accept his challenge.
"Santiago, do you know what I did the night that Greenie and I faced off in the first and only Flatliner Match in professional wrestling history? Do you want to hazard a guess? No? Well here goes: I jabbed a syringe filled with bleach through his eyeball and into his brain, and then I injected him with that lethal poison. The man was dead within seconds."
{{Baines glares at you through the icy cold eyes of a murderer.}}
Phil: "That's who you're facing on Monday night, Santiago. A man who will literally kill to defend his championship. Do you think that I'm impressed by anything that you've done around here? Do you think that I'm impressed by the way that you and your silver-haired Nordic friend roughed up that corporate shill Seth Lerch? I've faced the real boss man around here, Creeping Death, and I beat him at his own game in the WCF Classic. In the second match of my professional wrestling career I ended Creeping Death's three-year undefeated streak in the Classic by seven-twenty powerbombing his ass into a sea of metal folding chairs. You cannot even begin to comprehend what that means, Santiago. You're a veteran of the bush leagues, but you're a n00b around here where it really counts.
"You talk a big game about how The Perfect Alliance is going to war with WCF. You claim that you're going to take all of the championship belts for yourselves."
{{Baines flashes a wry smile.}}
Phil: "That is outrageous, Santiago. You can't even beat the girls around here and you think that you're going to steamroll through me and take my property, the WCF Hardcore Championship? Let me tell you something, asshole: The hardcore environment is MY world. I've never been beaten there and I never will be. I hope you bring that big dumb bastard Odin Balfore down to the ring with you. I hope he interferes in my match. I hope I get the chance to send both of your sorry asses back to the minor league circuit where you belong.
"Just look at your track record in WCF, Santiago. You're fresh off another defeat at female hands on Monday night after being pinned by Ms. Aubrey Summers in the middle of the ring. That might be Roy Speede's idea of a good time, but for a man with your boasts it's simply pathetic. Now this happened a mere two weeks after your defeat to the reigning WCF Television Champion, Kaylyn James Evans. Sandwiched in between those two losses you did actually manage a win against Ana Valentine, albeit a slumping Ana Valentine who's been going through the motions and mailing in her performances for months. After that match you decided to take out your aggression on Ana by holding in your Death Lock even in the face of disqualification by the ref."
{{Phil shakes his head in bewilderment.}}
Phil: "I don't know what your game is, Santiago. I don't know whether you're a dom or a sub. I don't know whether you have a thing for female domination, or femdom as it's known in the fetish community. If you do then I sympathize with you. I'm the same way, but I keep that shit out of the ring and I keep it out of my matches. The ring is my temple and inside of it I'm a bad ass Shaolin monk who wields the power of ten-thousand years of secret Kung Fu techniques. You might enjoy having your shoulders pinned down by the ladies, but you won't enjoy getting your ass kicked by me. I don't make it fun for my opponents inside of the ring. I unleash pure hell in and around that ring. The line of bodies that I've stacked up at the door should tell you exactly what's going to happen during our match on Slam.
"It's time to face facts, Santiago. You cannot do this work. This is not a line of work where you can be successful. This Wrestling Championship Federation work is work for Phillip Baines and I have no qualms about this work that I must do. If you don't understand that now then you will very shortly. When I destroy you and end your career on Monday night I'm going to put an end to the so-called "TPA revolution" in short order. That's going to be my light load for the week because I have much more important business to which I must attend than you, Santiago. I am a man with World Championship aspirations, and wouldn't you know it? As a result of winning the WCF Classic back in April, I have a World Title shot in my back pocket which I can exercise at any time.
"Of course maybe I should have just gone out there and stolen a replica of the World Championship like you? That certainly would have been easier than working my way through a field of sixteen superstars to earn that title shot with one bloody, hard-fought battle after another. Maybe we should all be like you, Santiago, and just pretend to be World Champions instead of actually going out there and earning the belt, you know what I mean? Why work your way up the ladder when you can live in a fantasy land? Why shed blood, sweat and tears when you can prop your feet up on a corporate executive's desk and proclaim ultimate victory without lifting so much as a finger in combat? It sounds like a hell of a plan, Santiago, there's just one flaw."
{{Phil slides forward in his chair and leans in close to you.}}
Phil: "I'm not Seth Lerch. Do you understand me? You are not going to bully me. You are not going to intimidate me. You are not going to manhandle me. I am the bully. I am the intimidator. I am the motherfucker who manhandles other grown men. You can play all of the little games and work all of the comedy skits that you want to before you have to face me, Santiago. When you step into that ring with Baines playtime will be over, asshole. I could lie to you and tell you that a little bit of bloodletting does a body good, but what would be the point? The autumn of your career will arrive on July 11th. I don't want you to be scared though, Beezy. I want you to walk with me. Walk with me through Hell. Walk with me... through Baines World."
{{Darkness fills the room, darkness everywhere except for those cold, dead eyes of Baines.}}
