The camera turns on in a concealed location. A few miles outside the limits of New Orleans, Louisiana, a black Lexus is parked on the side of a rural country road. So bright is the moon that headlights are almost unnecessary to see the road. Moving towards the sounds of footsteps, the camera comes upon Al Laiman pacing in the tall grass under the moonlit sky. The leather trench coat drapes around his shoulders and almost touches the ground as Laiman aimlessly wanders through the endless fields. Bending down to grab a rock, he fiercely throws it off into the night and breathes in deeply.

LAIMAN: Sometimes you really can't count on the world around you.

Laiman continues walking as he swears to himself under his breath. Turning back towards his car, he begins speaking out loud again.

LAIMAN: And so it begins again... The monotony is killing me as those who can't accept their losing fate make excuses and whine beyond all reasonable explanation. It's Rob Van Dam all over again from someone who claimed to be supreme to all, and while he gave me much more of a match than my previous challengers, the match ended as I told him it would; BURNOUT!, middle of the ring, 1...2...3. And of course, the after-effects were beyond predicfable: whining, bitching, moaning... the typical attributes of a sore loser, which basically proves he doesn't deserve the championship belt in the first place.

Laiman reaches up and rubs his jaw, where in the moonlight, it can be seen that it's heavily bruised.

LAIMAN: Then, in typical coward fashion, a newcomer who wants to make an impact decides to wait until after a brutal match to confront me, and can't even do it without a weapon. Wow, I'm incredibily impressed by the show of integrity, Montuori. Instead of coming to face me and challenge me like the man you aren't, you nail me in the jaw with a baseball bat. While my jaw is heavily bruised, nothing is broken, unlike you'll be when I get my hands on you. Yes, Montuori, I can actually use my hands.

As much as I'd like to return the favor; waiting til the end of your match and when your back is turned, sneak attack you with a weapon of some sorts like a spineless bastard, but instead, I'll seek my vengeance when I get booked against you. If you somehow manage to make it through this tourney, I'll drop you just like I did to Sebastian Kane. I've had it with you cocky motherfuckers, and given the chance, I'll be more than happy to teach you where your place is.

Laiman turns back towards his car, and begins looking up, as if he's talking to the moon.

I remember back when things were simple, when Laura's biggest concern was whether the guy in chem class thought you were cute. Then Dad died, and everything changed. She became more of a mother figure, and had to adopt responsibility of the house while Sean was out getting drunk and breaking the law. Either Bliss or Charlene would always be over, keeping me company on the porch, and when Bliss died, I left you all, eventually coming to the world of wrestling. I hid my entire existence and focused merely on becoming the best in this business. For the last nine years, I've been risking my body, and to a point my life, to put on a great show for whatever organization I happen to be working for. EWF has tested this factor as much as any of them have, and I might only be 25, but it still seems like I've been doing this forever. Opponents are starting to blur together, and it's hard to tell the difference between the days anymore.

I have an opponent this week, and I don't even care. AJ Styles might as well be anyone on the EWF roster, because all's AJ Styles is to me is a name on the list. The list of those unfortunate enough to be booked against me since the return of EWF. Seems that everyone I'm booked against has been overdosing on ego pills, and each time I dispose of them, it gets older and older. Sometimes I wonder what the point is anymore. What am I really proving by defeating the same opponent with a different name week after week? This championship belt I hold used to mean the entire world to me, but the longer I hold it, the longer I realize that I'm spending more of my life alone. I'm sure we'll be the friends we've always been, but there's still a void. Every time I think that void's been filled, it seems like it's stripped away from me just as easily as it came.

This week, it's AJ Styles in a non-title match, but I'm still going out and fighting like a champion. Should AJ Styles not know the meaning of the word 'champion', so be it.. It's nothing new, and the shock value just seems to fade after listening to people like Sebastian Kane for a week. Regardless, AJ Styles, I will treat like I treat all my opponents; giving them only the respect they deserve.. The story of the match is Styles may put up a helluva fight, but in the end, he will be BURNED OUT. So sorry, that's just the way it goes.

Maybe I should just sleep at night. I wouldn't have the time to go on rants like this. And while I may not fall asleep and dream until the sun rises, I can enjoy the last bit of moonlight before it disappears, and the regular world comes back to life as I will retreat back into the shadows. I'll set the VCR in case I get any enlightening words from AJ Styles, but that's about as likely as expecting an intelligent voter turnout.. So be it..

Laiman finally makes it back to his car, and drives off back towards the Superdome. When he reaches the arena, instead of driving in the parking garage, he stops in the parking lot. It’s near three in the morning, so the area is pretty much deserted, with the exception of Blake Smith, awaiting the arrival of Laiman as usual.

BLAKE: You’re becoming quite the nightwalker, aren’t you Al?

LAIMAN: A time of peace, I suppose. Most of the single-digit IQ idiots are passed out after getting drunk or stoned, or jacking off in front of the mirror like a night in the life of Sebastian Kane. When the world during the day becomes this depressing, the world during the night always remains the same.

BLAKE: But at least you’re not out searching for your friend anymore.

LAIMAN: That’s right, Styles is back, and it looks like he’s already hooked up in the main event. And Geno’s teamed with Super Striker… Least I’ll have some idea of the card next week.

BLAKE: But how about the card this week? While your friend B Styles teams with Cat in the main event, you’re squaring off with AJ Styles in a non-title matchup.

LAIMAN: The only thing I know about AJ Styles is how many times I have to explain to people that B is of no relation. As annoying as that gets, I’ve heard enough of the reputation of this guy that I can’t say I’m looking forward to another week of opponent dialogue that would blow up a spellchecker. At least my title doesn’t have to be associated with this idiot, as the fact that Sebastian Kane even got a shot at it tarnished its credibility enough. But what the hell, I don’t need the week off, and as long as B’s advancing in the tournament, might as well have a filler opponent for Wednesday Night.

BLAKE: Does the fact that he’s a cruiserweight change any of your in-match strategies?

LAIMAN: So I have to play a game of cat and mouse before I destroy the fucker. So be it; I’ve dealt with worse. So a lesser-known victim of conceit gets his chance to get overconfident, explain to me how I’m a paper champion and don’t belong where I am. In the middle of that, I’ll get plenty of hollow threats that I could hear on COPS with half the annoyance, and I’m sure he’ll also inform me of how much more talent and skill he has. Simple, because every opponent I’ve had since EWF returned has said those exact same things. Sebastian Kane managed to find eight hundred ways to say it, but he said it nonetheless. Now AJ Styles will probably downgrade my win against Sebastian Kane, because I’m quite sure he could do so much better. If I cared, it might affect my thought flow, but since this is becoming more regular than a Nick at Nite rerun, it’s a little hard to even pay attention anymore.

BLAKE: So is your jaw feeling all right after the attack from Paul Montuori?

LAIMAN: Of course, Blake. My jaw always feels all right after a half-witted thug cracks a Louisville slugger off my jaw. I think I have Jim Thome’s name printed on the welt.

BLAKE: So you're not feeling too thrilled about it, I take it?

LAIMAN: You've gotten pretty good at mastering the obvious in the early hours of the morning there, Blake. Of course, I'm pissed as all hell about thug boy coming to the ring after I retained my title and hitting me with a baseball bat. Hey, I guess we all can't be born with a spine, but what the hell? Least Bryant didn't grant him a title shot just for attacking me. I will say this though; if he ever gets booked against me, I'll send him back to Detroit where he can tell D12 to stop handing out their tracks to useless wasteoids who think they have an attitude.

BLAKE: So can I ask who you're pulling for to win the title shot at the next Pay-Per-View?

LAIMAN: I have no qualms with most of them, and I think at least a few of them deserve the title shot. Hopefully someone kicks Sebastian Kane in the mouth so he can't whine when Styles obliterates him. I think the team of Striker and Geno is gonna be damn dangerous though. I've also been impressed with the returning Justice, so I definitely wouldn't count him out either.

BLAKE: What about the words from Ernest Miller earlier?

LAIMAN: I don't know if he's had a brain transplant recently and now thinks he's Primetime Elix Skipper or something, but I think he needs to lay off the weed. Yes Cat, Sebastian Kane clearly had that match won, except for the fact that he couldn't pin me, and then couldn't kick out of the BURNOUT!, something that if you were Primetime Elix Skipper, I think you'd be quite familiar with. People like you do nothing but make excuses. I have nothing to do with management, yet somehow they're all secretly helping me out, and all's I'm doing is kissing their ass, right? Damn, apparently Sebastian Kane isn't the only sore loser around here. But don't worry, Cat, I'm sure you'll have your reason to whine if you ever face me. Just like your idol Primetime, I'll humiliate you like I did to him on three occasions, including the grandest stage of all, Wrestlemania. But I'm sure you'll find some way to say that the only reason I won is because I have management in my pocket. Why don't you all get together and share excuses and complaints? Make it easier on those of us with a few brain cells left in their head.

BLAKE: All right Al, have a good night... er, morning.

Laiman nods and shakes Blake's hand as he heads into the arena. Walking through the corridors and into his locker room, he finds his sister asleep on the couch. Laiman walks over and grabs the dark blue blanket draped over the recliner. He lays the blanket over his sister, but then looks up as a familiar voice is heard. A voice belonging to none other than the return superstar, and friend of Laiman, B Styles.

STYLES: You look like you've been having a fun week.

LAIMAN: About as fun as root canal work while watching a Sebastian Kane promo.

STYLES: Or being forced to watch a Happy Fishmore match...

LAIMAN: The good ol' days, eh? So how's it feel to be back? I've been looking for you for weeks, man..

STYLES: (Styles shrugs.) About the same, really. I saw that Bryant, in his oh-so-infinite wisdom, decided to pair me up against Sir Bitchalot himself....I could hear Sebastian's whining across three state lines..

LAIMAN: Least you've got a, ::laugh::, fairly competent partner though, right?

STYLES: Oh yeah, competent. Competent enough, I hope, to keep that TV title of mine shined and ready for me to take it back. It was bad enough that Bryant made me retire it, but to let that mama's boy Ernest have it is going too far!

LAIMAN: So you're optimistic about the Battle Bowl?

STYLES: I'll probably be doing most of the work myself, but I've dealt with handicaps in the past. I'm just disappointed, I likely won't even break a sweat.

LAIMAN: After destroying Sebastian Kane's hopes and dreams at Halloween Havoc, even that may be an understatement. Although it won't be much of a handicapped match, since he is paired up with JBL for God's sake.

STYLES: Oh, yeah, the other half of this BRILLIANT team-up. I know my math Al, and I'm pretty sure that half of nothing is still worth nothing...

LAIMAN: And speaking of nothing, I'm wondering how many people this week will ask if that undergrown, half-talented specimen of a wrestler is related to you...

STYLES: Oh, Al, I thought I told you, he is related to me. In fact he's the son of my father's sister's uncle's grandchild's best friend's former roommate.

LAIMAN: No wonder you avoid family reunions... But hell, if things go right, this upcoming Pay-Per-View will go the way it should; with Z's boys dominating just like we were taught.

Styles lifts a can of Mountain Dew he purloined from Al's stash in a toast.

STYLES: To Danny Z, the almighty ass-kicker himself. May he teach the archangels a thing or two, or force the devil himself to tap out.

Laiman lifts his eighteenth can of the night.

LAIMAN: And as he has El Diablo in the figure-four, may he smile as he sees his students unified in victory, just like he'd hoped when he opened our training camp.

STYLES: Good times, Al, good times.

They raise their cans and clink them together in a toast, and each down what remains of the contents as the scene closes.