**Scene begins at the Lincoln Park Mafia 'Crib'. We're inside the main training area, as we see various weights and other exercise equipment. The midday sun shines through the windows, giving the entire room a brighter appearance. On the crash mat, we see Josh Styles doing a set of sit-ups, his grey tshirt stained with an accumulation of sweat from his workout. He finishes his set, then stands up, straightens his Adidas tear-away track pants, and walks over to grab a towel. He wipes the sweat dripping down his forehead, then grabs himself a bottle of water from the cooler sitting by the benches. Styles takes a drink of water, then plops himself down on a bench**

Styles: "So it begins...the journey to greatness begins in hicksville USA, otherwise known as Nashville, Tennessee. I don't know where Hawke comes up with these places, but the only thing even remotely special about Nashville is the country music."

**Styles shakes his head**

Styles: "But whatever. If that's where Hawke wants to host the Pay Per View, so beit. It's his damn promotion anyways. Damn, it's just too bad he didn't decide to book it a few miles over in Memphis. Then I coulda broke out in the classic tune, 'Walking in Memphis'. So yeah, anyways, before I lose my train of thought, I guess I should comment about the match, and my opponent. Let's see.."

**Styles reaches under the bench and pulls out a sheet of paper containing the IWF roster. He scans over the sheet of paper, then places the paper back underneath the bench**

Styles: "Ok so the unlucky son of a bitch that steps in the ring against me is some misfit called Lou Gagliardi. You know what, Lou, I haven't a clue who the hell you are. Man, Hawke, you sure this punk's even in the IWF? Kinda reminds me of a similar situation where a professional sports team drafted some dude out of college. Only problem was the guy was dead. Apparently he had died a year earlier, but they still drafted him. Hawke, you didn't sign me in a match against a corpse did you? I mean, I've seen some of the people you used to hang with, and necrophilia probably part of your past, but please tell me this piss ant actually can walk to the ring on his own steam."

**Styles laughs to himself, although he's obviously going slightly off topic**

Styles: "Ok, being serious now, my opponent is someone named Gagliardi. Now the honest to God truth is I don't have a clue who you are. That part isn't a lie. But by the power of the internet and the world wide web, I'll find out. Hey camera boy, follow me."

**Styles stands up and makes his way towards the stairs at the back of the gym that lead to the upstairs office. The camera follows closely behind him. They enter the back office, which in reality, is the actual 'Crib' portion of the building. Styles makes his way over to the back corner where a computer sits upon a desk. He takes a seat in the chair, and instructs the camera man to direct the camera at the computer monitor. Styles types in the online website address for the IWF (amazing that Hawke can afford to host a webpage for his rinky dink fed), and pulls up the bio of Lou Gagliardi. Styles rests his chin in his left hand as he studies the bio**

Styles: "Hmm...says here he's from Pennsylvania, and that he's obsessed with wolves or something. Hey this is interesting too. He's wrestled in a shitload of indy feds, and....holy shit! Over 20 titles, including a few World Titles. Damn, dude, you'd think I woulda heard of you if you're that good. You sure you didn't just buy those titles from Toys 'R' Us? Ok I've seen about enough as I need to about Lou Gagliardi."

**Styles reaches forward and turns off the monitor. He stands up and makes his way over to the twin black leather sofas, and takes a seat**

Styles: "Well that was a huge waste of my time. That bio told me jack shit about my opponent. All I got out of that was that he's some jerkoff from Pennsylvania who has beastiality tendencies and collects toy belts. Man, for a second there I thought I was reading about Prime. Just kidding man. I'm in awe of your thirty-six...thirty-six...thirty-six Titles. Really, frenchy, I am. But back to Gagliardi before I get two guys pissed off at me. It appears I'm gonna have to say shit about you without the benefit of much to work with. So how 'bout I do this a little differently then. How 'bout I talk about yours truly, Josh Styles. How 'bout we talk about how you're nothing but a stepping stone for me, and that after our match at the Pay Per View, you'll be nothing but a distant memory for me. You see, you really aren't of any significance to me. You're a rung in my ladder of success. And after the Pay Per View, you'll fade back into mediocrety, and be the punch line for some other dude whose trying to establish a name for himself. So instead of wasting both our times with more chatter, I'll just tell you one thing....show up, lose, then get outta my way. As for Wicked P, I'll get to you another time. I got some errands to run right now. Thank you, and goodnight."

****Scene fades out****