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Darkness. Darkness and sweet, still silence. It is night and the Virtuoso of Violence is sleeping. Until...
RING! RING!
The intrusive, unmistakeable blast emitted from Jamie's besdide telephone. He jars awake, the noise startling him. After a few rings go by, he answers reluctantly.
"Hello?"
"Jamie!"
It takes a moment for Krenshaw to recognize the voice.
"Jenna?"
Jenna's voice is loud and hysterical.
"Jamie! You have to come home!"
"Wait, what? Jenna are you okay?"
"It's Emily. She's sick."
In the background we can hear a screaming toddler. The words "I want my Daddy!" are barely audible through the piercing shriek of an upset child.
"Wait, Jenna, slow down. What's going on?"
"Emily's sick, Jamie! She's inconsoleable! She needs to see you!"
"Honey, it's late... what's wrong with her?"
"She's SICK! Jamie you have to come home right now!"
A small silence.
"JAMIE!"
"I'm here, I'm here... It's, this is a really bad time, Jenna."
"A bad time?! Your daughter is sick! She needs to see you!"
"Okay, it's just..."
"Just what?"
Emily's screaming can be heard in the background.
"This is a really big week for us. I've almost got us enough money to..."
"This is about wrestling?! Jamie, you said when you left that we'd always come first..."
"You do, you do, it's just..."
"NO! Jamie, your daughter is sick and she needs to see you. You can't debate this!"
Silence. Pondering.
"JAMIE!"
"Okay, okay. I'm on my way. I'll be on the first plane out this morning."
"You will?"
"Of course."
"Good. Do you want to speak to her?"
"Yep, just wait 'til I'm over there. Tell her I'm on my way."
"Okay. Good."
"Right."
"I'll see you tomorrow. I love you, Jamie."
"Yeah, yep, I love you too. Seeya soon."
And with that, Jamie hangs up, gets out of bed and sets about organizing a short trip to Australia only days before his Devil's Dance title match.
Because, despite what others in TWD may say, his family does come first.
It's damning really. My opponents, they've all talked. Oh my God, how they've talked. They've talked trash, they've talked themselves up, they've talked and talked and talked. And while you'd be forgiven for tuning out most of the gibberish shooting from their incoherent mouths, there has been one recurring theme in all the talking. Whenever the name Jamie Krenshaw is brought up, it's uniformly coupled with the phrase: "favorite to win this match".
Saber, Eno, Colt and Filipe, they've all said it. They've all acknowledged the obvious: in this match, I stand out far and above everyone else as the truly deserving winner. Of course, they've then gone on to try and justify why I won't win. To try and talk themselves into delusion. It's as if they think acknowledging the elephant in the room will save them from being trampled by it.
Sorry, guys. It won't.
The fact is, the vacated World Title already has my name affixed to it. It's just waiting to be wrapped around my waist. No matter what kind of illogical, poorly constructed and increasingly dubious reasons my four opponents have desperately concocted to explain how I could possibly lose this match, the truth remains and is repeated in their own promos, that realistically there is no true reason I shouldn't win. They've acknowledged my winning streak and the fact that I've done exactly as I said I would do since arriving here. They've acknowledged that I've been THE MAN around here despite not holding the World Title. For all intents and purposes, they've acknowledged that I am the anointed future of this company. Yet they flail. They search in vain for a weakness, a flaw, anything to grasp onto to help them believe they can do the unthinkable and prevent me from achieving my destiny.
It's fun to watch, really. Like children searching for Easter Eggs when you know full well you never actually bought any for them to find. Not that I've ever done that...
So what's left for me to say about all this? How can I possibly express the inevitablity of my forthcoming victory without repeating myself? I don't think I can. See, Saber says I'm like a broken record but the fact is, since arriving here, I've had nothing else to talk about other than victory. I've had nobody turn on me and necessitate a quest for revenge. I've had nobody defeat me and set me off into self-doubt. I've simply won. So what am I supposed to talk about? If not for reiterating my purpose in being here and gloating over the sad losers I constantly defeat, what on Earth would I have to talk about?
You see the bind I'm in. There's nothing. You people have given me nothing to discuss other than my own success and your shameful failures. If I sound like a broken record, it's due to your inability to throw anything my way that alters my course. If you're bored by what I'm saying, why don't you try harder? Make me acknowledge you like all my opponents have been forced to acknowledge me. Until then, you can expect to keep hearing the same words come out of my mouth from week-to-week. And be honest, you'll lap them up like a starving dog anyway. You can't help it. I'm just too bloody good to ignore. So without further adieu, allow me to sate my opponents' desperate need to hear Jamie Krenshaw talk about them. Allow me to sate your simple need to hear Jamie Krenshaw talk.
Revel in it, losers.
We fade into a makeshift promo area. "Virtuoso of Violence" Jamie Krenshaw has just flown back in from Australia having visited his sick daughter. Krenshaw, short of time but contractually obliged to cut a promo for the upcoming Devil's Dance pay-per-view phoned the airport ahead of time and, big star that he is, they have cowtowed to his demands and cordoned off an area and set up a partition that boasts the TWD Devil's Dance promotional poster. Jamie stands before that poster staring straight down the barrel of the camera. This isn't ideal but you'll just have to accept the scraps of professionalism you're getting. It's more than you deserve.
JAMIE: So it all comes down to this. Me, standing in an airport, fulfilling my contractual duty to "sell" the Devil's Dance Main Event. The question is, how do I sell it? Do I sell it as a battle between the best five men TWD has to offer for the grandest prize in the company? Do I sell it as a match that is anyone's for the taking? Do I build intrigue?
A light shake of the head.
JAMIE: Nah. The only honest way to sell this match, and we know that I'm all about honesty, is to sell it as The Coronation of Jamie Krenshaw. After six undefeated months wallowing in this fetid swamp of an industry, I finally achieve my destiny and become one step closer to leaving this business behind once and for all. My opponents? They're beside the point. This is about me. Six months ago I walked into this place a returning legend. In the time I've been here, loathe as I am to accept my grand status in this business, I have done nothing but add to it. I've defeated all those who've come against me and I've forced the peons around me to accept just how brilliant I truly am. In an industry I couldn't care less about, I still stand as the greatest man to step foot inside a wrestling ring. My opponents agree.
Confident smile.
JAMIE: In the six months I've been here, I've gone from being someone Filipe Barroqueiro knew nothing of to somebody he knows he can not defeat. I've become the only person Colt Crawford respects aside from himself. I've become the only person to carve out a legacy in this company that's not only comparable but that's infinitely better than Eno Redrum's. I've gone from being a racist aside in a Saber promo to being his white whale.
Another grin.
JAMIE: I've become the cornerstone of this company. The other wrestlers, the Moderators, even the fans would be lost without me. I'm the DRAW. I'm the MAIN EVENT. I'm the true uncrowned champion. This Sunday, I take my rightful place upon TWD's throne and I begin my reign as your mighty ruling king. But there are four men whose job it is to stop that from happening. Four men who have deluded themselves into thinking they deserve an honor that is reserved solely for me. These deluded men have all fallen in defeat by my hands in the not too distant past. This Sunday, they get to relive their failures.
A sigh.
JAMIE: Filipe Barroqueiro. The so-called "Old School Hero". A man who is quite blatantly just making up the numbers in this match. The Moderators say he has earned this shot and far be it from me to question their wisdom but I have my own slant on exactly what Filipe deserves. See, since I've been here, Filipe has done barely anything of note. He lucked into a Tag Team Title reign when Shaka X turned his back on Dragzilla. He prompty lost that title to the mismatched egotists, Saber and Colt Crawford and he then watched passively as his partner, Tommy O'Malley was taken out of commission by the Freytag Effect. A team whom Krunch and I would later go on to humiliate and defeat several times. From then on, what has Filipe done?
Anything?
JAMIE: If you can think of anything noteworthy, you're probably mistaking Filipe for someone else. The fact is, The Moderators granted you, Filipe, this title shot based solely on tenure. You've been around a while, you don't kick up a fuss backstage, you mostly stay out of everyone's way. They decided to be generous. They thought, hey, we'll throw this guy a bone. They did so knowing full well that given the opportunity, you'd fail with flying colours. On this count, Filipe, they're correct.
Truth hurt much, Fil?
JAMIE: But the fact nobody expects or even wants you to win has escaped you, hasn't it? You honestly believe you're in with a shot. You think "The Old School Hero" might just have one more title reign in him? Don't deceive yourself, Fil. It's cruel and unfair. What's also cruel and unfair is your assessment of me. Your rambling, listless attempt to pick apart my ability. Your attempt to justify why, despite being clear favourite, I might not win.
A disappointed shake of the head.
JAMIE: You make the mistake, Filipe, of pretending you know the first thing about me. You point to my two years out of the business and claim I lost focus? No. In those two years, I finally learnt how to truly focus. How to focus on things that are important. I married the love of my life. Together we conceived a beautiful child. I left this whole insipid business behind me and got on with reality as it is meant to be. The only reason I returned was to ensure my family's financial stability. To protect my family and this, Filipe, is my only focus. It is the reason I live and breathe. You want to cast aspersions on my focus? Well, how about yours? What were you focused on when your Tag Team partner was taken out by the Freytag Effect? What were you focused on when Krunch and I forced you to tap out during Tag Team Turmoil? For that matter, what have you been focused on for the past two months that has earned you a deserving shot at TWD's World Title?
Well?
JAMIE: Cat got your tongue, Filipe? No, that's just Jamie Krenshaw whose got you by the balls. The fact is that my focus can not be brought into question. I've explained time and time again why I'm here and why I need to win the World Title. If you think you have any chance of preventing that from happening, Filipe, I'd suggest that's the early stages of dementia clouding your brain. Might be a blessing in disguise, though.
Grin.
JAMIE: It'll make it easier to forget the pain of tapping out to Jamie Krenshaw all over again.
NEXT.
JAMIE: Moving on to Colt Crawford. The man who claims to be "Holier than thou". Since I'm not exactly sure what he even means by that, I'll let it slide. What I won't let slide are his comments that since winning my Champion's Case I've been too timid to cash it in. Colt, Colt, Colt. You silly jacked-up wrestling tragedy in waiting. Have you lost hearing in those cauliflower ears of yours? It wasn't that long ago I explained exactly why I wasn't cashing in my case. It's because that case equals MONEY. The lnoger I hold on to it, the more intrigue is built around it. People tune in to shows to see if I'm going to use it. People pay to come and watch Showdown live just on the off-chance they can go home with the story "I was there when Krenshaw used his Champion's Case." Quite simply, the Champion's Case has allowed me to easily manipulate the morons at home into forking over more of their hard-earned cash my way. Was I timid? Am I scared I might fail? No. As my won-loss record shows, I simply don't fail. As my victories in Tag Team Turmoil matches and Parking Lot Brawls go to show, I'm not easily frightened. I don't take a backward step from a fight. With a brain as small and steroid-infected as yours, it doesn't surprise me that one other little note eluded you.
Care to guess?
JAMIE: Why would I want to use my Champion's Case and become champion immediately before defending it against four other men? It's about odds. After I win this match and become World Champion, I will be able to name my challengers. I will be assigned one-on-one matches. There's no need for me to put anything on the line in a match involving so many other people. I'd win regardless but it's still best to play to the odds. Timidity played no part in my strategy with the Champion's Case. Intelligence did. Don't worry, Colt. I didn't expect you to figure that out on your own.
A wry grin.
JAMIE: But what about this match? What about your chances at success? Quite frankly, they are zilch. From the moment you stepped foot in this company you have proven time and again that your talent lies solely in riding coat-tails to peaks you couldn't reach on your own. Your mentor Brian Clark gifted you a spot in this company only for you to turn on him. He partnered you up with Saber, a man who, whilst nothing when compared to me, still has considerably more going for him than you. You rode those coat-tails to the Tag Team Titles and then you turned on him also. See, Colt, nobody is accusing you of being too bright. In two instances you have somehow lucked into success through another man's hard work or reputation. And on both instances you've cast those men aside. And then what? You lose. You always, always lose. You lose to Saber. You lose to Filipe Barroqueiro. You lose to Krunch and I. With nobody to distract from the near 7 foot suckhole that is your presence, the world can clearly see you for the impotent dreg you truly are. You're big, sure. You have some motor skills. At least enough to cope with the mandatory steroid injections you undoubtedly go through each day. But aside from those things, what do you have? You have no Saber to drag you to prominence. You have no Brian Clark to gift you title shots. You have nothing but an angry, steaming turd of disappointment. At Devil's Dance, Colt, I'm going to flush you.
Another light chuckle and a sigh.
JAMIE: What was it you said to me in your promo, Colt? "In the theme of challenges, Jamie, I challenge you to prove to me that I am wrong about you." Well, Colt, you giant man-mountain of mediocrity, I don't accept your challenge. I have nothing to prove to you. In my ten years in this business I've proven without a shadow of a doubt that I am better than you or anyone else will ever be. But I've got a challenge for you, Colt. I challenge you to take an overdose and quicken the inevitable drug-related wrestling death you're so heading for. See, I have you in my "Dead Pool" list for 2009 so if you could off yourself before New Years' you'd be doing me a solid. Other than that, you're of no use to me. Realistically, you're of no use to anybody, not even yourself. After all, you can't ride your own coat-tails to undue prominence. And even if you could, you'd just end up turning on yourself and ruining it all anyway. Confused? Yeah, I know. You're in a perpetual state of confusion anyway. Go inject some more HGH into your butt, it might help.
Moving on...
JAMIE: But that's enough about Colt Crawford. So why not move on to yet another big idiot? Yes, Eno. I'm talking about you.
Grin.
JAMIE: Many people believe that you're the biggest thing standing in the way of a victory on Sunday. They cite your won/loss record, your size, the fact that we've wrestled before. They, like you, try to make believe what you've achieved in TWD is of similar worth to what I've achieved. They're wrong, Eno. So very, very wrong. Yes, you had a much vaunted winning streak. But how many of those matches ended with the interference of Juggernaut Enterprises? How many of those victories came over wrestlers the caliber of Chris Freytag or Brent Kersh? Yes, I know you left Juggernaut because you wanted to prove you could win on your own but what happened then? You immediately lost your title to Marcus T and you went away.
Becoming serious.
JAMIE: You went off and disappeared while I made my rapid ascension of TWD's ranks. You went away while I won my Champion's Case, while I won the Tag Team Titles, while I beat everybody I came up against. And then you returned and, as if nothing had happened, you felt entitled to a World Title shot. Well, you've got it now, Eno, but things have changed since you ran roughshed over this company for the better part of a year. You don't have your buddies Kingpin and Marcus T. around to watch your back. You don't have nobodies like Adam Young and Tomas Luger filling up slots on the roster. For the first time of your tenure in this company, you face a challenge you can't surmount. You face me. And yeah, you try and act like I don't tell the full truth. You try and pick apart my arguments and make me look the liar. But what about your own comments? What do they say about you and your chances on Sunday?
A few moments of silence to ponder the question.
JAMIE: You say that I singled out your only loss. A loss to Marcus T. Well, in actual fact, Eno, you also lost to Krunch and I at Tag Team Turmoil. Sure, you may not have taken the fall in that match but you were also unable to stop Krunch and myself from locking your own tag team partner into a double-submission move. But that was a tag team match and in a small way, excuseable. What I find funny is that you point to your history with Marcus T as a justifiable excuse for your loss to him. What are you saying, Eno? That it's okay, nay, inevitable to drop matches to those you have history with? Because, you know, Eno, that you and I have quite a history. I mocked your daughter's apparent death. I took your TWF World Title. I subsequently defended it against you and came out oh-so victorious. So what does that mean? I don't know you as well as Marcus does and nor would I ever want to but the fact remains, I do know you, Eno. So does that excuse your inevitable loss at my hands? Will you trot out the same defense you use for Marcus, saying "Oh, well Jamie's known me for years so he was bound to beat me some time."
Pause.
JAMIE: If you did trot out that excuse, Eno, you'd be fundamentally wrong, as you usually are. See, "bound to beat you some time? No, Eno. Every time. You claim to have beaten me in the past but I don't remember that ever happening. I remember you slamming my head through the windshield of the car that supposedly killed your daughter after I bought it from a police auction. That was a fun day. BUT, beating me up does not count as beating me. I've been beaten up countless times over the years, Eno, but very, very rarely have I actually been beaten. Your deluded soldier's brain obviously can't distinguish between winning the fight and winning the war. Your boys have blown up shitloads of Afghanis but they still haven't actually won anything. Just like you have bloodied me and left me in agony but you've never left me defeated. This Sunday, Eno, I'm more than willing to be bloodied and beaten all around that arena, just like I was in the Parking Lot Brawl and just like I was at Tag Team Turmoil. The thing is, no matter how severe my injuries are, no matter how bad the beating I take, I will still inevitably be standing tall at the end, my arm raised in victory, your new World Heavyweight Champion. I've succeeded in this company at a time when it's roster was as strong as it's ever been. I've succeeded on my own. You banded together with your old running buddies and outnumbered your way to a winning streak and a title victory. When you lost the numbers, you lost the title. These are the facts that I'm dealing with, Eno.
A breath in between diatribes.
JAMIE: You're alone now, Eno, aside from Blacksmith who, surprise, surprise, you've banded together with and reformed Juggernaut Enterprises. But you claim there will be no interferences this time, so as far as matches go, you're still alone. And alone, you will not succeed. You'll come face to face with a man on a crusade. A man determined to win the World Title and protect his family. A man you couldn't recognize because, hey, you've never been so good at protecting your family, right, Eno?
Smirk.
JAMIE: But that's beside the point. All's I need to tell you is the truth and the truth is this: I am better than you. I'm a better father than you. I'm a better wrestler than you and I'm better at recovering from alcoholism than you. Everything you've tried and hell, everything you've succeeded in, I have done first and I have done better. All except for holding the TWD World Title. You got that first, Eno, because I was off building a life with my family. But I'm telling you with the dearest of sincerity that I will be a better World Champion than you and I will earn millions doing it. And then, when I've achieved what I set out to, I will disappear, much like you did earlier this year. But I won't be back, Eno. I'll be long gone, leaving you with your grief, your disappointments and your sad little shell of an "Enterprise". I'll leave a winner, Eno and you, you'll remain forever a loser. It's the natural balance of things setting themselves right. And that, apart from all the money, will make returning to this wretched industry worthwhile. I'll see you Sunday, Eno. I look forward to it.
And finally...
JAMIE: Which leaves us with Saber...
Listen up, "Legend in the Making".
JAMIE: Hey Sabes. It's your White Whale, here.
Grin.
JAMIE: I am flattered by that, by the way. And hey, if we're going to start likening each other to old-timey literature and film characters then you can be my Oliver. You know, that annoying little urchin who constantly comes up and says "Please sir, can I have some more?" And Saber, in your case I'm always happy to give you more. More humiliation. More degradation. More defeat. You can have as much as you want. It's become a hobby for me, looking down at your broken puppy-dog eyes after I've pinned you to the mat. It's the closest thing to a drug I've had in two years. But I'm not addicted. I could give up on you whenever I want. Can you say the same for me, however? No. Because you are addicted. You're addicted to success and by extension, addicted to chasing after me.
Pause.
JAMIE: It was only a few months ago that I predicted this, Saber. I told you that winning the Tag Team Titles was your first step toward being consumed and shat out by the wrestling industry. I told you that you'd lose those titles to me (and I am quite enjoying wearing your old belt, by the way) and you'd then become infected. Infected by desire. By the need to reach that peak again. I told you that you'd hide behind your quest for honor in this company and slowly turn rancid. That you'd slowly become exactly who you didn't want to be. A few months on, the transition is in full flight. You stand only a few days away from a World Title shot and it consumes your every waking thought. That shot and me. See, in your ongoing quest for success, you are inevitably going to run into me, Saber, because whatever it is you want to achieve, I have already achieved it. On the step-ladder of success, I am always at least one rung above you and you're perpetually trying to grab onto my foot for leverage. Well, it doesn't work like that, Saber. I'm not your stepping stone. You will not leap frog me and beat me to my destiny. Your quest for success, so interwoven with your quest to defeat Jamie Krenshaw, is all for nought. One can't happen without the other and, Saber, we've done this dance time and time again. You know, You KNOW that you can't beat me. Yet you delude yourself into thinking this isn't a one-sided game.
Smirk.
JAMIE: Here's what you asked me in your latest promo: "Without the other, could either one of us survive in the profession." Yes. A profound, resounding yes, Saber. See, while you can't possibly imagine wrestling without Jamie Krenshaw, while your career has been marked at every turn with losses at my hands, my own career has been for the most-part, completely Saber free. I've been in this business for nearly a decade. For only six months of that time I've had to put up with your incessant blathering. I "survived" in this profession (at least, survived as well as anyone can in this profession) without you for close to ten years. Not only did I survive, I exceled, just like I am right now. I exceled without you and I excel with you. Whether you're around or not, whether you're here to constantly trumpet that one time you almost beat Jamie Krenshaw means sweet FA to me. With or without you, Saber, I'm still a winner. Without me, you're just a kid who won a Bull Rope match. The very fact that you have labeled me as your "white whale" illustrates just how much more I mean to you than you do to me. I've become an obsession for you, Saber. Meanwhile, you've just been one of many weak hurdles I've leapt over on my way to TWD's World Title.
Beaming confidence.
JAMIE: But back to your latest promo. Oh, how I enjoyed watching that. Oh, Saber, you seem so confused. Randomly bouncing in your promos from saying that I've "dominated" TWD and then suddenly saying I "haven't earned my title shot." You say you want to beat me to a bloody pulp and take me out, yet you encourage me to just pack my bags and leave of my own volition. Which is it, Saber? Is it possible the real reason you want me to leave is so you don't have the prospect of losing to me again constantly hanging over your confused little head? Is it possible that you delude yourself into thinking I'm undeserving of a title shot to deflect from the fact that you find yourself in this match despite having done nothing but argue with a jacked-up roid freak for six months? I, unlike you, don't fancy myself as an amateur psychologist, so I won't delve into the myriad of moronic thoughts that go through your brain. What I will do is take you up on your little "broken record" metaphor. You're absolutely right, Saber. I am a broken record. Just constantly skipping in a continuous loop of victory. And this Sunday, the record just keeps skipping. I will demolish you and all the others and I will achieve my destiny. Whether you choose to believe what I say is beside the point. You claim I'm deluded if I honestly believe the words I speak? Well, why don't you find a transcript of everything I've ever said on TWD Television. You look at that transcript and tell me when I haven't followed up on a promise I've made. When I have made a claim and failed to live up to it.
Go on, look.
JAMIE: You'll find that time and time again I have done exactly what I said I would do. I'm like Nostradamus up in this. This Sunday will be no different. I'll walk into the ring with four other men and I will hand them their arse one-by-one. And Saber, I'll revel in beating yours the most. But hey, maybe you'll get lucky and I'll give you some offense. Then you can spend the next six months commenting on how you nearly beat Jamie Krenshaw TWICE! At the end of the day, I won't give a shit. Because I'll be up way, way out of your league, this companies first ever Double-Champion and the single greatest legend in this insipid sport. It'll give me great pleasure knowing that when the fans and the wrestlers have to admit who the very best is, they'll know that man absolutely despises them. And you, Saber, will be the man who almost beat him.
A wide, cocky grin.
JAMIE: But hey, you got closer than Adam Young did, right?
CUT.
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 31-0. Your next World Champion. |