Parking Lots and Inconvenient Truths. FADE IN: We find ourselves back on the set of Jamie Krenshaw's brainsnapping factstravaganza: Eleven Inconvenient Truths. Jamie stands before you, a glistening specimen of otherworldly greatness. In his right hand he holds his trusty blood-coated tire iron. To his left stands a projector screen bearing the title for his glorious presentation. Jamie gestures to it with the tire iron before the camera cuts to a close-up of his impeccable face. Check out that jaw-line. Now stop stroking yourself, the man's talking! JAMIE: Hello and welcome back to Eleven Inconvenient Truths. A documentary in which I defile your innocent virgin brains with truths they'd never otherwise uncover. Eleven times. I've already palpated your skulls with my truthdagger on four occasions, revealing the unnerving truths behind the team of Insult To Injury, the near-mute, definitely dumb Henry Ivan Davis and the insipid hack Jeffrey James. In this part of the presentation, I'm going to unleash another seven, that's right, seven truths. Have a towel handy, you may just have a factgasm. That trademark milf-moistening grin unveils itself. It quickly retracts as Jamie tries to maintain the proper sombre, sober tone the presentation calls for. JAMIE: I trust you're all prepared. Now, to the first slide. The titular projection disappears from the screen and is replaced with: Darkness. JAMIE: The man they call Darkness. And when I say "they", I actually mean "no-one". What is there to say about Darkness? No, really, please tell me because I'm out of ideas. The man showed up in various backstage segments last week playing with a zippo and "weirding everyone out, man!" and since then... nothing. He's stayed as silent as a Michael Jackson rape victim. Is this a strategy? Is it to add to the "mystique"? Nobody knows and frankly, if I may be so bold as to speak for the entire world's population, and I may, nobody cares. Darkness, you want to know the special truth I've prepared for you? Well, here it is: You don't deserve one. Jamie's eyes pierce the camera lens. JAMIE: You want to be the silent man leading into a big pay-per-view match? Fine. You want to jump into this federation and hang around backstage playing with lighters? Fine again. Just don't expect me to care and don't think just playing with fire is going to get you any heat. If you're attracted to flames, go hang out with Dragzilla. If it's heat you're after, perch yourself beside me on Sunday and get warm because I'm a heat magnet. You? You're not even worth extinguishing. A slight air of satisfaction eminates from "Australia's Greatest Export." It's quickly halted by a look of disdain. JAMIE: Now get that piece of dirt off my screen. Next slide. Tripp Macintyre JAMIE: Tripp Macintyre. Jamie shakes his head and smirks. It's just too easy. JAMIE: And what are you for, Tripp? Is there a purpose for you being here other than to boost Brian Clark's ego? You fight, you lose. You hang around backstage acting like the devil on Colt Crawford's shoulder and the world collectively yawns. Is this what you dreamed of, Tripp? When you were slavishly following the orders of a dried-up TWF "legend" (in quotes due to the self-proclaimed nature of the label) did you think one day you might, just might make it to the big leagues? Did you dream that once there you'd take a back seat to the protege Clark actually cared about? Did you dream that you'd be left begging for a match whilst Brian Clark went off chasing the next pretty young thing that caught his eye? Well if that's what you dreamt then I applaud you, Tripp, because you've achieved all that and much, much less. A slight laugh is stifled by Krenshaw. JAMIE: It's actually one of the few pleasures I can glean from my return to this business, watching "bright" young hopefuls like you fall flat on your face. It really is a treat and that brings me to the special fact I have in regards to you: Tripp, you warm my heat, you really do. See, I go out each Showdown and look out at a mass of fans. People who believe in and love the wrestling business. There's kids too and that means a new generation of fans. And that makes me sick. But you, you Tripp, make me feel better about all that because when I look at you, the supposed "future of wrestling" I realise that once the current crop of stars retires or, more likely, dies off, then the next generation of fans will be left with the likes of you. Jamie grins contentedly. JAMIE: And when that happens, oh man, those fans will flee the sinking ship like the rats they are. They'll disregard this business just like the mainstream media has and once they do, this wretched industry will finally do the same as everyone involved in it does: die a horrible death. And that's why you warm my heart, Tripp. Because when I look at you, I see the death of wrestling. Thanks for that. It's a great solace in an otherwise tough time. "Blacksmith" Bobby Baggs. JAMIE: Moving on and who do we have here? None other than the "good son" of the T. Clan: Blacksmith. A former soldier, government agent and current police officer, one wonders when he had the time to train for wrestling. Regardless, apparently he did and, just like a blacksmith should, he's worked hard to build a career. All very impressive and far be it from me to attempt to sully the virtue of a military man. But that's exactly what I'm going to do. You see, "Blacksmith" Bobby Baggs is merely a more vocal version of Henry Ivan Davis. Yet another symptom of the Juggernaut disease. A cretin who, through his familial alliance with Marcus T and professional ties with Eno Redrum, has been granted opportunities that he's simply not worthy of. He's a walk-up start to any roster containing a member of Juggernaut Enterprises because, hey, they have power and stroke. And yet Blacksmith pretends he's above this. He deludes himself into thinking he's honestly forged a career on his own merits. Jamie sighs, tired of the topic already. JAMIE: Blacksmith, it seems nobody else will be honest with you so I'll do you a favour and tell you the truth. The only reason you earn a paycheque in this company is because if you didn't, Eno Redrum and Marcus T. would walk. Or complain. Whatever. The fact is that the people in charge can't be bothered dealing with that so they give you a spot on the roster all the while knowing that you're not going to do anything of significance. But this, this free ride alone doesn't content you. You have to go and complain every other week to Patrick Martin that poor widdle Bobby Baggs isn't getting matches. Poor widdle Bobby Baggs wants to share the ring with Eno Redrum. Well, Bobby, you can complain as much as you'd like. The fact is finally, this Sunday, you have a chance to prove what you can do on your own. There's not going to be any Juggernaut Enterprises. No Eno Redrum to tag to. No Marcus T. to call for help. You'll be all alone and left to exhibit just what you can do in an important match. And you, know what, Bobby, I'll give you a bonus truth: You're going to do nothing. You're going to lose and you're going to look terrible doing it. And yet I can't help but picture you next Showdown, begging the powers that be for another chance to prove yourself, blissfully unaware that you've already had that chance and failed miserably. Because that's just how deluded you are, Blacksmith, and I wish that a defeat at the hands of Jamie Krenshaw could awaken you to that but I know it won't. So, with no chance of making you see sense, I'll have to content myself with making you see stars. Jamie gazes at the tire iron in his hand. JAMIE: Luckily for me, I'm more than content with that. Next slide. Big T. JAMIE: Big T. Jamie sighs. JAMIE: You know, I'm quite miffed about Big T. Honestly I am. You see, backstage at recent TWD shows there have been proclamations, signs telling everybody that "Big T is here". A fairly bold, self-aggrandizing statement, no? Well, here were are, only a day or so away from Big T's big debut match and is Big T here? No. He's somewhere else. For all I know or care, he could be dead. But I'll indulge Big T and assume he's going to make it to the pay-per-view and is thus worthy of one of the great many truths I'm sharing with you all today. Big T, are you ready because here it comes: You were too big for collegiate wrestling. Too big to forge the MMA career you thought you deserved. Now you're in the wrestling industry chasing your dream through the last and least desirable avenue available to you. Well, let me save you some time, T. The truth is, you're going to fail at this and what's worse for you is that once you do fail, for the first time in your life you will not be able to blame the failure on your size. For the first time, you'll be forced to look in the mirror and see yourself for the giant inadequate mountain of crap that you are. And when you do, well, let's just say I hope there aren't any razor blades around because once I've won this match, once you've lost it, once I've ridden you of the self-delusion you so desperately cling to, you'll see yourself as I see you. As the world sees you. And when reflected with that image, Big T, you're going to want to run a razor through those wrists to escape the sheer humiliation of it all. Still, I won't prepare your eulogy just yet. Let's face it, even if you did attempt suicide, you'd probably fail at that too. Jamie's mouth slyly curls to a grin. JAMIE: See you in the parking lot, mate. Colt Crawford. JAMIE: Next up, one of the "lucky" young studs who gets the "privilige" of training with Brian "Panther" Clark. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's Colt Crawford. Now Colt, it seems that Brian Clark has deemed you the best graduate of his training centre, I assume because you're not quite as useless and ineffective as Tripp Macintyre. Congratulations on that, I guess. But really, what does Brian Clark's opinion mean? What does it mean to train under him? To receive his tutelage? You see, Colt, I think you may have been misled by whoever talked you into joining the Panther's wrestling school. I think this because it appears as if you actually have some respect for Brian. It appears you revere what he has to say. Clearly you're young and misguided because, Colt, I was around the TWF when Panther was and any "legendary" status that he attained back then was merely through getting to the party early. Once the TWF had grown and contained unstoppable, talented people like me, like Jade Diamond or Dustin Iler, once that happened, Panther disappeared. He faded into obscurity and it seems, went on to train you in his own image. And here we are, it's deja vu all over again. You're at The Wrestling Domain early in it's existence, just as Panther was the TWD. You have a chance now while the roster is still relatively small to make an impact and maybe you will. But Colt, the truth is, even if you do make an impact, once this company grows, as it is sure to with me involved, you'll fall behind. Just like Brian Clark, you'll realise that when real talent surrounds, you just don't cut it. And again, just like Brian Clark you'll eventually disappear. You'll fade away and the only thing you'll be remembered for is that one night in July 2009 when Jamie Krenshaw, during his epic final run in the wrestling industry, smashed your face in. Don't feel bad about it though, Colt. Better to be remembered for that than remembered for being Brian Clark's student. Another grin from the self-satisfied Virtuoso. JAMIE: Now, just like Brian Clark, I'll move on from Colt Crawford to Saber. Saber. JAMIE: Ah, Saber. The Wrestling Domain's little epileptic chihuahua. Yipping and yapping, making noise, shaking about, thinking he's the centre of everything, blissfully unaware that should I ever feel the need I could stomp his head in. Saber, I've revealed in the past your hypocrisies. The way you talk about respect and then mock an innocent woman like Aimee Miller or, even worse, a dead baby and a mournful nation by making "dingo ate my baby" jokes. But what I reveal about you doesn't matter anymore Saber because as the weeks go on and I see more and more of you, you're revealing the truth about yourself. Your interactions with Brian Clark reveal you not as a respectful rookie, eager to learn, but as a starstruck little mark, a rat ready to drop to your knees for the first name-wrestler to unbuckle his belt for you. Clark, sad and bitter about his own lack of training nous, distraught that the best student he could mold was Colt Crawford, has turned to you, seeing you as a prospect for the future. And you, little Saber, you're all-too-willing to follow him around like a little lapdog. Like the chihuahua you are. And the truth Saber is that whilst you may glean some kind of perverse pleasure from fraternizing with a faded star of the past, it does nothing to polish your shining star of the future. In fact, it sullies it. No longer will you be looked at as the impressive newcomer who rose to prominence on his own. No, now you'll be seen as the blatant suck-up who tried to ride Brian Clark's coat-tails. It doesn't bother me, Saber, but if you really do want to be a legend in this business, then I'll say to you what your new mentor Panther must have said countless times to his insipid students: Jamie's all cold glares as he gazes back at you. JAMIE: You're doing it wrong. Jamie pauses for a moment before moving on to the final truth, his final opponent in the Parking Lot Brawl. Adam Young. JAMIE: The man who calls himself "Unpredictable". Every single week. The man who attacked me from behind with a weapon because I'd proved a fortnight earlier that he couldn't beat me in an actual wrestling match. The man who then begged for a Hardcore Match against me. Well, Mr. Unpredictable, it doesn't get more hardcore than this. You and I will be in that parking lot and I'm sure you intend just as I do, that only one of us will be able to walk out. You know what, Adam, I can't even be bothered cutting a promo on you. You're not worth it. You're beneath me. And in the Parking Lot brawl, after I've used your head as my own personal pinata I will pin you for a three count and will once again be named the victor over you. And you know what would be really unpredictable, Adam? If you took the loss with a bit of dignity and just moved on. But we both know that won't happen, don't we Adam? No matter how many times I beat you you'll just keep coming back for more because, despite your inisitence otherwise, you're the most predictable person in this business and that Adam, as invonvenient as it is, is the truth. And with that Jamie turns and walks away, out of view, still gripping his tire iron. The next time you see him, he'll be using it to pulverize eleven other men's faces.

Your mirror wishes it could reflect this.