Ichabod emerges from the simulator with scars, bruises, bumps, and blood all over him. He looks worn out, but happy. He should be, he survived the simulation once again. Steve slides him a beer and congratulations him by popping in the promos that were cut during his training. He watches with interest, laughing out loud here and there at the random attempts at getting the upperhand in what is so far a verbal battle. Steve looks offended at something Archer has said.
Of course the simulator is real. You've used it many times. Hell, Arctic Fox even wanted to give it a try.
Relax Steve, the truth is, he is afraid to believe that we have a machine like the simulator to train with. Because if he knew the half of what that thing was, he would realize that if I can survive in there, then his ass doesn't stand a chance in the ring with me.
Well, I guess your right. The man isn't very smart. Hell about half of his last promo sounded like shit you said.
No doubt. All that about using pain to drive him, that sounds nothing like what I've already said. Hey, maybe he wants to be just like me. Great another fan.
Ya know Harzy, Archer, the both you make me sick. On the one hand you have what I guess is a juggalo with a painted face, walking around in alleys and crime infested parts of the city, passing out money to homeless guys, and then bugging me about my drinking. Archer I don't have a drinking problem. I get up in the morning, drink a few beers. Then I train, and I drink a few beers. Then I wrestle on some nights, and before each match, I drink a few beers. A few minutes after, I drink a few beers. When I get home, I drink a few beers. No problem. Not only does he bug me about my drinking, he steals my shit and uses it in his promos. Archer, you wanna use my own talent against me, huh? Well try this one on for size, lets see your broke ass get up and Bitch Thump--no wait, lets see you execute a Euphoria on me. You stole my other shit. You wanna drive my truck? You wanna date my girlfriend? You wanna be me? You will never be me. You keep trying to put me in that lower class that you belong in, those up and coming stars as you call them. I've got news for you son, I've already been up there. I have climbed the proverbial ladder and reached the top. In order for me to even exist in your match, I have transcended time, honor, success, and achievement to bring the fans a little something new. Something they don't get to see much. And that is a good match involving a couple of rookie wrestlers on their way out. So don't preach to me about my drinking son, you need to stop wandering the streets and get your ass in a gym or you're going to be in no shape to face the EVIL redneck come monday. You're dealing with the instigator, the one man in the world that no matter who you are, I can turn your bullshit, your idle threats, your unjustified words, your weaknesses, and your naivity around so that it bites you right in the ass, ya fuckin choad. And after Monday night has come and gone, you'll rethink your views on our respective places in this business. There will be no shadow of a doubt in your mind that I am your superior.
On the other hand you have Harzy, who thinks we are all playing some game. Boy you need to get your head checked, because the last I checked, this was real life, not some illusionary game with all of us playing preset roles. If you don't wake up soon, you'll get a rude awakening due to a Bitch Thump right on top of your little friend Archer. Now I don't pay much attention to half of what you say because frankly you bore the hell out of me, but I can be sure it was a bunch of spouting and spitting about how you are going to climb up after this match after beating both of our asses. NO, Harzy. You are only going one direction from here on out, and thats down. Down into oblivion, down into obscurity, down into a forgotten world where people say "Who is Chad Harzy?"
I'm getting sick and damn tired of telling you two this, so get it straight this time. You won't beat me, you can't beat me. I out experience, out quaf, out do, and out class both of you. I've held titles and dreams that the two of you will never even think about getting close to holding. I've been in that plane of pain where nothing is clear except the perpetual motion of the hard hitting jarring blows of one man to another. I've been at the bottom, I've climbed, I've been on top, and I've been beyond. There is nothing I haven't achieved that was important to me. Can the two of you claim all of that? The truth is yes, you can claim it, but you would be lying. Bullshit, just like the stream of nonsense that constantly finds a way to escape from your mouths each and every time the camera rolls on you. You wanna talk about blood, you wanna talk about pain, when you've never experienced the surreal side of it all. The side of blood and pain that you can't even begin to describe, because it wakes you up in the dead of night, even if you win the fight, shaking and shivering, and you still are there. You shiver beneath the blankets in a cold sweat, and your eyes see flashbulbs, your hands move as if you are still trying to fight off the enemy. Not your opponent, but the ever driving urge within yourself to continue beating, continue destroying, continue killing the spark that makes the true stars drag themselves up after a fight, shower and wait for the next match. Then suddenly your eyelids snap open and your heart is racing, and all you can hear is the television you left on advertising a mini-wok for six easy payments of 19.95 plus shipping and handling. You don't know where you are for a minute, and then it sets in that you've really lost it, and you begin to feel a new pain, the sorrow for the next person you have to maim, and the next, and the next, until you realize you are a monster, and you can never stop or be stopped. That is the level of pain I'm talking about, children. The level of pain you can't inflict on someone, the level of pain you can't reach just because you like it. Its there because its there. It is like a predator that picks its victims at random, but latches onto them in symbiotic coupling to make them not a fighter, not a competitor, not a machine, but a force. I am that force, young men. And you are not ready.
Ichabod stares solidly into the camera as Steve stares at him in strange anticipation, wondering what the hell he is talking about.
