The air is sickeningly thick in the hot room where Steve waits. It feels like a high school wrestling team's practice room. It's not the weather, it is a room in Steve's facility, and he has set the temperture, air pressure, and humidity to uncomfortable heights. He reads over some papers, wrinkling his brow as he sees that he can't find much more than a few random facts on Orleans, Joey Grunge, or Mr. Sensation. Steve relaxes and sets the files on the desk before him as Ichabod walks out the changing room wearing his practice pants, a tank top, and wrist tape. He clenches a cigarette in his teeth and talks through it when Steve looks up at him.
What've you found, Steve?
Not much, Ichy--not much that can be used anyway.
Too bad. Oh well, all the more reason it will be easier for me to take these men out. Made men are harder, because physical strength isn't all that drives them... success, will, and confidence are all factors you have to fight with made men. I'll either do one of two things, erase WXW's memory of these guys, or put their names on the map. Either way, I'm moving on to the hardcore title, and I'll be leaving all three of them.
Orleans, judging from your name, we'll be fighting in your home state... maybe not, I could be wrong, who cares? If so, I feel sorry for you. You pay attention to this sport? Ever notice how men tend to fall short in their own home states? I've seen it happen over and over, and why? Its simple, the pressure of performing in front of their friends and family, maybe teachers, former bosses, their communities, is too much to handle. Or they waste far too much effort on showing off, too much time basking in overconfidence, and not enough focus on their opponents.
Then you have the pure and simple fact that the opponents find it far too tempting to embarass the foe in front of his colleagues. Its just one more thing off which men like me feed.
"How can you be so sure?" you might ask. Because I faced this fact, and I have overcome it. Clash at the Beach, 2000, Myrtle Beach, SC. Right in my hometown I won my first official title, the IPWF Intercontinental, and then went on to appear in the main event, launching my cousin from the roof of a cage after his Hell in a Cell match. I have met this pressure that all men meet when returning home, and I have made myself better than that pressure. You, Orleans, like so many others, will fall on your own ground.
And if I happen to be wrong, and this is not your home, does it matter? Not really, I'll destroy you in your homestate, in my homestate, in any state, any country, any venue, any show, any time. Its only a matter of consequence that this time it may be right in your own backyard.
Misfit. What can I say of you? Will you prove yourself worthy of that name, showing that you do not fit in this form of wrestling? Before I am finished you will realize that you are truly a misfit in my league. Get out!
Mr. Sensation. Hell, I'm not even going to go on and on about all the puns I could make out of you. The sensation of pain you will feel, the sensation of slams, kicks, punches, falls that your body will encounter, the sensation of loss when my hand is raised in victory. Its a waste of time, and your few minutes in this match will seem evenly so.
I realize I'm the newcomer, I'm the one with something to prove. But damn, I've known about this opportunity for less than twenty four hours, and have already spent the last 18 hours preparing, addressing my opponents, and casing my chances of winning. I've yet to see or hear one damn thing about or from any of the three men who have "earned" their spot in the limelight with me.
Steve nods with a grin on his face as he takes the stopwatch he usually wears around his neck and sets it on the desk. He presses a button on a control panel, and a large doorway type vessel rises from the floor. It resembles the computer that appears when someone on Star Trek is on the holideck and calls for it. Ichabod understands and steps into it. However, he is suprised when slots in each side open up and similar ones open on the floor beneath him.
Stick your hands in the columns and stick your feet in the floor.
Ichabod does so, and is surprised to feel clasps clamp his hands and feet, making him immobile. Steve blows a whistle, and a man comes into the room with a kendo stick. He immediately smacks the defenseless Ichabod across the chest. Ichabod winces a little before standing upright again.
Did that hurt?
Sure, why?
Steve blows the whistle again, and the man lays into Ichabod with the kendo stick. Not stopping until Steve blows the whistle. Ichabod slumps, then pulls himself back up. Steve continues to blow the whistle until Ichabod is only held up by the clamps on his wrists. Steve presses a button and the clamps release Ichabod who falls on the floor of the vessel.
Ichabod?
Ichabod looks up slowly...
Good, now disarm him.
The man attacks again, but Ichabod is able to monkey flip him, catching his wrist and twisting it so that the kendo stick clatters on the floor.
Come on Steve, if you are trying to train me to deal with someone with a weapon you are going to have to do better than that.
Steve only smirks, with a look of knowing in his eyes. The camera fades out almost all the way, but the scene fizzles and come back into focus outside the room in the hallway, where a long line of men are standing outside the door waiting for Steve to blow his whistle a certain way. Each one carries a different weapon, nightstick, lead pipe, steel chair, extension cord, bull whip, sledgehammer, 2X4, etc. etc. They all fidget and look around waiting their turn at training Ichabod....
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