(Gabriel): Well, brother, I did tell you, didn't I? Number One contenders for the HWA Tag Team Championships. Has quite an auspicious feel to it, wouldn't you say?
Michael smirks, laughing every so slightly through his nose and raises his own glass bottle of diet coke and clinks it against the head of Gabriel's beer bottle.
(Michael): It certainly does, Gabriel. However, not as auspicious as the reigning, undefeated, undisputed HWA Tag Team Champions though, agreed?
Michael inclines his head slightly; a confident air about his persona and Gabriel reciprocates the point, nodding his head affirmatively before taking a drink from his beer.
(Gabriel): So, what now, train? Organise an interview, a press conference, what?
(Michael): Training is obligatory, Gabriel. For now, we'll enjoy the victory; bask in it for the time being. It won't be long at all before Evers and Shakir start to spew out their usual weekly dosage of verbal diarrhoea, most likely droning on about our impending doom no doubt.
(Gabriel): You think so?
Michael smiles knowingly.
(Michael): I know so.
The two continue to chat about various subjects, the other results that transpired at Fatality among other things, when their attention is snared by the sounds of the voices of Sheik Shakir and Curt Evers, the current HWA Tag Team Champions. Both men glance to their lefts to spy the formers cutting a post-Fatality promo on the small television screen built into the wall adjoining the booth. As Michael and Gabriel listen to the champions ramble on incessantly, incredulous, bewildered looks cut across the face of Gabriel, whereas Michael remains pokerfaced. After the promo finishes, Gabriel can't help but lean his upper torso forward and smacks his forehead off the table several times before sitting back up to look at his brother who just shrugs his shoulders.
(Gabriel): How did you…?
As Gabriel stammers to get a fully-understandable English sentence, Michael shakes his head almost mockingly.
(Michael): We may not have been here that long; Gabriel, but I can see people like Shakir and Evers a mile away. The wear their personalities like jackets for the world to see. You know what they expect us to do, don't you?
Gabriel murmurs something through a mouthful of beer and shrugs his shoulders.
(Michael): Monologue.
Gabriel thinks over this for a brief moment.
(Gabriel): Monologue?
(Michael): Astutely observed, Gabriel, that's right monologue. They expect to us to respond with a boring mindless drivel addressed to them directly. It's textbook, quite clever actually and no doubt later on, they will attempt to deny this, claiming they've got us right where they want us, that our careers will be soon be over.
(Gabriel): So what do you we do? Analyse what they've said bit by bit and dissect it?
Michael smiles again, shaking his head once more aswell.
(Michael): No, brother, we simply ignore them.
Gabriel's brow furrows deeply, not liking, well not understanding is probably the better description.
(Gabriel): Ignore them? We can't ignore something like that, Michael! They've just blatantly insulted us, claiming they're going to crush our skulls, that I'm nothing but a powerhouse who can't strategize, that you're a poor submission specialist. We can't let it slide.
(Michael): If they want to blab on like that, let them, Gabriel. What they say about us has no bearing on what will happen when we face them for the championships. If Shakir want to assume that you only see in tunnel vision, let them. If Evers wants to think he's going to make me tap out, then let him. We concentrate on our game and pay no mind to anything else. If and when we have something to say to them, we'll do it. We'll beat them in our own way Gabriel, with our own plan, in the centre of the ring, but for now, let's just enjoy ourselves.
(Gabriel): I'll drink to that.
They clink their bottles together once more and continue to chat away, as the scene fades concludes and fades to black.
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