Butch Parker is driving into Los Angeles, along a busy freeway when the scene opens up. Attired in a simple get-up of Ύ-length camouflage pants, a white and black Venum Fightwear vest top and a pair of Oakley sunglasses, he is in the midst of a conversation with his fiancι Wisdom courtesy of a hands-free phone kit.
(Butch): Don't worry about Senester, you just tell the truth sweetheart, no matter what.
(Butch): I know, and if I'm called up, I'll tell the truth aswell, there's nothing else for it.
(Butch): No one's out to get me, babe, probably just some prick trying to get a rise out of me.
...........
(Butch): (Laughing lightly) I know it's your job to worry about me, but trust me, no one's getting near me, I promise.
..
(Butch): Maniac? Yeah I heard what he said, sort of zoned out after a couple of minutes. His promos haven't really changed much in the last five years, constantly droning on and on and on and on and on with the same old derogatory comments and that I can't stop my downfall that will come at his hands; that he's going to watch me squirm as he destroys me and makes me a martyr on his road back to championship gold. I mean he's who he beaten of note since his return? Bryan Deas? Wow, that must've scored him some big brownie points
twat
.
(Butch): I know, thats what I said to Hans! What? No, he's not out yet, but I managed to persuade the hospital to let me speak to him on the phone, well, Heinrich's phone.
.
(Butch): I'm heading to Los Angeles, why?
..
(Butch): Just some business to take care, we can meet up later on tonight yeah?
(Butch): Nothing important, just something I've got to take care that's all honey.
..
(Butch): Sorry babe gotta go, I'm going through a tunnel, I'll call you later, love you loads, bye!
Butch hurriedly terminates the call as he drives into a crowded Los Angeles suburban backstreet. He slows the car down to about five miles per hour, peering out of the side window, mouthing numbers out loud as he tries to see the door numbers on the houses as he drives past them.
(Butch): House number three-seven-two. Bingo
.
He finds a parking space between a blue Buick Le Sabre and a magenta-coloured Prius but he doesn't exit the vehicle straight away, as he scans his eyes around the surroundings. After a couple of minutes, a satisfied Butch finally exits his rental car, pulling a baseball cap from his back pocket and placing it on his head and he adjusts his sunglasses as he makes his way towards the house, with the door number 372.
Unbeknownst to Butch however, the former 2-time HWA World Champion is being watched from afar, from the confines of a parked unmarked black Ford. Inside there are two men.
(Man 1): Whiskey Bravo, this is Delta, we have a large male, Caucasian, around six-foot-five approaching the front door, dressed in shorts, t-shirt, sunglasses and a baseball cap, over.
The crackling sound of radio transmission can be heard before a distorted female voice is heard on the other end.
(voice): Roger that Delta, stay on point, do not engage until you think a threat is present, over.
(Man 1): Roger Whiskey Bravo, Delta out.
The man watches Butch stand at the front door of house number 372 and turns to his colleague, sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
(Man 1): Whaddya reckon Booth?
The second man shrugs, a look of concern on his face as he strokes his chin.
(Man 2): I dunno Russ, not many people know of the witness' address.
He subtly points to Butch from the confines of the car.
(Russ): This guy's built like a tank aswell.
(Booth): You reckon Senester's sent a heavy in to do away with the witness?
(Russ): It's possible. Stay sharp, he's knocking on the door.
The scene reverts back to Butch himself, standing at the front door of 372. He takes a big breath before rapping the door with his knuckles. A long moment later and the door is finally answered revealing the young man from the "People vs. HWA " trial, the same man who gave evidence incriminating Butch himself. The man's face drains of colour, turning chalk white at the sight of Butch and he goes to shut the door immediately but Butch stops it using one of his feet as a wedge and the two frantically wrestle to both open and close the door.
(Butch): Please! Listen to me; I'm not here to hurt you, for Christ's sake!
(Young man): Yeah, and I'm Hulk Hogan!
Butch finally manages to barge the door open and the young man simply makes a run for it. Back in the unmarked car, the two men are ramming clips into the bottom of their side-arms, frantically speaking into their earpieces.
(Russ): Whiskey Bravo, this Delta, suspect male has broken into the domicile, we're going in.
The two men explode out of the car, and they sprint like madmen towards house number 372, drawing their weapons, pointing them at Butch.
(Russ): Freeze Goddamnit! FBI, hands in the air!
Butch freezes in place, holding up his hands and he rolls his eyes.
(Butch): You have got to be kidding me
The two FBI agents slowly but surely walk up to Butch, guns still trained on him.
The agent named Russ walks directly up behind Butch and grabs his hands, pinning them behind his back and he holsters his gun, before snapping a pair of cuffs around Butch's wrists. He is spun around vehemently and practically pushed down the small flight of stairs leading down to the sidewalk as he struggles to protest his innocence.
(Butch): Look lads, this is a big misunderstanding, if you'll let me explain, I ca-
Russ, the FBI agent interrupts him by slamming Butch's head against the hood of his rental car.
(Russ): You have the right to remain silent sir, anything you say and be will held against you in a court of law.
(Butch): For f** sake
(Russ): Shut up!
The other agent named Booth is holstering his sidearm whilst speaking into his earpiece.
(Booth): Whiskey Bravo, this is Delta, we have a suspect being taken into custody, over.
The scene fades to black as the two FBI agents escort Butch back to their car as the scene fades to black.
(OOC - Sorry to Maniac for the lateness in roleplaying, I have been without access to the internet to write any responses all weekend and this was the soonest I could get something up. Apologies again!)
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