Butch turns to his left to peer at the alarm clock sitting atop his bedside dresser and the digital characters indicate its 5am. He sits up slowly, allowing the bed sheets to nonchalantly fall from his body and revealing his impeccably-conditioned physique. Butch cranes his neck around to the right to see the stunning form of his beautiful wife, Wisdom, still deep in peaceful slumber. Butch can’t stop himself from smiling at the sight of her and he carefully leans over so as not to wake her; placing a soft kiss on her perfect lips. He brushes away a single rogue strand of her golden blonde hair, neatly tucking it behind one of her ears when suddenly Wisdom jolts awake, as she’d had a thousand volts of electricity jolt through her body. Her eyes are as wide as basketballs as Butch recovers from being momentarily caught-off guard and he wraps a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders.
(Butch): Hey, hey, it’s okay! You’re okay babe. Did I wake you up?
(Wisdom): No…bad dream…
(Butch): Do I want to know?
(Wisdom): That creepy shit, Michael James….
Butch furrows his brow at the mention of HWA’s newest addition.
(Wisdom): Weird little bastard broke into the house and tied me up….
(Butch): It was just a dream, babe. Like that he could ever happen. You’re 8 months pregnant and even I wouldn’t mess with you!
Wisdom smiles as she instinctively brings her hand and places her palm over her bump.
(Butch): So you okay?
(Wisdom): Yeah, I’m fine. What time is it anyway?
(Butch): Five eh-em.
(Wisdom): And you’re awake at this time, why?
(Butch): I was going to head down the beach for a run and do a bit of training.
Wisdom has a slight look of resignation on her face but it quickly disappears to one of a mischievous nature and she discreetly runs her hand under the duvet towards Butch’s manhood and she pulls herself closer to him, nibbling playfully on his earlobe.
(Wisdom): You know, seeing as we’re awake and we got interrupted yesterday….
Butch smirks, knowing and feeling Wisdom’s line of thinking and works his own magic with his under the covers and gives Wisdom a deep passionate kiss. Wisdom exhales heavily through the kiss, feeling Butch’s touch inside her before the kiss ends as quickly as it began with Butch pulling away with a cheeky, boyish grin on his face.
(Butch): Good things to come those who wait, Mrs Parker.
(Wisdom): You’re such a tease! That’s meant to be my job!
(Butch): I learned from the best. I promise babe, just think how incredible it’s going to be.
Wisdom pouts, sticking her bottom lip before smiling at her husband.
(Wisdom): Go then, go for you run, before that old guy three doors down takes his dog down and he shits all over the sand.
Butch involuntarily chuckles at the last comment before leaning over and giving Wisdom one final kiss before he disappears into the walk-in wardrobe. Wisdom still manages to get a sly peek at Butch’s bare ass as he walks in, smiling and releasing a long sigh before lying back down on her pillow, trying to will herself back to sleep. A couple of minutes later and Butch re-appears, kitted out in black Nike running shorts and a blue-and-white personalised “Butch Parker” Venum training vest, the signature Venum Fightwear © snakehead contouring the back of the vest and a billowing, torn Scotland flag emblazoned across the front. Butch makes his down the stairs, and heads into the walk-in kitchen that is adjoined with the dining and living room areas of the house. Butch switches on the TV in the kitchen which is automatically set to HWA TV and he half-listens, half-watches as he delves into the fridge to get a cold drink to take on his run. Suddenly, the voices of Michael James and Senester are head, pricking Butch’s ears up and grabbing his attention. He shuts the fridge door after emerging with a bottle of tropical-flavoured Lucozade Sport. Butch listens intently to what both Michael James and Senester have to say about him personally amongst others.
After the promos finish playing, the TV begins to show a commercial for Blood, Sweat & Tears and Butch zones out, still replaying what James and Senester had said. He heads into the living room and grabs his Macbook from the small table in the centre of the room, brings it up to the breakfast bar and syncs it up with HWA TV to record his own retorts.
(Butch): So….that was quite a rant there, Mr James. I was beginning to think you were never going to stop talking. Thankfully, for the sake of my eardrums you did and now that you’ve got all then pent-up rage out of the way, it’s time for you to listen to me. Normally under these circumstances, considering the magnitude of my upcoming match, I’d pay your comments no mind but I think it’s best that I set you and the record straight. So give yourself a little congratulatory pat on the back Michael, you’ve got the undivided attention of Butch Parker, if only for a short time. So put down your cigar, take your stupid sunglasses off and listen to what I have to say.
From your brief stint you’ve had so far in the HWA, Michael, it is evident to me that you’re A – delusional and B – hypocritical. You’re so quick to jump down Stu-E Price’s throat, berating him for apparently worshipping me and demand the respect from him you feel you deserve. You seem to forget Michael; you’re not exactly a household name here yet. Yes, I’d heard of you prior to your signing with HWA but that’s because I take a keen interest in wrestling companies all over the world and which wrestlers are making waves. But as far as HWA is concerned, you’re as green as a cucumber. Like I said previously, you have had all these accomplishments elsewhere but means jack shit here. You start at the bottom of the ladder and you make your way up. This isn’t like Bret Hart or Hulk Hogan jumping from WWF to WCW or Kurt Angle from WWE to TNA. From where you are at the moment on the HWA ladder, you’re the one that needs to earn OUR respect and you do that by knuckling down, busting your ass and treating every match you’re in like it’s your last. And considering what from we’ve seen from you so far, apart from your victory at Havoc, you’ve NOTHING to earn any shred of respect from anyone on the roster, least of all from myself or Stu-E. You got in my fellow Brit’s face for no reason; you stuck your nose unnecessarily in my business and beat up a defenceless man, again for no reason. So I would love for you to enlighten me on why you feel Stu-E, a consummate professional thus far in his short HWA tenure, should give you any respect whatsoever. Because you say you’re the future of the HWA? Shove that right up your arse.
Now regarding my supposed assumptions about the outcome of your match to Heckler and Kosh, let’s get one thing straight. Lesson one for being in HWA – pay attention to what people around actually say before opening your own mouth; otherwise you end up looking like a complete tool.
Butch laughs to himself, shaking his head lightly before continuing,
(Butch): It’s a damn good thing my old friend Hans von Richtoven isn’t around here anymore because I tell you, he’d have a field day with you. There have been no “half-assed assumptions” from me about your debut match last week; truth be told it was pretty obvious you were going to win. I’ve seen you wrestler and I know how good you are. But correct me if I’m wrong, if memory serves me correctly, I believe, and I’m paraphrasing here, I said if you struck out at Havoc, you’d end up with egg on your face with all the hype you bringing to the table about yourself. Fortunately for you, the egg landed on the ground. So, as I said, get your fact straights before you go jumping on the bullshit train; otherwise, like in this case, you look like a twat.
Now, as I stated at the start of this little recording, normally you won’t catch me getting drawn into back and forth debates and the usual tit-for-tat bollocks – I did that often enough with Eddie Phoenix. I’ve been in this business a very long time, Michael and to assume otherwise is foolhardy on your part. I’ve been in professional wrestling long enough to know when someone’s just angry and when they want to raise the ire of someone. However today, you’ve prodded your little stick in the lion’s cage once too many times and I’m biting back now. You seemed to take a lot of offence to what I’ve said before, and you’ve rightfully stated I don’t know you. You’re absolutely right, I don’t know you. But, that being the case, then you’re serving up a big plate of double-standards because if you think I have no respect for this business, if you REALLY think I “suck” then you really are delusional. Are you really that naïve and foolish to believe you’re the only man who’s been around the wrestling business for nearly two decades? You think you’re the only one who’s had to fight through career and life-threatening injuries to earn a paycheck? I’ve been there too Michael and I’ve earned my stripes sine I started wrestling when I was sixteen years old back in nineteen-ninety-four. And as my amazing wife pointed out last night, after all I’ve achieved in my career, I don’t have to prove or justify myself to anyone; least of all an smug little #### like yourself. But once again, I’ll humour you. Speak to the other great names that have called HWA their home in the last nine years since I came here. Whilst I may not be on some of their Christmas card lists, there is always a lifelong camaraderie between us old guard rivals, for the, pardon the pun, blood, sweat and tears we shed back in the day. You ask the likes of David Hollis, our very own Buff Bridges, ask Michael Dredge, Thane Givens, AC James, Maniac, Talon Wilkinson, Hans von Richtoven, Ronnie McNeil, even Eddie Phoenix and Senester himself. Ask them about their wars with Butch Parker. Or better yet, go online and see for yourself. Because if you really want my honest opinion, you need to quit whilst you’re ahead and get a serious reality check. You’re not fit to lace mine or any of the other great men who’ve paved the way for guys like you to compete in HWA and the sooner that reality sets in, the better.
The fact is, Michael, you’re threatened by me and you can deny it all you want, I don’t care. But that’s why you’ve decided to suddenly give me all this attention. You can fool everyone else by saying you just don’t like me but I know better. You’ve surveyed the territory when you’ve arrived and you’ve sussed out who you think you can take and who’s there for the taking. You’ve seen the guys you’ve so eloquently described as the “mid-card pieces of shit” and not bothered to give them the time of day. You’ve responded to your opponents for obvious reasons. You’ve avoided Senester and his World Championship because even you’re not as conceited as to demand a shot at the richest prize in professional wrestling when hardly anyone in the company even knows who the hell you are. You can hide behind all the Japanese you want and all that smoke from the cigars you smoke because I see right through it. You won’t and can’t be the success in this company you jack off thinking about unless you get past me and at some point, so you’ve painted a nice wee bullseye on my chest and go and have at it. And make no mistake Mikey boy, at some point you and I will stare across the ring at each other waiting for the bell to ring; it’s inevitable. But until that time however, you can enjoy the shit-filled cesspit of the mid-card and once you’ve climbed your way out and up the ladder, I’ll be right here waiting for you. Until then, pipe your arse down and get on with it.
Butch stops for a moment, reflecting on his last words. The moment passes and he refocuses.
(Butch): Now, seeing as I’m here, I might aswell address you Senester. I’m not going to bore you with the same old bullshit we’ve been through in the past. We have a storied past Senester. You know it, I know it; the world knows it. We’ve had our battles in the ring, out of the ring, in court; it seems there isn’t a battlefield in your beloved kingdom where we’ve not crossed swords.
Forget about what happened in Bulgaria, Senester. You don’t care about what happened to those people so why bring it up? To try and cause me pain? To make me feel guilty? I’ve had enough guilt on my conscious to last me a lifetime Senester; you should know that by now. Maybe you should focus less on you’re people watching and think about the task at hand. You’ve got the opportunity to stand as the deity you claim to be and make an example out of a fallen subject. You’re the bully with the magnifying glass and the sun will be out at Blood, Sweat and Tears. You’ve got the chance to watch me squirm as you pull of my antennae and burn my body into oblivion with the slightest touch. But here you are; singing from the same old hymn sheet you always do, trying to get under my skin, this time it seems by bringing my unborn child into the equation. You want me to get angry don’t you? You want me to go on about how you shouldn’t mention my family or I’ll beat you within an inch of your life, don’t you?
Butch just smirks.
(Butch): Tell me something, Senester, how would you have reacted if your own precious bundle of joy, little Stewie, came to you a blight on the world, a hideous sight, an abomination if you will. Would you have treated him with the same love and devotion you showed him before he died? After all we’re all made in your image, are we not? Or would you’ve acted as the Spartans did once upon a time, discarding the child like a piece of shit-covered toilet paper. How’s that shoe feeling on the other foot now, my Lord? Fits pretty well I’d imagine.
Blood, Sweat and Tears will be a revelation, Senester. I may win, I may not. You may keep the World Title or I may win it. But you’ll be the feeling the effects of our battle long after that final bell rings, I promise you. Your wounds will heal, that much is true, but you won’t forget Senester, and neither will I. Now if you’ll excuse me.....
Butch ends the feed and closes his Macbook down and releasing a long breath from his nose afterwards. He stands idle for a moment, reflecting on what he said and gives him a little encouraging nod before he grabs his iPod from the table adjacent. He unwraps the head phones and plugs them in, scrolling through the list of music available until he finds the right track as he walks out of the back door which leads directly onto the beach and a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean. Butch starts jogging, “Navarros” by Juno Reactor playing on his iPod as he runs away from the camera and onto the sand of the beach as the scene fades to black.
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