(Officer): Can I help you?
Butch responds in a put-on American accent.
(Butch): I certainly hope so. You had a prisoner recently released a couple of days ago; Michael James.
Upon mention of Michael James’ name, the police officer’s eyes narrow, his brow furrows and he mutters angrily under his breath in Japanese.
(Officer): Yes, what of him?
(Butch): An item was removed from his possession upon him being taken into custody; a flask.
(Officer): That is police property now.
(Butch): Look, that flask is a family heirloom of Michael’s and I gave it to him as a gift; I had it specially made for him. You’d be doing me a tremendous favour by giving it back to me so I can surprise him with it.
(Officer): I’m sorry but I cannot help you.
Butch sighs and exhales loudly through his nose. He then leans forward on the desk counter and implores the officer towards him with a motion of his index finger. Butch quickly pans his head from side-to-side, making sure there is no one else around. Satisfied, Butch grabs the back of the police officer’s head and in a lightning-quick move, he slams the officer face-first into the desk, knocking him out instantly. Butch scales the counter with ease in a fluid leap that would make a Russian Olympic gymnast jealous. He catches the officer before he falls to the floor and sets him down gently in the corner and out of sight not before snatching a security key card from his top pocket. Butch makes his way through the atrium of the building, avoiding being seen by any other officers until he finally locates the evidence room. He swipes the previous officer’s key card across a panel next to the door. The light changing from red to green accompanied by a positive-sounding beep confirm the door is now unlocked.
Again, Butch scans the surrounding area for any other people before swiftly entering the evidence room and closing the door quietly behind him. His eyes flit around the vastness of the room, however fortunately due to James’ arrest occurring only 48 hours ago, his confiscated and unreturned possessions are among the first things Butch sees when he begins searching. He finds the flask and inspects it.
(Butch): Bingo.
Satisfied, Butch quickly stuffs the flask in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls his shirt over the back of it, concealing it from view. After exiting the evidence room, Butch backtracks and retraces the route he took to get to where he’s at now without being seen. He is just about to jump over the desk at the reception area when suddenly an angry Japanese voice shouts out behind him. Instinctively turning around to identify the source of the voice, Butch sees another police officer walking briskly towards him, still shouting in Japanese. The officer is nearly within touching distance of Butch, still shouting in his native tongue and Butch holds his hands up in an almost pleading; reassuring manner. The officer, his face like thunder, grabs Butch by the shoulder, gripping on to the material of his t-shirt with his left hand and by around the wrist with his right. He tries to pull Butch towards him but the HWA World Champion doesn’t budge; instead, in another lightning-fast movement, Butch sharply lifts up his arms, breaking free of the officer’s grip and uses the ridge of the outside of his left hand to drive into the officer’s temple. It sends him into an unconscious heap on the floor next to the already-downed officer from before. Wasting little time, Butch leaps back over the counter and casually walks out of the police station. As he exits the area, he finds a bin and nonchalantly dumps the baseball cap and sunglasses into and rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeve t-shirt, shoving his hands in his pocket and whistling innocently as the scene fades to black.
The scene fades back in 24 hours later outside the Parker household in Santa Barbara, California. In the driveway, an unmarked black SUV is parked next to Butch’s Porsche 911 Turbo. A tall, muscular, black-suited man approaches the front door and rings the bell. After a short moment of silence, the door finally opens, with Butch himself standing in the doorway adorned in a pair of white “TapouT” ¾-lengths and a grey sleeveless vest. His baby daughter Evina is sitting in his arms, playfully trying to grab hold of Butch’s beard.
(Butch): Can I help you?
The suited man holds his wallet to show a badge; revealing the man to be an FBI agent.
(Agent): Mr Butch Parker?
(Butch): That’s right. Is there something I can help you with?
(Agent): Mr Parker, I’m Special Agent Warren Russ and I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’ve received some disturbing information from our colleagues in Japan.
(Butch): That’s a shame; what does that have to do with me exactly, Special Agent Russ?
(Agent): Mr Parker, the disturbing part is that we’ve been sent CCTV footage which clearly shows a man fitting your description breaking into Shibuya Police Station in Tokyo, assaulting two police officers and stealing evidence.
Butch paints his face with a picture of mock confusion, raising a single eyebrow.
(Butch): A man fitting my description? Are you serious? What would I possibly be d-
(Agent): -Mr Parker, can you account for your whereabouts on Thursday 17th October?
(Butch): Of course, I was with my wife and daughter all day. We were at home.
(Agent): And your wife can corroborate that, can she?
(Butch): Sure, but she’s not here; she won’t back until later on. You can take a statement from my daughter though. I’m sure she’ll gladly confirm I spent the day watching the Jungle Book and SpongeBob Squarepants.
The agent doesn’t look too impressed by Butch’s sarcasm.
(Butch): Besides, have you even checked my credit card statements for plane ticket purchases, my passport for stamps to show I’ve left the country?
(The agent begins to stammer and Butch senses an opening.
(Butch): Because if you did; you would’ve found out I haven’t been to Japan since June 25th 2011 when I visited my friend in Okinawa.
(Agent): It just seems very convenient that the evidence which was stolen is connected to a fellow wrestler and the same man who has filed a restraining order against your wife, Wisdom Parker – a Mr Michael James.
(Butch): Convenient? I’d hardly say convenient Special Agent Russ. What possible reason could I have for wandering into a Police Station in a foreign country filled with security surveillance equipment, beat up a couple of policemen and steal something relating to Michael James? It makes absolutely no sense. Now unless, you’ve got a warrant or any grounds in which you can place me under arrest then I suggest you please leave my property and stop harassing my daughter and I.
The agent doesn’t speak for a moment; staring Butch. He scrutinises his face, searching for any sign of weakness however Butch is unwavering, deadpan; pokerfaced. Accepting defeat, the agent sighs quietly and backs down.
(Agent): I may be back Mr Parker so I wouldn’t recommend you leave town anytime soon.
(Butch): Yeah, that’s not gonna happen, I have to leave town as part of my job. I guess you’ll just have to put a warrant out for my arrest and catch me at the airport. Have a nice day, bye!
Butch closes the door before the agent can speak again and Evina giggles lightly in his arms as he places a finger on his lips and makes an exaggerated “ssshhh”. He utters a mischievous Muttley-esque laugh and tickles Evina under her cute baby double-chin before she starts to yawn and rub her eyes.
(Butch): Aww, is daddy’s gorgeous little angel tired? Is you sleepy darling?
Evina whimpers slightly and buries her face affectionately into Butch’s chest. Butch readjusts the way he holds, cradling her in the crook of his arm and he gently strokes her forehead, wiping any straggling strands of hair.
(Butch): Okay dokay, let’s get you to bed little one and daddy will get you snuggled in.
Butch quietly walks up stairs towards Evina’s bedroom, rocking her gently back and forth in his arms as he does so. He uses his free arm to manoeuvre the door open and enters the bedroom which looks like a tribute to every single Disney Princess in existence. Butch lowers a now-fast-asleep Evina into her cot and drags the purple-and-pink-coloured duvet up to her shoulders. He watches her sleep for a moment and gently stoops down and plants a light kiss on her soft cheek before about-turning and he leaves the room; not before turning on her baby monitor.
Butch makes his downstairs to his study after helping himself to a bottle of Barr’s Irn-Bru from the fridge. He looks at the monitor on his desk where a little red is flashing; indicating he’s recording. Butch paces back and forth across the room, taking a drink from the bottle every few moments. Eventually, he focuses his emerald-green stare on the camera and begins to speak.
(Butch): There is a legend going back thousands of years. It says Japan was made from the blade of a sword…
Butch takes another drink from his bottle’s orange-liquid contents and begins to pace back and forth again, staring into the camera intermittently.
(Butch): … It is said the ancient Gods dipped a coral-made blade into the ocean and when it was pulled out; four perfect drops fell back into the sea... these drops would become the islands of Japan…others say Japan was made by a handful of brave men; warriors willing to give up their lives for what seems to have become a forgotten word: honour.
Butch sighs loudly, reaching a hand up to his face and runs his thumb and index fingers up and down the perimeter of his beard.
(Butch): Michael James. Undefeated, undisputed, reigning All Star Champion. Uncrowned World Champion. Man of his word. So many ways seem fit to describe you, Michael. But I don’t think you could add honourable to that list. Sure you go about presenting yourself as a man of honour. You say I’m a disgraceful World Champion, that you’re the standard bearer for HWA. You deem my character and attitude as unbecoming of a man charged with carrying the title of HWA World Champion.
Whilst I’m not blind to the weight of my previous transgressions and fully aware of the mount red in my ledger, can you really look at yourself in the mirror and claim to be a better man than me? Notice my word choice, Michael; I said “man”, not “wrestler”. Can you look deep into your own eyes and claim you’re less guilty than I? You can throw the whole “I’m a heel” bullshit around all you want but all that is a smokescreen to hide behind the fact that you’re a full of shit. I don’t care if you’re a babyface, a heel or a tweener. You’re incapable of facing up to the real truth, Michael. You have no honour whatsoever; the only cause you fight for is getting what you want and you don’t care who get hurt or suffers as a result. When you arrived here, I welcomed you and offered you a challenge to test your talents against me as a fellow professional. We could’ve developed a rivalry that had the potential to eclipse the greatest ones in history. Hogan and Savage, Hart and Michaels, Tazz and Sabu, Misawa and Kobashi, KENTA and Danielson, Sting and Flair, Punisher and Senester; even Dredge and me. We could’ve been remembered for the right reasons, Michael. But you chose ignorance. You chose to keep your head between your legs; enjoying the smell of your own farts. You chose to berate near-enough everyone on the roster for no other reason other than to create hype about yourself. You chose to spurn my offer in favour of acting like a cowardly snake; slithering to ringside during my matches and shoving your forked tongue where it didn’t belong and then pleading your innocence. You chose to launch a verbal volley of poisonous arrows at my family with no rhyme or reason as to why. You keep playing your pathetic race card like it’s a goddamn security blanket and believe me, Michael, it’s getting old. You’ve made slanderous comment after slanderous comment about my wife, about my daughter for which I could easily drag your ass through a lengthy legal battle but I’m not that type of guy, Michael. I choose to deal with my problems like a man and on my own and believe me, you’re a problem I will deal with very soon. Do me a favour, if I’m such a f***ing racist, go to the police and press f***ing charges against me. If not, shut your damn mouth, man the f*** up and move on.
And this pathetic charade of the roster believing you to be their natural leader, to be HWA’s newest figurehead? Quite frankly it’s laughable and further cements the fact that you really do only hear what you want to. Tell me something, Michael, does a man who gets drunk, assaults a television personality and gets himself arrested with drugs in his possession seem like the sort of person that smacks of leadership material, of championship material? Once again, you misinterpret the majority of the roster’s perceptions of you. You are in no way revered or even feared Michael. You have so many contenders for your beloved All Star Championship purely and simply because they want to cave your f***ing head in. Oh they want your title but I think you’ll find the real reason they want to get in the ring with you is having to opportunity to punch you in the f***ing face.
And now you try and make me look bad by once again miraculously and conveniently finding a random “fan” who seems to have enough knowledge of you to compete on Mastermind but handily hasn’t heard of me – at a press conference supposedly called to hear the thoughts of the HWA World Champion - a press conference I wasn’t even scheduled to appear at. It’s all very convenient isn’t it Michael? But that’s all part of your master plan, isn’t it? Your ridiculous campaign to prove to the world, to prove to yourself, to your own pitiful ego that you’re the centre of the universe and I’m absolutely nothing. To try and convince yourself you’ve not got some twisted obsession with my wife, that I’m deplorable as World Champion, that I’m actually scared of you. I'm sorry to say Michael; the only person you’re succeeding in convincing is yourself. And now all you can do is keep flogging that dead horse you’ve been flogging since day one when you first arrived and started dragging my name through the mud like you were trying to scrape dog shit from the bottom of your shoe.
Yet another prime example of your tunnel vision, Michael, of you blocking everything out and only hearing what you feel is the truth. You’ll quite gladly drive a point home if you think you’ve got the grounds to make it on. But when you’re called out on it and exposed for the pitiful liar you really are, Michael, you conveniently brush it aside or failing that, just blatantly choose to ignore it. You’ve happily assumed I’ve paid off Bret Hart and Jim Ross for their flattering comments made about me, but you opted not to comment on “The American Dragon” Bryan Danielson’s two cents. I wonder if someone like KENTA or Shunsuke Nakamura made such remarks, would it have catalysed such a reaction from you.
A subtle smile creeps across Butch’s face before he continues.
(Butch): Now you continue to state I lost it to you because I couldn’t hold my own against you, that I failed to live up to my moniker of “The One Man Tartan Army”.
A light chuckle escapes Butch’s mouth and he purses lips, nodding in mock acknowledgement
(Butch): That’s good Michael, that’s really good but I prefer to look at it like this – you needed four other guys to help you beat me because you yourself couldn’t hold your own against me. You’ve yet to prove to the world you can legitimately defeat me on your own using nothing but your own so-called superior in-ring talents. So until that happens, the record books may state you hold a pinfall victory over Butch Parker and you can keep parading it around and shoving it in everyone’s face like some kind of trophy but it doesn’t mean jack shit to anyone but you.
See, it’s laughable Michael that you’re still suffering from stuck-record syndrome. You continue to natter on about my apparent losing streak, how I was humiliated by Fallen, how I barely scraped past Bryan Deas, how you gave me the most humiliating loss of my career, how much of an imbecile I am and what a crack-##### prostitute my wife is. Is this really how it’s going to be from here to eternity, Michael? Us trading the same old tired verbal jabs until the rapture? Are the HWA fans going to be subjected to endless feeds of you rehashing the same shit you’ve spewed out in every promo you’ve cut on me and in turn, me, rolling my eyes and face-palming this desk in exasperation at having to repeat myself for the thousandth time? Is it going to be the same hypocritical bullshit of you using words to describe me that are best saved for describing yourself on your online dating profile? Words like “liar”, “egomaniac” and “embarrassing”? Yeah, that’s me alright, right down to a tee.
Butch raises a single eyebrow in a sarcastic manner.
(Butch): These are just a couple of prime examples that show just how lowly and pathetic you are and the differences between you and me. You’ve even gone as far as to question my objectivity by failing to bring up the match this coming Havoc.
Butch holds his arms in exasperation.
(Butch): How do you expect me to comment on a match where only one of my opponent’s bothers to speak up, the other doesn’t say a word and my own partner shows absolutely no interest, who’s most valuable contribution is to sulk to Senester.
Butch again laughs mockingly, shaking his head disparagingly. He walks up to the desk, goes into one of the drawers and brings out Michael James’ confiscated flask. He looks over the flask in his hand, examining all aspects of it. He gives it a shake and the splashing, tinny sound reveals there is still something in it. Turning the cap, Butch takes a swig from the bottle. He smacks his lips afterwards, trying to determine if he likes the flavour or not.
(Butch): I have to say, Michael, whilst it’s not a patch on a good Scottish whisky like Famous Grouse or Glenmorangie, sake isn’t that bad.
Butch closes the cap on the flask and examines it again.
(Butch): It’s a lovely piece I have to say, Michael. And you’re probably wondering why I even took the time to procure this in the first place. Maybe because I didn’t want you to go without such a precious family heirloom. Maybe I wanted to have a bit of a fun and make use of the aliases I had when I worked with Senester. Or maybe I did it because I could. You see I’m not as dumb as you seem to think I am, Michael. Now I could give you this back at Havoc, I could keep it for myself; I could melt it down and make a cutlery set out of it. I’ll maybe give it to Evina to drool her saliva all over it and turn it into a little rust bucket. I’ll guess we’ll need to see at Havoc, won’t we.
Butch places the flask back in the drawer from whence it came.
(Butch): I’ll give you one thing though Michael. An imbecile, I’m not, but a f***ing asshole…
Butch snorts with derision.
(Butch): You bet your f***ing ass, dickhead.
Butch turns around and walks off-camera as the scene fades to black.
Message Thread
« Back to index