I am the bloody hand
I am the chief ##### taker
I am the chosen one
I am the red straight razor
The one who bathes in blood
I am the boogey-man
I am the empty yawning hood
Look not for pity, no
I am the heartless man
I come to fix all things
I am the one man band
You cannot yet imagine
How you will dance for me
But you will dance forever
To the tune that I decree
I am the black dead nightmare
I bring a light so bright
To illuminate the path we take
I show the way that all hearts break
* We open with a slow fade and a wide angle view of what appears to be a small building bearing the emblem of the American red cross. There is a prompt care sign posted on the exterior windows along with a notice of the clinic being open twenty four hours a day. After moving past the front doors the cameras guide viewers past the lobby and down a short hallway until coming to a stop in front of an open door. Inside, we find two men. One, being a licensed doctor of the clinic looking over the details of an extensive x-ray, while the other man sits with his back against the wall covering his face with an ice pack. When he removes the ice pack his identity is revealed as the undefeated HWA World Champion Michael James. He has a bandage wrapped around his head and an expression of utter disgust on his face as he listens to what the doctor has to say *
Doctor: So going back to what I was saying before, Mr. James. According to the results of your recent scan it clearly shows what could be considered a borderline concussion, along with a minimal amount of internal bruising that could form into something much worse.
Michael James: Like what? A tumor?
Doctor: It’s possible. Luckily, your case isn’t as severe as something like a car crash or a bullet wound so I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Just as long as you take it easy and allow the swelling to go down.
Michael James: And exactly how long is that going to take?
Doctor: Judging from what I saw you’re going to need a good month and a half before doing anything that could interfere with your recuperation. I know it’s probably not what you wanted to hear but sometimes you have to let the body rejuvenate after taking a beating.
* James quickly moves away from the wall and tosses the ice pack to the floor *
Michael James: What the #### makes you think I took a beating?
* The doctor directs his sight towards the wound trickling fresh blood from underneath the bandage wrapped around James’ forehead. A few seconds later James reaches up and wipes the blood away *
Doctor: Please, Mr. James. I’m not trying to upset you or point any accusations in your direction. What you do on your own time is your business and all I want to do is help you here.
Michael James: Fair enough. I know you’re just doing your job and I can respect that. You just need to understand in order for me to do my job it takes a lot more than just cunning and intelligence. I’m the World Champion and that means I yield the face of the company. I have to be able to perform at the drop of a hat like I always have in the past. So, unlike you Doc, I can’t afford to be away from work for a few days, let alone an entire month.
Doctor: Then you might as well start preparing your retirement speech now because you’re going to need it sooner than you think.
Michael James: I thought you said you were trying to help. Despite what you want to believe testing my patience isn’t going to do anything for either one of us. Everyone saw what happened when that hopeless jack hole Brett Favre tried to test me and ended up flat on his back –
Doctor: Yes, I saw that.
* The doctor says with an expression of slight disdain *
Doctor: But this isn’t the same situation by any means. Favre blatantly insulted you and everything you stand for on national television for the sake for entertainment. I have no intention of offending you or trying to gain some type of petty amusement from your suffering. I’m doing exactly what you said by giving you my honest opinion even if it’s not what you want to hear right now.
Michael James: So you understand where I’m coming from?
Doctor: I don’t have to understand because it’s none of my business, Mr. James. We have done everything we possibly can to keep you from causing any more harm to yourself. But at the end of the day it’s not up to us. We can’t make your decisions for you.
Michael James: Finally some sanity.
* James says with a confident tone as he moves to his feet, staggering around at first from result of the various medications flowing through his system *
Doctor: Just be aware there are going be a few side effects to the prescriptions that will require a massive amount of down time. No driving, operating heavy machinery or anything that requires serious physical activity. Just go home and get as much sleep as you can.
Michael James: Sure. I’ll see what I can do.
* He says to the doctor while rolling his eyes in a careless manner. James gradually staggers out of the room and makes his way into the hallway, using one arm as a guide along the right wall. He makes his way to the front lobby and removes his leather jacket from a post near the corner of the room. A receptionist from behind the front desk calls out to James as he continues to stagger around like a drunk *
Receptionist: Do you need some help sir?
Michael James: No. I’ll be fine.
* Suddenly, the irritating cackle of Wisdom Parker’s voice is heard as James directs his attention towards a small television mounted on the wall. It appears to be a TMZ broadcast covering the most recent events from HWA Havoc, primarily the unexpected return of Butch Parker. A few seconds later James begins to sneer at the image of Butch Parker while zipping up his jacket. He turns away from the television and staggers through the front door, trying his best to walk a straight line *
11/22/2014
Millennium Station
Chicago, Illinois
A clacking rumble of the train grinding against the steel tracks creates a deafening echo throughout the station. As it comes to a stop the automated doors slide open. My first impression was skeptical at best, trying as hard as I could to ignore the inevitable odor of piss, shit and vomit. Graffiti connected to various gangs throughout the district decorated a majority of the train’s interior. The seats were nothing more than an assortment of rusty aluminum benches covered in stains resembling dried blood and semen. I could feel the bottom of my shoes sticking to the thick residue from the unkempt floors as I searched for an empty seat. No luck. Needless to say, it was a complete shithole. Unless I was interested in learning the up and downs of every venereal disease in the city, I was better off standing. I felt the floor jerk forward from under my toes as the train departs the station. I stumbled back and quickly grabbed hold of a nearby railing to stop from falling on my ass. Gravity was never a strong point for me. Luckily, when the train started moving I had no problems finding my balance. A few of the other passengers began to stare. They could tell that I was out of my element and wondered what I was doing on their daily line. I couldn’t tell if they were offended by my presence or by the clothes I was wearing. I didn’t really care. I had a job to do just like they had a homeless orgy to attend. I had more important things to worry about than the opinions of a few mindless crackheads.
10:19 P.M.
Chicago South Side, Lake Shore Drive
The train arrived a few blocks south of Chicago’s infamous Lake Shore Drive, a well known standard expressway running parallel alongside the shoreline of Lake Michigan. It was twenty minutes after ten when I stepped onto the cracked pavement that was barely fit to be considered a sidewalk. I could sense the looming stench of the harbor from several miles away as if I were trapped in the center of the stink. I had predictions of desperation formed through unfortunate despair, and that’s exactly what I witnessed from the second I stepped off the train. Depraved squatters and shameless vagrants populated the avenues and alleyways like rabid dogs. Endless trails of loose sewage and broken glass covered the gutters and concrete similar to gravel on a suburban driveway. The only visible lights were those hanging above the hundreds of low income taverns and deserted buildings, buzzing multi colored beams on the street below. The district was an open market designed to serve a hopeless society, fueled by the same violence and corruption used to dismantle a once prosperous environment. In other words, it was a desolate slum. It was a part of the city where prostitution, drugs and organized crime held a higher value to people than the name of God. As I started making my way past the slipshod pawn shops and liquor stores, a woman dressed like a low scale hooker calls out to me with a limp cigarette hanging from her mouth...
“Hey jag-off. You got some spare change?”
He says, making it a point to correct my mistake regarding his sexuality. He was wearing a blue dress made of latex that wrapped around his piggish figure like stretched leather. I noticed he was sporting a pair of pink pumps that could barely contain the mass of his bulging hooves. The worst part was when I made the gruesome discovery of his exposed testicles that were dangling a few inches below the bottom of his dress. I didn’t want to piss him off but I didn’t want anything to do with a stranger’s nut sack either. He throws his arms into the air, baring his bushy armpits before calling out to me once more.
“Thanks for nothing, dick bag!”
I kept telling myself that Chicago was full of assholes and this guy was a perfect example. I was only a few blocks away from my first destination and I wasn’t going to allow some gender confused street trash slow me down.
10:50 P.M.
Chicago South Side, Meadow Gardens
The further I traveled into the bowels of the district the more I began to understand the meaning behind its ominous moniker. It was the only part of the city where sexual deviants and crazed addicts had the freedom to do as they please without police interference. I could hear people ####ing as I carefully approached the front gate of the complex. It was secured with a large chain and padlock – a measure used by police to try and keep out trespassers – with a large “CONDEMNED” sign posted directly above. I looked towards the bottom where the steel mesh had been cut to form an opening. “#### it.” I thought, knowing the crime I was about to commit was only a minor offense compared to half the disgusting acts of shameless degradation I had witnessed so far. The complex had been shut down for close to five years after failing a number of building code inspections. The Gardens had a total of five floors, two of which were nothing more than charred ruins from result of a building fire. The chipping paint on the outside had turned from light blue to diarrhea brown over a course of twenty years. Most of the windows had signs of severe damage or were completely smashed out, allowing people to view the miscellaneous defacement covering the interior walls. I crawled underneath the clipped mesh and moved around the right side of the building where I found an entrance through an open window. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see a damn thing. It was pitch black.
There were heavy traces of imminent dust and mold flowing into my nostrils, causing a sudden allergic reaction. I was standing in the center of an aged bedroom with an obvious appearance of moldered dilapidation. A fractured bed frame with nothing left but springs and torn cushioning was placed in the center of the room. The closet door was hanging from the hinges, forced open from an over sized bundle of stained clothing. Thousands of cigarette butts and cockroaches decorated the chalky floor, crunching underneath my feet as I inched towards the main doorway. The path was blocked by an old bookcase that was slowly falling apart. Someone had wedged it into the corner of the doorway in hopes of keeping the room sealed off like a tomb. After removing the remaining shelves from the case it didn’t take much effort to push it out of my way. The hallway was just like the rest of the building – shrouded by dead weight and despair – infested with rodents and vermin burrowing through massive piles of nauseating garbage. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to go very far to find what I was looking for. A long splotch of dried paint splattered along the right wall directed me to the last room at the far end of the disorderly corridor. I knocked three times on the door that appeared to be broken in various spots and quickly received an abrupt response from a man on the other side.
“Shikibetsu.”
He says through an opening welded into the center of the door. I reply to the bull sized brute by stating my name and business. A few seconds later I hear a bolt lock release from the other side and as the door shifts open I instantly take notice of the sub-machine gun that was glued to the man’s grip. He allows me entry and I carefully walk through the door, arms raised to gratify any doubt he may have regarding my intentions. After I’m patted down from my shoulders to my ankles, I take a seat to await further instructions.
“Koko de matsu.”
Wait here. Great. That’s exactly what I wanted to do. But then again, it wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter. Here I was, a Japanese American half breed, sitting knee deep in the underbelly of the Yakuza waiting for what could have easily been a pre-appointed execution. Not many people knew of the location and having that type of information was a gamble for business. It could even give them enough reason to put a bullet through my head to cover their own asses. One less person meant less risk to them while giving two shits about my existence. Maybe I was over thinking the situation. Maybe I was paranoid. Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t like being surrounded by trigger happy cut throat assassins. I had worked with some of them in the past and I was still in good standing with the organization. When I allowed them to assist me with the destruction of Butch Parker and his pathetic family, there were no questions asked. They did exactly what I asked and I returned the favor by proving my loyalty in the form of cold hard cash. A few minutes later, one of the guards returned and asked me to follow him to the office where my appointment was scheduled to take place. I did so without question. Once inside the office I found a smaller man sitting behind an extravagant oak desk, he was old school Okinawa and appeared to be masking his identity behind a pair of thick black rim glasses. His hair was a pitch black tone that was tied back in a tail, while his gnarled flesh was riddled with wear and tear from signs of apparent age. I didn’t know whether to look straight ahead or directly into the florescent glass eye replacing his left pupil. His fingernails were more like claws, the edges sharpened, revealing various emblems of the organization that were scarred into his fingers and knuckles. I bowed to him upon entry as a showing of traditional respect and casually sat down in the chair positioned in front of his desk.
“Sore wa futatabi anata to bijinesu o yatte yorokobi ni narimasu.”
He says without looking up or sparing me additional attention, his voice sounding like someone suffering from the early stages of emphysema. He slides what appears to be an open contract across the table and yields it directly in front of me. Judging from the text printed on the paper I had no clue if he was offering protection or trying to sell me a ####ing mogwai. As I turned the pages of the packet I came across two individual photographs of Butch and Wisdom Parker. He reaches across the desk and taps his crusty nail on the face of Wisdom. Little did I know at the time but it turned out he despised Butch and Wisdom just as much as I did. Sure, I could have taken him as the type that hated all Americans simply because they had nothing to offer, but he was nothing like that. He told me he hated Butch for his arrogance, and loathed Wisdom because she was a disrespectful ##### who lacked the ability to keep her legs shut. As far as I could tell this guy could have had the both of them disemboweled in their sleep out of sheer boredom. But at the same time he was a man of principles and he knew I didn’t want to take the easy way out. He knew I had spent the last year tearing apart of fabrication of Butch Parker’s sanity. He knew exactly what I had in mind and was willing to do whatever it took to make lighting strike in the favor the HWA World Champion. I used a ballpoint pen to sign my name at the bottom of the contract handed it back to him.
11/24/2014
Hotel Palomar
Chicago, Illinois
* A static feed cuts the scene to an interior shot inside of the lobby of the lavish five star Palomar Hotel in Chicago. The cameras gradually guide HWA viewers past the various guests, bellhops and early twenty interns working behind the front desk. On the fifth floor, we find what appears to be a secluded room at the far end of the hallway with a "do not disturb" sign posted on the door. We move past the door and move into the oversized room that looks to be designed with royalty in mind. Granite counter tops in both bathrooms and the kitchen. Newly refurbished hardwood floors with crafted furniture straight out of a West Elm catalog. There is an open door leading out to the balcony of the room where we find a large man with his back to the camera. He casually turns and moves into the room, stopping directly in front of a large painiting of the prohibition era anti hero, Al Capone. He exhales a cloud of smoke from his lungs as the cameras move around to reveal the man as the HWA World Champion Michael James. As the cameras move back we take notice of the HWA World Championship draped over his shoulder, reflecting from the sunlight bursting through the open door *
Michael James: When it comes to the concept of personal inspiration, there were always a select few that I could actually consider to be worth a damn. Ironically, none of those men have anything to do with the sport of professional wrestling because just like the undefeated World Champion they wanted something of their own. Al Capone for example, wanted nothing more than to be respected for who he was and what he was capable of doing. During the prohibition era Al Capone was a voice of reason when authority figures were trying to justify laws with their heads stuck up each other's asses. He supplied a demand of the people and was forced to do business the hard way because assholes like Eliot Ness were jealous of Capone. His family loved him and his friends respected him like their own fathers simply because he could do things that others couldn't. I can relate to a guy like that. You know why? Because as far as I'm concerned I'm a picture perfect example of what Al Capone would be in the HWA. Just like Capone, I've been fighting for my respect aganist a horde of defeatist assholes who know they couldn't match up to a pile of my shit on their best day. People like Butch Parker who feel the need to mock and ridicule me simply because they can't do a ####ing thing for themselves.
* He brings the cigar to his mouth and takes a drag allowing the end to light up while smoke pours from his nostrils *
Michael James: People like Wisdom, that have no talent or meaning other than their own delusions leading them down a road with no end. If we were fighting in the prohibition era I would be Al Capone to Butch Parker's Eliot Ness. Except in my version of our neverending confrontation there will be no conviction other than the one Butch has to face when he realizes he came back to life for no ####ing reason. Any asshole on the roster can take advantage of an unlikely situation and get in a few cheap pops. Freddie Styles did the same thing when he tried to screw me out of the All Star Championship and everyone saw what happened there. As a matter of fact the last time I checked he's still trying to climb his way back to the spot I took away from him. So you know what that says about me? It says no matter what you say or what you do I'm still the ####ing man. I'm still the undefeated flagship champion and you're just another pile of shit on the same level as Bryan ####ing Deas. So, you finally found the energy to get off your ass and come back to work. Personally, I don't see that as a reason to celebrate. I see that as a reason for Senester to bump your worthless ass back down to minimum wage so Wisdom can experience what its like to live without a glass dick jammed inside of her mouth.
* He nods his head in a disgusted manner as he turns away from the painting. He steps in front of a long mirror and glances at the various bums and bruises on his face left from the aftermath of Butch Parker's attack *
Michael James: You want to know what I think about your supposed resurrection? Just like all the times I beat you before, it makes no difference to me. I'm still Michael James and you're still Butch Parker, the man that lost the HWA World Championship because you didn't have what it takes to get the job done. The only question I really have to ask at this point is exactly how ####ing stupid are you, Parker? I mean, think about this for a second. You know our history and you remember what I did to your family. Are you really willing to put them through that again? At this point it's not even about the HWA World Championship. It's not even about your pride. At this point in the game everything is going to come down to survival. And let's be honest with each other here, no one is better than throwing in the towel than you, Butch. When the push comes to shove you tuck your tail between your legs like a b###h and try and make all the bad go away. I hate to break it to you douche bag but I'm not going anywhere. I'm the flagship you stupid son of a b###h and that means more than a few cheap pops. It means more than some lame ass soap opera between a complete idiot and his transgender #####. It means I'm making the rules as I go along.
* He says, following his quote with a confident smirk *
Michael James: It means I'm the one you will never be again and even a blind man could see how much it's killing you. Crossing me was a bad idea and you just continue to make these fatal mistakes knowing you're going to pay for them later on. You really think you can piss off the boss and the World Champion with no consequences? Please, b###h. You have pain coming and you know just as well as I do that it's going to be a lot worse than anything you could ever do to me. I put you through the Taipei and bled your ass like a stuck pig. For that, I was on the assumption we had reached some level of respect but I guess even a man can be as stupid as a child sometimes. What you fail to understand is I'm just as fresh as I ever was so trying to play hero right now is not the best choice you could make. I know you want to talk shit and convince the world you're back to stay but I think we both know that's nothing more than another one of your impossible dreams. But then again I'm not one to deny a man his dreams so you go ahead and delude yourself as much as you want, Parker. It makes no difference to me because I'm not here to waste time. I'm the undefeated World Champion with a record that puts everyone else to ####ing shame.
* He approaches a mini bar connected to the kitchen and places a glass on the granite counter. He pours a shot of bourbon into the glass and pours it down his throat *
Michael James: You, Dredge, Fallen, Styles, Deas, Price. None of you assholes have come close to doing half of the things I've managed to do. It's like I told you in the very beginning. I'm a different breed of personified perfection. I'm a step above the rest and I'm the one that's going to lead instead of follow. What are you doing right now, Butch? Trying to rush to the bathroom and clean the shit from your pants after getting a small dose of this promo? Don't worry, I know you that well by now. I know you're terrified and I know you're worried how much I have left in me. So allow me to cure your curiousity. I still have more than you will ever be able to handle in a million lifetimes. You say you're the king, right? Well if that's the case why am I the one wearing the crown and sitting on the throne? Because you're biding your time? Give me a ####ing break. You have no kingdom. You have no chance. And above all you have no defense other than the cockroaches crawling from the cracks of Wisdom's snatch. This is my empire now and there isn't a ####ing thing either one of you can do besides finding happiness in your pointless returns and meaningless cheap shots.
* James rolls his eyes, thinking back to the priceless reaction Butch and Wisdom received at his expense *
Michael James: I already offered to take Wisdom out of her misery but you said "No, James, I can't live without Wisdom dangling her dice her on my face every night" so I stepped away and let you be who you are. Now, I just want to break your neck so I don't have to listen to your tired bullshit or predetermined victories that will never come true. I told the world I was going to be the new face of the HWA. I told them I was destined to take the World Championship from Butch Parker. I made all of those things happen on my own where Butch can't lift a finger without assistance. Not everyone can say one thing and make it happen. Not everyone can predict the future to a damn T. And that's fine. I realized a long time ago that I was put here to set an example while others are meant to be my punching bag. Before I arrived in the HWA, Butch was probably a sample of championship material. Now, he's a ####ing bottom feeder because that's what I did to him. Butch can plan all the sneak attacks he wants but at the end of the day I'm still going to be the champ. I'm still going to be the one that took everything from him and there isn't a damn thing he can take away from me.
* Another cloud of smoke pours from his nostrils as he starts to pour another shot *
Michael James: That's why I'm at the top of the food chain and Butch is in the same league as Michael Kosh. I knocked him down to the lowest rung he could possibly hit and now he wants to call himself a king. Really, Parker? I don't know about you but where I come from kings don't quit when things are at their worst. Kings don't prove themselves to be chicken shit cowards in the face of undefeatable adversity. You're no king. You're no hero and you're nothing special. Just another piece of egomaniacal shit that thought he could do what the others couldn't. You let everyone down before and this is going to be no different. I know you'll say that you were reborn or some some shit, right? And don't worry I'm not stealing your lines, I just know exactly what you're going to say exactly when you're going to say it. You haven't been reborn. You just decided to finally get off your ass and go back to making a living instead of feeding off of Senester and the HWA compensation fund. So do us all a favor and spare the pity routine because no one feels sorry for you. I kicked your ass, twice, and now you're back for more. That doesn't make you a king, Parker. It makes you a guy that lost to Michael James who should know his place in the natural pecking order.
* James makes it a point for the camera to close in on the custom designed breast plate of the HWA World Championship, specifically the name engraving that reads 'The Personification of Perfection Michael James' *
Michael James: If you really want to do this again I'm more than happy to oblige. You started this war a long time ago and lost everything you had in the process because you underestimated everything about me. What are you going to do this time, asshole? The same exact song and dance that put you in critical condition for longer than you can possibly remember? Yes, I thought so. I've seen your game and I've beaten your game so I don't need a psychic to tell me how this is going to end. If you were smart you would keep my name out of your mouth and go back to sitting on your ass watching the world pass you by. Live your life through your memories and be happy with what you can still recall. Sooner than later, its going to be the only choice you have left.
* He blows a cloud of smoke into the lens and the frame cuts to a static feed *
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