The scene unfolds within the dark confines that are Dark Horse Towers; the terrifying yet magnificent home and base of operations for Senester and now, sanctuary, of "The One Man Tartan Army" Butch Parker. Butch sits on a simple single bed, the material of the mattress not doing him any favours as he leans forward; his chin cupped in the palms of his hands and his elbows resting on the tops of his legs. A deep exhalation shoots out of this mouth and he reaches up, mopping his face with his left hand and he leans back so much that his the back of his head connects with the cold marble-plated wall. His eyes are a deep, deep red, bloodshot and tired and his knuckles on both hands are scraped, cut and bloody.

Nearly a week has passed by since the events that transpired in the closing moments of Havoc and Butch's mind is in overload, replaying the incident in his head over and over like a stuck record. His stomach somersaulted with excitement for the umpteenth time at remembering the brutality of the punishment he inflicted on Anton and Davis and he couldn't help but allow a wry smile to creep across his dark and haunted features. The nostalgia he felt at driving their bodies hard into the canvas seemed to act like an injection of morphine; able, if only for the time being, to block everything else out and feel absolutely nothing. No shame, no guilt, no regret….nothing.

But the game had well and truly changed now, that much was clear and concise. The looks on all the faces, changing from when his entrance music hit to when he aided Senester; from looks of astonishment and excitement to sheer bewilderment and horror. Those were images he'd never forget and not just those of the fans. But people who had known him, who really knew him; Vanessa Lang……Hans….especially Hans, those were expressions he'd take to his grave.

Butch exhaled deeply through his nose after that he had absorbed that very notion and it caused an involuntary shudder to contour through his whole body.

Yes, the game had well and truly changed. The questions would soon come and had probably been asked rhetorically and in vain over the past seven days. And he would have to answer those questions sooner rather than later. Why Butch, why? Why help Senester? Why have you returned? They would be launched him at him like an archer's volley and he would have to brace himself for impact. After all, he had gone from being arguably the most popular wrestling figure in recent memory to being condemned by his peers, the age-old "Hero to Zero" chestnut. Once a role model for children and young men everywhere, to a poster boy for gratuitous violence and destruction at the whim of a man's whose will can never be denied or thwarted. He would be judged straight from the offset, with no disregard for his rhyme or reason for the atrocities that fell upon Anton and Davis and the poor bastards to come, fans and fellow wrestlers alike would generate their own opinions and hurl verbal tirades in his direction but he could take them on the chin; after a long career of having to prove critics constantly wrong, his skin was thick enough to deal with volley of verbal abuse.

Butch stands up to a vertical base, pressing his knuckles together and he walks aimlessly in a circle around the small enclosure, his eyes fixated on the floor and the floor only. Out of nowhere, Butch slams an enclosed fist against the marble-coated wall, a blood-curdling crack resonating from his hand. Butch, chest heaving and eyes menacing, keeps his fist pressed against the wall for a moment before slowly pulling his hand away, to reveal a fissured crack contouring through the marble, chalk-like splinters embedded in broken and pulped knuckles but Butch pays it no mind.

If no one could understand or condone the actions of Havoc and the days to come, if they would turn their backs on him and make him an outcast, then f*** 'em. He did not need them. He did not need anybody.

Suddenly, the vibrating sound of a ringing cell phone nabbed Butch's attention and he pulled the phone from his pocket. He gazed at the caller ID reading "WISDOM". Butch sighed deeply and promptly turned the phone off, casting aside nonchalantly.

(Butch): Sorry my love, but you wouldn't understand….no one would….

Butch looked down to see the blood gaping from on the open wounds on his knuckles dripping down, forming a small pool on the floor at his feet and he tightened his fist once more.

(Butch): There's blood in the water, and the sharks are coming…

The scene fades to black.