Butch Parker sits in his room within the confines of Dark Horse Towers. The lights are dim allowing only the slivers of illumination to pour from the spaces in-between the blinds covering the lone window. Butch is laid back in the black leather reclining chair, an accumulation of stubble growing on his neck and face. In his hand is a small whiskey glass, accompanied by a bottle of Wild Turkey which sits ¾ full on the desk. Butch stares at the ceiling, the cogs turning in his head for a long moment before he sits forward. He brings the glass up to his lips and shots back the remnants of its contents in one gulp.

Butch casts his mind back to all the terrible things he's done since his unexpected return to the ring. He thinks back on the all horrific deeds he's done for Senester and the all horrific things he knows he will do in the times to come. He wonders if it will be beneficial in the run long, if it really was a worthy sacrifice. He wonders what his sister Diana would think, what his father, who was basically Butch in older form, would think. What would his old friend, Red Dragon thinks of him, presumably having heard about the damage Butch has done to so many people in the past couple of months. A deep sigh exhales heavily from Butch's mouth before his free hand reaches up and mops his face. He reaches for the bottle and pours another small dram, staring mindlessly into the golden liquid, absentmindedly running his left index finger around the glass's circumference.

(Butch): What a circus we have right now in the HWA, isn't it true folks?

Butch raises the glass up again, and drains the whiskey occupying it, replacing it back on the desk before he continues.

(Butch): We have a possibly schizophrenic World Champion who's every moral value and personality characteristic completely contradicts what being a World Champion should embody.

Butch snorts a sardonic snicker, lightly shaking his head.

(Butch): A World Champion who hopes to make a statement against the most dangerous entity to ever grace this industry. Personally, Eddie K is either on a foolhardy path to self-destruction and is aiming at one last desperate attempt to keep his name on the tongues of those around him, or this is all just a big stinking pile of bullshit poor man's Fight Club and it's covering something else up. Which one is it? Frankly, I couldn't care less but it should be fun to watch.

And then we've got a former World Champion coming back and grovelling back, trying to kiss the feet of the man he so ceremoniously betrayed, attempting to exert some form of authority by casually crowing about the amount of rematches he's entitled to, is inundated with court appearances due to breaches of his oh-so-lucrative contracts but still has so much free time to nourish and teach the apparent next generation of wrestlers in his precious little academy.

Who else? Oh yes!

Butch laughs again, shaking his head as he does so.

(Butch): We have our ever-gracious All-Star Champion who, when he's not committing acts of terrorism and disgracing a championship he seemingly doesn't want anymore, has become nothing more than a walking metaphor, spewing out the most pointless shit I've ever heard. "You're a bowling pin and I'm far from the single ball that comes down the lane with the skill of the person who rolled it. I'm the sweeper, taking all of you out when your turn ends." "I fly while you mortals figure we're birds. Get a clue before you're eaten."

Butch has an incredulous look on his face, before dismissing the comments with another shake of his head.

(Butch): I don't think I can even force myself to say anymore on the matter. And then of course we have Achmed the Dead Terrorist and the Canadian ****, more commonly known as Towelhead and Tit, and even more stupidly known as Terrorist and Tenacious. You may have wormed your way into Senester's flock and you may think that your beloved Allah will reward you for "cleansing efforts" but you are in a for a rude awakening and you can bet your last virgin that I am no ally of yours and I never will be.

Butch once again emits a sarcastic, almost condescending laugh as he pours himself another small glass of whiskey.

(Butch): And that brings me to the man of the hour, last but not least, Mr Logan Neilson. Oh how mistaken and naive you are Logan, to think that I hate Ronnie McNeil? Hate is a very strong word, and one that no doubt Ronnie himself feels towards me but I do not hate him. Our spat a couple of weeks ago was just, as usual, me correcting someone who erroneous in the exclamations he was making. You on the other hand, have been a constant pain in my arse since day one Logan. Whether it was your sarcastic comments or flirting with my sister, you have always been nibbling away Logan, like an annoying mosquito you just can't swat.

All I can say is that you're a brave and bold man, Logan, for placing your fate in my hands. You want this to be an interesting encounter Logan? You want it to be epic? Oh don't you worry yourself Logan, it will be epic and it will be interesting, very interesting.

Butch smirks as he downs the glass of whiskey as the scene fades to black.