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John Samuels · (05-13-2013)

Whew!

This is... huge!

I know.

I know.

The scene opens up in a dimly lit room. The commotion amongst the patrons is barely audible. The bar is full of sharply dressed, middle-aged clientele. The camera moves to a large corner booth, sectioned off by a red velvet rope. The booth looks much more comfortable than the other seats lining the walls, a perfect fit for a man of John Samuels’ stature. He is seated at the booth, across from Fairchild, slowly swirling around the amber liquid in his short, crystal glass. From the corner of his eye, Samuels notices his waiter approaching, forcing him to quickly guzzle the scotch before his arrival. As the waiter undoes the rope Samuels slides the empty glass to the end of the table.

Waiter: Another, Senator Samuels?

Fairchild leans forward, turning her head towards the man. She squints behind her glasses slightly, trying to subtly catch the waiter’s attention. Before she is given any due, however, Samuels simply holds up two fingers to the man.

Waiter: A double. Very well sir. Anything for madam Fairchild?

Fairchild: I’ll have a water.

Samuels: She’ll have bourbon.

The waiter awkwardly looks between the two. Visibly annoyed, Samuels heaves a heavy sigh out as he leans back and taps his fingers against the solid table. Fairchild looks toward Samuels and then quickly back to the waiter, barely able to break his frightened stare-down with Samuels.

Fairchild: Bourbon will be just fine.

Samuels leans back in his chair and slowly cranks his neck to the left, then to the right. Each time, a loud crack is heard. He looks straight ahead at Fairchild, who folds her arms and places them on the table.

Fairchild: Come on, cheer up. You don’t look like a man who’s just successfully defended his title for a second time in as many weeks.

Samuels: Yeah? Tell me, what kind of man do I look like then?

Fairchild: An angry one.

Samuels: Congratulations, you solved the riddle.

Samuels holds up his arm over Fairchild’s head and frantically points downward toward her. He begins yelling, drawing the attention of the entire bar.

Samuels: DING! DING! DING! WOULD SOMEBODY GET THE LADY A PRIZE!? SHE JUST WON THE NO-SHIT-A-THON!

Fairchild slumps down into her seat and bows her head down into one of her hands. With her free hand she motions for Samuels to stop. He grins at her menacingly and drops his arm to his side before leaning in and resting his arms on the table.

Samuels: Tell me, Ms. Smartypants, how do you think you would feel if you worked your ass off to win a symbol that declares your dominance over an entire roster, and then have that very symbol stolen from you by some coward who can’t even show his face?

Fairchild: Probably pretty angry.

Samuels: PRETTY angry!? Pretty. Angry. That’s how you think you’d feel, huh!? Try infuriated. Try disgusted. I beat that little hussy fair-and-square on Monday night. I damn near snapped every vertebrae in that trampy little back of hers. And then almost as quickly as it took that tramp to tap, that coward killed the power and stole MY European title. How humiliating. After the things I’ve endured, the wars I’ve fought... A total coward without the balls to face me like a man swoops in while I’m celebrating a hard-earned victory, and he steals my title! It’s been going through my head every minute of every day since Madness went off the air. It’s been humiliating. I’m the European champion, not some faceless bastard with no respect for his betters. I’ve beaten the best that Madness has to offer, no exceptions, since my arrival. Who the Hell dares to think that they deserve that title more than I do? A lunatic, obviously. I cannot be beaten, especially by any of the punks on Monday’s roster. There’s no more number one contenders, there’s no more promising recruits. There’s simply undercrust, more undercrust, and myself-- The champion. And Paul Heyman, of course. It’s puzzling to me how the greatest general manager in the XWF, possibly the world, is stuck managing a roster with one superstar and a bunch of talentless morons all scurrying about with their petty squabbles. It’s like Madness is turning into Wednesday Night Warfare. And we all know what a joke that is.

Waiter: Oh my son loves that show! He’s a huge Knightmask fan!

Samuels’ head quickly snaps to the left, startling the waiter who has returned with the drinks. He nods nervously and quickly places the drinks down in front of the pair. Without breaking his gaze, Samuels snatches up the glass and drinks it’s contents down with one large gulp. He slams the empty glass down on the table, nearly causing the waiter to jump right out of his skin. Samuels holds up two fingers again.

Waiter: Sir, you may have had--

Samuels: Oh, I’ve definitely had enough. I’ve had enough of this shadow-man who took my title haunting my dreams. I’ve had enough of ignorant fans like yourself, flapping their gums about who’s on Warfare and who’s on Shove it. I’ve had enough of flying under the radar, despite being the most dominant member of the XWF roster in recent memory. I’m the European champion, for crying out loud! But you know what I’ve really had enough of? What I really, really have had enough of? I’ve had enough of the so-called ‘talent’ from the other shows showing their faces on MY show. That’s right, mine. Madness is MY show and I’m tired of these invaders showing up on a whim attempting to direct the attention away from me, where it belongs. That’s a long list of things that I’ve had enough of, and if memory serves me correctly, scotch wasn’t on that list. So how about you go scurry back into that kitchen of yours, ranting and raving about your love affair with Warfare’s favorite son and go get me another damn drink? Just because I don’t have my title belt doesn’t mean that I’m not still the champion, and as such, that makes me a dangerous man. A dangerous, humiliated, disgusted, angry man. Do you really want to see what happens when you piss that man off!?

The waiter inhales deeply and looks toward a security guard in the corner of the room. The security smirks and shakes his head, then averts his gaze toward a table full of women. The waiter looks back towards Samuels and also shakes his head.

Waiter: I apologize, sir. Please, allow the house to buy you and the madam your next round.

Samuels: I’m not a damn charity case. Get back there and get me my drink.

The waiter scurries back towards the bar, leaving Samuels relieved momentarily before he notices Fairchild attempting to suck down her drink.

Samuels: What’s wrong, princess? Can’t handle a real drink?

Fairchild: It tastes like garbage.

Samuels: Garbage, you say? You want to hear about garbage? This Monday I get to play host to not one. Not two. But three members of the XWF roster that don’t belong on Monday nights. All in MY main event. A position I’ve earned. Not like Steve Davids, who can barely be considered a top-tier guy on his own show. Not Mr. Satellite, a boring little cretin that just became champion by beating a bunch of nobodies. Surprise, surprise. And there’s Mister Mystery, the beast himself. Coming out of his little hidey-hole for the first time since I damn near drove his skull through the canvas at Gauntlet City. You better believe I’m not letting him live that one down any time soon. Lucky me, I also happen to have the great fortune of having to team up with one of these undeserving fools before I beat the life out of them. Think of all the possibilities: I can team with that freak show, Mr. Satellite. What a joy that would be, a one-armed tag team partner with the street sense of ET. Do you think that little perception ring of his can generate a tolerable personality? Or maybe a snowball’s chance in hell of not ruining the match for me? I doubt it. Shove-It champion or not, he’s more likely to cost me the tag team match than to help me win it. And yet he would still gain from it. He’d get to walk away with firsthand experience of how a real XWF champion conducts himself in the ring. Or, even luckier yet, I could draw the opportunity to tag with Steve Davids. I had no idea who the Hell he was until it was announced that he weaseled his way into MY main event. What a joke that would be, teaming up with a nobody from Warfare to take on a bogus champion and a former Mr. Badass. Great, I might as well not even show up. Satellite and Mystery are chumps compared to me, but to a nobody like Davids? Kid is gonna get split in half and hung from the rafters. And I’d prefer to not even subject myself to a front row seat to that freak show. And speaking of freaking shows, I guess that brings me to the big, bad, wolf himself. Mister Mystery. The hide-and-seek king of the XWF. The only one of the three I’ve ever actually been in the ring with, albeit it was a short, painful encounter... for him. It was sad to see, really. The juggernaut of the XWF brought down so quickly by a rookie Senator. Dragging all that dead weight named Peter Gilmour must really be taking it’s toll on the man. Now he just seems like a broken, beaten man clinging to relevancy. Poor juggernaut. He’s still more than capable of beating those other two clowns though, so there’s that. But how far will that get him? It’ll get him a one way ticket to a one-on-one match with me, and we already know how that story ends: Filibuster. 1. 2. 3. Maybe if he dropped that deadweight partner of his and focused on being the force of destruction he once was capable of being, then I wouldn’t mind so much that he was weaseling his way into MY spotlight after being gone for so damn long.

Fairchild: I know, I know. But look at it this way: If you win this match then nobody is going to question where you stand in the company.

Samuels: You mean WHEN I win. And who the hell would question my position at the top of the XWF’s food chain? I’m the only man in this match that’s worth his salt. Mr. Satellite might be a champion, but he’s a bogus one and I sincerely doubt that he’ll be holding on to that title for much longer. Steve Davids is nobody. Calling him a blip on the radar would be doing him a giant favor. I guess he should be thankful that only stars can fade, and that’s a problem he won’t be dealing with. Mystery? He’s no longer a mystery. He’s just like everyone else around here, scampering along trying to create an identity. Although, to be fair, I am the one that put to rest that whole ‘locomotive of destruction’ or whatever nonsense it was that people were calling him. The second half of that match is going to be something special. And I’ll be in it, don’t you doubt me on that. I don’t really care who my partner is, as long as they know to just shut up and get out of my way, and let me handle business. And then it’s time for the real fun to begin. The second half of the main event is where I’m going to show the entire XWF that Monday Night Madness has a true champion, deserving of his status as a main-eventer. Davids, Satellite, Mystery, whoever-- They don’t make it out of Madness in one piece. And then, I’m going to find the useless prick who stole my title and I am going to break him into tiny little pieces.

The waiter approaches the table, but this time Samuels stands up to meet him. He snatches the drink off the waiter’s tray and gulps it down once more. He slams the empty glass down on the tray, shattering it and sending the waiter flying backwards. As Samuels begins laughing, the security guards quickly flank to the waiter’s side, chests puffed and arms crossed. Samuels reaches back and grabs the rest of Fairchild’s drink, finishing that off quickly as well. Samuels wipes the excess off his lips and stares directly at the guards with a grin on his face.

Samuels: You boys picked the wrong day...

The camera cuts to the exterior of the bar, focused on the door. The large door swings open quickly as four of the security guards toss Samuels out onto the street. Samuels stands up, his suit ripped and a small trickle of blood running down his nose.

Samuels: You’ll be hearing from my lawyer! All of you! Nobody treats me this way! I’m a champion for God’s sakes! You’ll see!

Fairchild bursts out the door, shaking her head.

Fairchild: I can’t take you anywhere.

Samuels: They started it.

Fairchild: Says the man with a $400 bar tab. You’re going to pay me back, right?

Samuels: We’ll see. It’s a tax write-off anyway. Business lunch, we’ll call it.

Fairchild: Unbelievable.

Samuels: Why yes, yes I am.

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