Post by TheNewBreed on Nov 18, 2022 3:18:59 GMT -5
Tristan Slater snores lightly with his head tilted to the left and a small dribble of drool running from the corner of his mouth to pool on his shoulder and run down the sleeve of his plain gray tee shirt. It had been nearly two hours since they had taken off, and after their brief conversation about Mac Bane, John found himself buried in virtual meetings for the rest of the trip to Texas. Bored, Slater finally fell asleep about an hour into the flight.
“Slater! Wake up. We're about to land.” John says across the aisle, but Tristan only snores at him in response.
“Hey!” he growls at his tag partner as he shoves Slater in the knee with his foot.
“Fuck you, Mark Flynn!” Slater starts awake and looks around, not sure where he even is.
“Well... I'm sure wherever he is right now, that really stings his feelings.” John laughs at him before packing his laptop back into his travel bag.
“Fuck you too, John.” Slater chuckles to himself. “Are you finally done on that damn computer?” he asks as he rubs his eyes groggily.
“Yeah. Finally, I had to...” John starts before Slater cuts him off.
“No offense, but I don't care. THAT was boring as fuck.” Tristan chides the Beast about how he got ignored for most of that flight.
“Yeah, well I needed to get those meetings taken care of so I can focus while we're here to see Mac.” he explains as he finishes packing his bag and prepares to disembark.
“Can't Citizen handle that while you're off doing wrestler stuff?” Tristan asks.
“Well, we talked about it, and to be honest, the fundraising doesn't do as well if it isn't my face on the events...” he starts before Slater chuckles and John holds his hands up in a defensive posture. “As ugly as I may be... the money rolls out when I'm involved. I AM the face of the New Breed after all.” he explains with a laugh at himself.
“And what a face it is...” Tristan quips as the plane comes in for its landing and the scene fades to black.
We fade back into the runway as the New Breed's smallest private plane taxis towards its parking space near a large hangar. A large Black SUV pulls up to the area, and as the plane finally gets into place, a small blonde woman steps out of the driver's seat. Her golden hair is pulled back tight in a french braid, not a single fly away or stray hair poking out at any odd angles, and her black tee shirt is tucked tightly into her black BDUs. She looks across the runway at the plane reflecting across her polarized aviators as she takes a parade rest stance at the rear of the truck with a crisp stomp of her mirror polished combat boots.
Soon enough , the door on the plane splits, and opens from the side of the sleek, seamless white metal. Tristan and John make their way down the few steps and finally set foot on firm ground once more
“Hello, Darina. I didn't expect you to take this one. Where's Andrew?” John shouts over to the woman by the truck as he checks the small luggage cart being loaded at the rear of the plane.
“Andrew was busy with new hires at the Rabbit. The clientele there has been a little wild, and we've had to step up security measures and staffing numbers to ensure the customers and the employees are as...” she explains before John waves her off with a smile.
“No... I mean I get that... but I didn't think YOU would be taking this assignment personally is all I meant.” John explains as he makes his way towards the truck with the luggage cart being pushed behind him by a crew member of the flight team.
“You are a high priority client, and I am the best field agent on staff. We are in a potentially dangerous scenario, and there is no room for error here. Of course I was taking this contract personally.” she says stoically as she checks over the luggage at the back of the truck.
“Hey, Darina. Long time no see, huh?” Tristan smiles at the woman casually as he makes his way towards the truck.
“Maybe not long enough, Tristan.” the woman glares at Slater with a look of barely non contempt etched across her face. The history between the two of them is deep and complicated. John and Slater may have buried the hatchet of days gone by in recent years, but Ms. Weiman is not the easy to forgive type.
“OK. You still hate me. I can respect that.” Slater chuckles as he makes his way towards the truck with his duffel bag and tosses it into the back of the truck.
“I don't hate you, Slater. That kind of thing is reserved for special kinds of assholes... and you aren't that special.” She slings the insult over her shoulder as she oversees the final loading of the luggage and makes her way to the driver's seat of the 'Lock Down' SUV.
“Ouch.” Slater pretends to have his feelings hurt before he and John get into the truck and the scene fades to black once more.
We fade back into the interior of the SUV, Darina driving as John and Tristan talk in the back.
“Hey... I was thinking about what you said on the plane earlier.” John starts softly.
“Yeah? Which part? The need to trust Bane, or your track record of trusting people you shouldn't” Slater snaps at him with a short laugh.
“Well, both, honestly.” John says. “Look... if I didn't trust you the way I did all those years ago, we couldn't have gotten to where we are as a team. If I didn't try to trust you after everything we've been through, we wouldn't be where we are, and I get why you're cautious here... but we have to trust Mac.” he explains.
“Dude, I know, but he's in bed with Chris Page AND a part of CCPE. If we go into this missing something, and we make the wrong choice...” Slater begins but John waves him off with a hand, and cuts in.
“Yes, and by that logic, I'm in bed with Chris Page too. I have a lot of money tied up with the WGWF and the Velvet Rabbit. It has been a very profitable venture for me and for the Foundation, not to mention pretty damn profitable for Page too.” Cable states matter of factly.
“Yeah... that may be true... but it isn't like Page needs any more of your money now that the WGWF has rolled out of the grave of history and come back roaring to life again. He has plenty of income from the Rabbit and from his cuts of the contracts with his guys in CCPE. Chris is getting paid on both sides of this match coming up, and I think you're missing some of the plot here.” Slater answers skeptically.
“No... I get that. I do. I just don't think Page is looking to fuck us over here, and to be honest, the working relationship we've had so far since the relaunch has been nothing short of an amazing business deal. I just don...” John starts, but it's Tristan this time cutting into the conversation.
“You're still just thinking with your wallet, John. There is more at stake here than the business deals and the revenue sources. You have to see that...” Slater begins, but John cuts in fast this time, and waves a defensive hand at Slater.
“No... I DO get that. What you need to get, is there is no reason for Mac to betray us in this. There is no reason for Page to play his own guys against each other, or against us, and there is no conspiracy to get us when we're vulnerable.” John states plainly.
“Slater, let me give you some advice?” Darina chimes in from the front. “With John, you kinda just have to go with the plan, and be ready to divert when the shit hits the fan. The fan is always bigger than you realized it could be, and the pile of shit that gets chucked into it is always some dinosaur kind of pile the size of Mark Flynn's former ass. The only thing you can do is be prepared and hope it doesn't go the way you fear it might. Besides... it doesn't ALWAYS explode in his face. Just look at the two of you?” She laughs at the last bit and looks at both of them in the rear view mirror.
“THAT is exactly what I'm worried about.” Slater says as John sighs to himself shaking his head and the scene fades to black once more.
“A lot of people don't know this, but I happen to be a furniture collector as a hobbyist. Now, I don't just collect ANY random furniture, of course. I collect very specific pieces of unique craftsmanship, and over the years, I have come to find myself rather an expert in the conversation of chairs... their crafting... their design... their comfort... in all manner of styles and themes...” John's gravely voice drones over a scene opening in a parking lot in Texas where the blacked out Lock Down SUV has parked outside of a plain square concrete storefront with a sign hanging overhead.
“I have been looking for a particular pair of chairs for quite some time, and finally, I have tracked a couple down right here in Texas, and today... I get to pick them up and add them to my ever-growing collection.” John's voice overplays the sight of John and Darina climbing out of the truck and heading towards the store's front doors before disappearing inside.
We pick up the pair walking down a wide aisle lined on either side by chairs of all sorts before John stops in the middle of the row and turns towards a plain set of pine dinner chairs.
“See, chairs like these are good utility chairs. They get the job done and all, but they aren't very well crafted, and pine wood is a really soft wood to build furniture out of anyway. It doesn't take the pressure of heavier weights, and over time, the absorption of water in damp environs can cause the pine to swell and split, and really... pine is just a weak choice for chairs in my opinion.”
John runs his hand over the unstained sandy colored pine of the rough hewn chair back. His gnarled finger trails across a darkened hole in the support rod that runs up the side of the back of the light wood chair where a knot had been, rough and natural, but unsightly in a finished piece.
“Chairs like these remind me a lot of Sonya Benson and the Punisher, honestly. Soft, unfinished, unrefined, and they just crack under pressure, you know? These are definitely not of remarkable craftsmanship for sure, and while they make their jokes and act the fool with parlor tricks and shenanigans designed to make a mockery of the sport and the legacy of those who came before them, the fact is, if you put either of them inside a cage with the Beast... they splinter like kindling for the fire.” John says matter of factly before moving down the aisle once more towards the back of the store through the sea of chairs.
After walking for a couple of minutes, he stops by a different section of wooden chairs, and looks over the selection before making his way into the inventory once more.
“Then, take these cherry wood chairs, here.” John motions to a pair of very pretty straight backed dining table chairs with a deep red velvet upholstery with glittering golden threads and buttons set in a diamond pattern across the seat and back panels of the chair. Each of the legs and the long supports that run up the back of the chair have a deep decorative groove cut into the length of the reddish wood stained to a bright shine.
“These chairs are nice, if you're looking to upgrade from the IKEA home starter kit, that is. Yeah they're a little more refined than particle board slapdash Walmart box stuff, but that ain't saying much, really, now is it? Sure, they look good, and they do their job for family functions and everyday use, but in the long run, you aren't going to hand them down to the grand kids, you know? They serve a purpose, and then they end up in a trash pile, forgotten and busted down by a compactor to fit better in the landfill.” John says as he runs his rough, callous fingers across the buttons as they shimmer in the overhead neon white light.
“These ones here remind me more of JMont and Fred, to be honest. They have all the glitz and glam of a real valuable piece, but in the end of the day, when the tally comes up in a decade or two of whose legacy will live on in the memories of the fans for generations to come, these guys are flash in the pan types at best... footnotes in a side chapter of a company's history they use to remind themselves of what angles not to try out again. The only reason they haven't melted into obscurity yet is because the pair of them don't know when or how to quit. They hear the crowd booing at them, and they think the audience is mad that James Raven booked them in a fight with the cretins across the ring instead of realizing how much every one of them hate their existence the moment they hear their entrance music.” John says as he shakes his head at the 'meh-grade' dining chairs before turning back through the multitude of seating options and heading back to the main aisle with Darina close behind.
“I would say the fans ALWAYS hate them, but from what I see on the internet, the fans mostly forget about JMont and Debonair even existing until right when they hear their songs kick over the PA, then they wish they hadn't been reminded.” he says over his shoulder as he walks even further into what seems now like an endless graveyard of posterior supports.
After another few minutes of walking and hundreds of chairs sitting by the wayside, John stops in tracks, and stares at a set of seats in the distance, his mouth agape and his eyes alight with joy.
“And there... ladies and gentlemen of the WGWF-A-Verse... are the two most sought after pieces of my life's hobbyist ambitions! As I said earlier, not just ANY chair can be truly valuable. Fine materials... refined crafting techniques honed over ages of training and trial and error... struggles forging the masterpiece into the work of art it will eventually become... All of these are factors, but these aren't the only things that make truly valuable pieces the sought after collectors items that people like me scour the world for. They also have to be recognized by others as being very well crafted and generally accepted as the best available work compared to other works of its type and make with respect to its time and technology. In other words, the world has to think they are the valuable masterpieces they become, or you just have a pile of wood and fabric you paid too much for that sits in the corner of your garage collecting dust.” he says as he makes his way towards two 'chairs' sitting in the middle of the aisle ahead.
“Now here... here sits the Peter Vaughn and Mark Flynn of the chair stores if ever there were some, right? The LEGACY involved with just these two alone. What better way for a man past his prime but at his peak looking to prove his worth to the world than showing them all how over-hyped and overblown their favorite troubadour dandies are, huh? What better statement to make to the roster and to the fans about just what it is going to take to walk away from Wrestle Wars with the strap than to step into the ring and lay low the industries two most indomitable, undeniable, unstoppable killing machines? What better way to become the boogeyman feared in the darkened alleyways than to slay the monsters that haunt the rings and locker rooms right now?” John asks as we see the two 'chairs' finally.
Set up on the floor before him is a plain white director style chair with a white canvas back stretched across two spindly rails of support bars that rise up past the canvas seat stretched across the center. On it, the words 'Jim Carey' are splashed in black lettering next to the famous title logo of his film, the Cable Guy. Next to it, sits a plain gray and brown fold out chair of the Igloo variety made of tarp material and plastic rods held in place by plastic hardware and joints that were made famous by soccer moms and weekend warrior camping aficionados across America.
“Everyone sees these guys and sees a value that just isn't there, yet they keep drawing paychecks to headline across the globe. Come Monday... the demented funny guy with a rock hard chin and the Appalachian Mountain Man who wandered into a wrestling show and stayed for the beer ... well... we find out how sturdy they really are when for the first time, the mechanic and the bearded wonder come face to face with a Beast with a bone to pick and everything to prove in a ring they THINK belongs to them.” he says before the scene fades to black.
“Slater! Wake up. We're about to land.” John says across the aisle, but Tristan only snores at him in response.
“Hey!” he growls at his tag partner as he shoves Slater in the knee with his foot.
“Fuck you, Mark Flynn!” Slater starts awake and looks around, not sure where he even is.
“Well... I'm sure wherever he is right now, that really stings his feelings.” John laughs at him before packing his laptop back into his travel bag.
“Fuck you too, John.” Slater chuckles to himself. “Are you finally done on that damn computer?” he asks as he rubs his eyes groggily.
“Yeah. Finally, I had to...” John starts before Slater cuts him off.
“No offense, but I don't care. THAT was boring as fuck.” Tristan chides the Beast about how he got ignored for most of that flight.
“Yeah, well I needed to get those meetings taken care of so I can focus while we're here to see Mac.” he explains as he finishes packing his bag and prepares to disembark.
“Can't Citizen handle that while you're off doing wrestler stuff?” Tristan asks.
“Well, we talked about it, and to be honest, the fundraising doesn't do as well if it isn't my face on the events...” he starts before Slater chuckles and John holds his hands up in a defensive posture. “As ugly as I may be... the money rolls out when I'm involved. I AM the face of the New Breed after all.” he explains with a laugh at himself.
“And what a face it is...” Tristan quips as the plane comes in for its landing and the scene fades to black.
We fade back into the runway as the New Breed's smallest private plane taxis towards its parking space near a large hangar. A large Black SUV pulls up to the area, and as the plane finally gets into place, a small blonde woman steps out of the driver's seat. Her golden hair is pulled back tight in a french braid, not a single fly away or stray hair poking out at any odd angles, and her black tee shirt is tucked tightly into her black BDUs. She looks across the runway at the plane reflecting across her polarized aviators as she takes a parade rest stance at the rear of the truck with a crisp stomp of her mirror polished combat boots.
Soon enough , the door on the plane splits, and opens from the side of the sleek, seamless white metal. Tristan and John make their way down the few steps and finally set foot on firm ground once more
“Hello, Darina. I didn't expect you to take this one. Where's Andrew?” John shouts over to the woman by the truck as he checks the small luggage cart being loaded at the rear of the plane.
“Andrew was busy with new hires at the Rabbit. The clientele there has been a little wild, and we've had to step up security measures and staffing numbers to ensure the customers and the employees are as...” she explains before John waves her off with a smile.
“No... I mean I get that... but I didn't think YOU would be taking this assignment personally is all I meant.” John explains as he makes his way towards the truck with the luggage cart being pushed behind him by a crew member of the flight team.
“You are a high priority client, and I am the best field agent on staff. We are in a potentially dangerous scenario, and there is no room for error here. Of course I was taking this contract personally.” she says stoically as she checks over the luggage at the back of the truck.
“Hey, Darina. Long time no see, huh?” Tristan smiles at the woman casually as he makes his way towards the truck.
“Maybe not long enough, Tristan.” the woman glares at Slater with a look of barely non contempt etched across her face. The history between the two of them is deep and complicated. John and Slater may have buried the hatchet of days gone by in recent years, but Ms. Weiman is not the easy to forgive type.
“OK. You still hate me. I can respect that.” Slater chuckles as he makes his way towards the truck with his duffel bag and tosses it into the back of the truck.
“I don't hate you, Slater. That kind of thing is reserved for special kinds of assholes... and you aren't that special.” She slings the insult over her shoulder as she oversees the final loading of the luggage and makes her way to the driver's seat of the 'Lock Down' SUV.
“Ouch.” Slater pretends to have his feelings hurt before he and John get into the truck and the scene fades to black once more.
We fade back into the interior of the SUV, Darina driving as John and Tristan talk in the back.
“Hey... I was thinking about what you said on the plane earlier.” John starts softly.
“Yeah? Which part? The need to trust Bane, or your track record of trusting people you shouldn't” Slater snaps at him with a short laugh.
“Well, both, honestly.” John says. “Look... if I didn't trust you the way I did all those years ago, we couldn't have gotten to where we are as a team. If I didn't try to trust you after everything we've been through, we wouldn't be where we are, and I get why you're cautious here... but we have to trust Mac.” he explains.
“Dude, I know, but he's in bed with Chris Page AND a part of CCPE. If we go into this missing something, and we make the wrong choice...” Slater begins but John waves him off with a hand, and cuts in.
“Yes, and by that logic, I'm in bed with Chris Page too. I have a lot of money tied up with the WGWF and the Velvet Rabbit. It has been a very profitable venture for me and for the Foundation, not to mention pretty damn profitable for Page too.” Cable states matter of factly.
“Yeah... that may be true... but it isn't like Page needs any more of your money now that the WGWF has rolled out of the grave of history and come back roaring to life again. He has plenty of income from the Rabbit and from his cuts of the contracts with his guys in CCPE. Chris is getting paid on both sides of this match coming up, and I think you're missing some of the plot here.” Slater answers skeptically.
“No... I get that. I do. I just don't think Page is looking to fuck us over here, and to be honest, the working relationship we've had so far since the relaunch has been nothing short of an amazing business deal. I just don...” John starts, but it's Tristan this time cutting into the conversation.
“You're still just thinking with your wallet, John. There is more at stake here than the business deals and the revenue sources. You have to see that...” Slater begins, but John cuts in fast this time, and waves a defensive hand at Slater.
“No... I DO get that. What you need to get, is there is no reason for Mac to betray us in this. There is no reason for Page to play his own guys against each other, or against us, and there is no conspiracy to get us when we're vulnerable.” John states plainly.
“Slater, let me give you some advice?” Darina chimes in from the front. “With John, you kinda just have to go with the plan, and be ready to divert when the shit hits the fan. The fan is always bigger than you realized it could be, and the pile of shit that gets chucked into it is always some dinosaur kind of pile the size of Mark Flynn's former ass. The only thing you can do is be prepared and hope it doesn't go the way you fear it might. Besides... it doesn't ALWAYS explode in his face. Just look at the two of you?” She laughs at the last bit and looks at both of them in the rear view mirror.
“THAT is exactly what I'm worried about.” Slater says as John sighs to himself shaking his head and the scene fades to black once more.
* * * * *
“A lot of people don't know this, but I happen to be a furniture collector as a hobbyist. Now, I don't just collect ANY random furniture, of course. I collect very specific pieces of unique craftsmanship, and over the years, I have come to find myself rather an expert in the conversation of chairs... their crafting... their design... their comfort... in all manner of styles and themes...” John's gravely voice drones over a scene opening in a parking lot in Texas where the blacked out Lock Down SUV has parked outside of a plain square concrete storefront with a sign hanging overhead.
“I have been looking for a particular pair of chairs for quite some time, and finally, I have tracked a couple down right here in Texas, and today... I get to pick them up and add them to my ever-growing collection.” John's voice overplays the sight of John and Darina climbing out of the truck and heading towards the store's front doors before disappearing inside.
We pick up the pair walking down a wide aisle lined on either side by chairs of all sorts before John stops in the middle of the row and turns towards a plain set of pine dinner chairs.
“See, chairs like these are good utility chairs. They get the job done and all, but they aren't very well crafted, and pine wood is a really soft wood to build furniture out of anyway. It doesn't take the pressure of heavier weights, and over time, the absorption of water in damp environs can cause the pine to swell and split, and really... pine is just a weak choice for chairs in my opinion.”
John runs his hand over the unstained sandy colored pine of the rough hewn chair back. His gnarled finger trails across a darkened hole in the support rod that runs up the side of the back of the light wood chair where a knot had been, rough and natural, but unsightly in a finished piece.
“Chairs like these remind me a lot of Sonya Benson and the Punisher, honestly. Soft, unfinished, unrefined, and they just crack under pressure, you know? These are definitely not of remarkable craftsmanship for sure, and while they make their jokes and act the fool with parlor tricks and shenanigans designed to make a mockery of the sport and the legacy of those who came before them, the fact is, if you put either of them inside a cage with the Beast... they splinter like kindling for the fire.” John says matter of factly before moving down the aisle once more towards the back of the store through the sea of chairs.
After walking for a couple of minutes, he stops by a different section of wooden chairs, and looks over the selection before making his way into the inventory once more.
“Then, take these cherry wood chairs, here.” John motions to a pair of very pretty straight backed dining table chairs with a deep red velvet upholstery with glittering golden threads and buttons set in a diamond pattern across the seat and back panels of the chair. Each of the legs and the long supports that run up the back of the chair have a deep decorative groove cut into the length of the reddish wood stained to a bright shine.
“These chairs are nice, if you're looking to upgrade from the IKEA home starter kit, that is. Yeah they're a little more refined than particle board slapdash Walmart box stuff, but that ain't saying much, really, now is it? Sure, they look good, and they do their job for family functions and everyday use, but in the long run, you aren't going to hand them down to the grand kids, you know? They serve a purpose, and then they end up in a trash pile, forgotten and busted down by a compactor to fit better in the landfill.” John says as he runs his rough, callous fingers across the buttons as they shimmer in the overhead neon white light.
“These ones here remind me more of JMont and Fred, to be honest. They have all the glitz and glam of a real valuable piece, but in the end of the day, when the tally comes up in a decade or two of whose legacy will live on in the memories of the fans for generations to come, these guys are flash in the pan types at best... footnotes in a side chapter of a company's history they use to remind themselves of what angles not to try out again. The only reason they haven't melted into obscurity yet is because the pair of them don't know when or how to quit. They hear the crowd booing at them, and they think the audience is mad that James Raven booked them in a fight with the cretins across the ring instead of realizing how much every one of them hate their existence the moment they hear their entrance music.” John says as he shakes his head at the 'meh-grade' dining chairs before turning back through the multitude of seating options and heading back to the main aisle with Darina close behind.
“I would say the fans ALWAYS hate them, but from what I see on the internet, the fans mostly forget about JMont and Debonair even existing until right when they hear their songs kick over the PA, then they wish they hadn't been reminded.” he says over his shoulder as he walks even further into what seems now like an endless graveyard of posterior supports.
After another few minutes of walking and hundreds of chairs sitting by the wayside, John stops in tracks, and stares at a set of seats in the distance, his mouth agape and his eyes alight with joy.
“And there... ladies and gentlemen of the WGWF-A-Verse... are the two most sought after pieces of my life's hobbyist ambitions! As I said earlier, not just ANY chair can be truly valuable. Fine materials... refined crafting techniques honed over ages of training and trial and error... struggles forging the masterpiece into the work of art it will eventually become... All of these are factors, but these aren't the only things that make truly valuable pieces the sought after collectors items that people like me scour the world for. They also have to be recognized by others as being very well crafted and generally accepted as the best available work compared to other works of its type and make with respect to its time and technology. In other words, the world has to think they are the valuable masterpieces they become, or you just have a pile of wood and fabric you paid too much for that sits in the corner of your garage collecting dust.” he says as he makes his way towards two 'chairs' sitting in the middle of the aisle ahead.
“Now here... here sits the Peter Vaughn and Mark Flynn of the chair stores if ever there were some, right? The LEGACY involved with just these two alone. What better way for a man past his prime but at his peak looking to prove his worth to the world than showing them all how over-hyped and overblown their favorite troubadour dandies are, huh? What better statement to make to the roster and to the fans about just what it is going to take to walk away from Wrestle Wars with the strap than to step into the ring and lay low the industries two most indomitable, undeniable, unstoppable killing machines? What better way to become the boogeyman feared in the darkened alleyways than to slay the monsters that haunt the rings and locker rooms right now?” John asks as we see the two 'chairs' finally.
Set up on the floor before him is a plain white director style chair with a white canvas back stretched across two spindly rails of support bars that rise up past the canvas seat stretched across the center. On it, the words 'Jim Carey' are splashed in black lettering next to the famous title logo of his film, the Cable Guy. Next to it, sits a plain gray and brown fold out chair of the Igloo variety made of tarp material and plastic rods held in place by plastic hardware and joints that were made famous by soccer moms and weekend warrior camping aficionados across America.
“Everyone sees these guys and sees a value that just isn't there, yet they keep drawing paychecks to headline across the globe. Come Monday... the demented funny guy with a rock hard chin and the Appalachian Mountain Man who wandered into a wrestling show and stayed for the beer ... well... we find out how sturdy they really are when for the first time, the mechanic and the bearded wonder come face to face with a Beast with a bone to pick and everything to prove in a ring they THINK belongs to them.” he says before the scene fades to black.