The camera activates, revealing a dark room, partially illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlight shining in through a window. It’s difficult to tell exactly what the observer is looking at, but from the number of shots shown previously in this particular room, it would appear that this is the living room of AWOL’s apartment. The only human occupant of the room, however, seems to be a figure in a black coat at the back of the room, rifling through one of the former champ’s shelves. A book goes flying, landing in the seat of AWOL’s chair. Shaking his head in dissatisfaction, the figure turns back towards the rest of the room, looking for a moment at the television before turning away from it. Finally, his eyes seem to alight on the camera. The man gives a thoughtful scratch at his chin, walking forward towards it and bending down, his bloodshot amber eyes gazing at the recording equipment thoughtfully, obviously adding up the dollar signs in his head. A wicked smile crosses his mouth and he starts to reach forward towards the camera until a voice from outside the shot interrupts him.
“Hey, help me out for a second pal. Does this smell like chloroform to you?”
The thief looks up, confused, before a white rag is shoved quickly over his face. AWOL’s massive bulk passes quickly in front of the camera shot just as it tips over to the side, quickly breaking into static.
***
Alas, it seems Action Jackson is here to stay, despite our best wishes. And here I already went out and bought a farewell banner for you and everything. What am I supposed to tell all the people I invited to the party?
Oh, did I forget to invite you? Sorry about that…
I’m not sure I get you, Jackson. I’m honestly not sure I’ve ever really understood what makes you tick, and I don’t think I ever will. Of all the people in the world I would expect to turn into a crusader for all that’s right and good, you were probably ranked just behind Bernie Madoff on the list of probables. And yet here you are, standing in front of a mob of angry, disenfranchised cast-offs from the ranks of relevant IWC competitors, demanding that the home office step out of the way and let the in-ring competition work out the way God and Vince McMahon Sr. intended, mano-a-mano with no outside interference. On the surface, I should be applauding you. Hell, I support the cause, Jackson. You’ll note my actions on the weeks prior to Paranoia in casting off the last remnants of the Empire, though I’ll admit it was more than just slightly motivated by not wanting the annoyance of having Simon Cagero actually thinking that he in any way had the ability to tell me what to do.
Nonetheless, I am forced to remember history here, JA, and I’ve got to admit I have my doubts about your sincerity. Put aside for a moment your single handedly breaking up the second iteration of our group all by yourself, the long string of groups just like the FSS you used to advance yourself, and every other miserable thing you’ve done during the course of the shell you call a career. I’m still forced to remember the instance a few weeks prior to now when you and your current cronies, who supposedly don’t stand for that sort of backstage shenanigans, jumped me as I was leaving the Two for One Special and threw me in the trunk of a car. This came after your attacking me to try and press gang me into your stable in the first place, I strive to point out, a behavior I really have to assume runs contrary to your purported mission statement.
Now should I be surprised? No, not really. You’re a maggot, if I’m not pulling my punches, but I don’t mean to imply that this is meant in some way as an insult. Maggots are fully capable of surviving and thriving in the world, and no one should judge them for that. Like a maggot, you only have a very simple programming scheme that controls your behavior. You crawl along the ground, mostly escaping notice because of your low profile, and waiting for just the right piece of carrion to drop down and become available to you for an easy meal. Now, it seems, a chance at the world title has hit the ground, and so of course you’ve put off your early retirement from the company to try and come back and lock your little mandibles around it for a nibble. No wonder, in truth, that it has attracted you for a bite, given the current rotten, broken down status of the World Title in the IWC. Unfortunately, JA, the bottom line is that you have to go through me to get to it, and I’ve got no interest in seeing any more jokes like you picking up the belt. Admittedly, you’re miles and miles ahead of Porno Lad in my opinion, but the only way I can be sure to see to it that this doesn’t happen again is to take it for myself. This isn’t about putting you to a tes, or seeing what you’ve got. It’s about the world title, and about me taking control of this company for myself. For my part I’m sorry that you were put in my way, but it’s going to happen regardless. ***
The thief’s eyes open slowly, blinking in confusion as they look around at the current unfamiliar surroundings. The look of grogginess won’t leave his face, but AWOL’s hand quickly reaches in and gives the side of his cheek a not entirely gentle slap. Anger flashes in for a moment and he quickly tries to stand up and confront his attacker.
Only to find that he is currently duct taped to a table.
More specific, straps of the aluminum coated adhesive are wrapped across his torso, hips, wrists, and legs, holding him firmly to the stop of a steel tabletop draped in plastic sheeting. AWOL leans forward, his face an inch from the thief’s, giving him a curious expression.
“So, do you work with someone from the home office? Did Christian Savior put you up to this?”
“Mooff.”
“Oh, right, sorry about that.”
He reaches down, quickly pulling another loose strand of the tape from the thief’s mouth, eliciting a response of “Aggghhh! Fuck! What the hell, man? What the fuck? What the-“
He is interrupted as AWOL gives another full slap to the face, turning the man’s head sideways so violently that it makes the duct tape creak.
“Now,” AWOL patiently responds, “I’m not going to give you another warning. You violated my home. You were rooting through my possessions. By all rights, I should have just dealt with this problem on the spot. However, I have given you this moment for us to have a little chat here, and I would take it as a personal insult if you waste this opportunity with pointless profanity. Do we understand each other?”
The thief looks around, still clearly panicking, but finally nods.
“Good. So let’s start again. Who sent you here?”
“What? No, man, nobody sent me. I was just looking for an easy score. Your apartment complex has shitty locks. I knocked over one on the third floor last month.”
“And I should believe you because? This is a matter of concern for me, friend. I have a lot of…associates who would very much like to see me go away for a long time, and would have no problem with stooping to having someone break into my home to make it happen.”
“Seriously? Look at me, man, I’m just looking for a score. I need money, man, I got kids to feed.”
“Bullshit,” AWOL responds, his easygoing demeanor vanishing in an instant. “I took your wallet. Do you know what I found there? A scrap of paper with an address for a soup kitchen and five bucks. You don’t have kids, or if you do you’re not interested in supporting them. It’s more likely you’re trying to get money for meth.”
“So, if you know that, what the hell are we doing here? Why are you asking me these questions? What the fuck is your problem? Are you crazy, man?”
AWOL stands up straight, walking away from the man to a stand-up toolchest resting in the corner of the room. Pulling out one of the drawers, he slowly draws a long-bladed machete from the confines, letting it glint in the light coming from the halogen lamps surrounding the scene.
“Now there’s a loaded question…”
***
As for you, Savior, I’m sure you’ll have all sorts of pithy little nit-picks waiting after this little segue into my recreation time, but I’m not entirely certain I care. You, Mr. Savior, are what I really care about, and to be honest I’m sure I won’t be seeing anything from you until somewhere around seven o’clock tonight anyways.
What do I say to you at this point? Honestly, give me something. Throw me a bone, here. Clearly you’ve run out of material at this point about me, since the best you’ve got to offer is the old “raging bull” favorite you’ve been throwing around for weeks now. So maybe you can help me out. Has anything changed about you? Is there anything new to say? Not so far as I can tell. I think I remember at least two different occasions when you’ve claimed you were going to reinvent yourself, unleashing “Project Rising Phoenix” or “Project Payback” or, fuck, who knows, “Plan Nine From Outer Space,” whatever bullshit names you were tossing around to make your schemes sound more legit and ominous. As far as I can see, however, nothing about you is any different than any other day I’ve had to face you. Still whining. Still pretending that the title should just be given to you by sheer virtue of your being the person that you are. Still dismissing opponents as a result of the tiniest minutia you can come up with while ignoring the vast majority of material they put forth.
I mean, have you really sat down and watched the sort of moronic bullshit you’ve been up to over the last several weeks? You lost the threeway at Two for One and literally snatched the belt up off of the mat and ran off with it. Seriously. You stole the belt and ran home. Six year olds do that, Savior. Little kids that don’t get their way throw tantrums like that, not grown men who want to be respected and looked upon as a champion, and that’s just the beginning of the story, ultimately. We progress from there to madcap antics like alienating your entire stable, turning on your ownership powerbase, and now, like Jackson Adams (ironically), you find yourself actively arguing that you’re being held back by front office collaboration.
Seriously?
This needs to be an end point for you, Savior. It’s time for an intervention, but since you’ve pushed away all of your friends, I guess it’ll be me that has to do it. You’re spinning out of control. That inevitable decline I said you were headed for a few months ago? Yeah, it’s here now. You’re in it. You’ve got no one besides the wife I’m apparently not allowed to mention anymore and that conveniently inserted new character in your backstory from your last promo. You’re getting more and more desperate as time goes on, and now you find yourself with another shot at a number one contendership, and I get a feeling that’s it. You’re about to be as much of a pariah in the hallways here as I am, but unfortunately, I don’t think you have the intestinal fortitude to withstand it. Maybe you could head back to SCW, though from what Adams was saying you seem to be struggling just as much there as you are here.
I’m sure you’ll scoff and ignore anything I have to say. I’m a realist. It seems to be your main motivation in life, ignoring anything anyone else says to you to your own detriment. I’ll have to beat it in to you, so that is of course what I will do to you at Riot!. Yadda yadda, blah blah blah, same things we’ve said for months now and to every opponent in every other match, whatever. No one cares. The bottom line is, every time you’ve beaten me some of your random friends from the back have been involved. Now, you don’t have them anymore. The math seems pretty simple at this point, I’ve gotta say. Maybe this is your big chance to try and show me what you’ve got, Christian, but I doubt it. More likely it’ll be the same shenanigans on a different day, and in the end I’ll probably beat you, especially if you’re subjected to another vicious T-Shirt attack, or I might end up handcuffed to something or beaten down with a ringbell from one of your friends. It’ll all get sorted out in the ring.***
“You see,” AWOL says, tapping the blade thoughtfully on the top of the metal case, “Ultimately, we all have our needs. You need your drug fix, so you do something illegal to get your rush. I…well I have other needs.”
He places the knife on the top of the toolbox, reaching in with his other hand to pull out a Dremel tool.
“I’ve tried denying them for several years, now,” he continues, monologuing as the thief becomes ever more panicked as he tries to pull out of the bindings. “I even came to a point where I forgot that they were there. But they WERE there, friend, they never went away. They simply were waiting in the background, biding time, keeping me company through my daily life and prying ever so slightly at the edges of my consciousness until eventually I simply…had to let them out.”
The dremel joins the knife. Next comes a hatchet.
“And then I saw you in my living room, rifling through my things, and it all made sense. Everything came sharply into focus in an instant and I knew, man, I KNEW, what had to be done. It was…well I can’t really describe it.” He pauses, eyes glancing through the clear plastic tarps lining the room, unfocused, clearly seeing something far beyond the veil of what is visible to the average man. “I guess it could be called a moment of clarity in an otherwise unclear world. Everything out there is anarchy, and I enjoy that. I do. But there’s always been something that felt…unclean about it. Dirty. Inconclusive. I go out and I fight day in and day out, and nothing ever changes. But for you, today, something is going to change, permanently. And all I can say to describe it really is that it just…feels…right.”
“Come on, man,” the thief pleads, wriggling against the restraints, “I won’t ever come near you again. I won’t do anything to you. You can have your stuff back.”
AWOL picks the machete up from the table, thoughtfully resting it against the palm of his hands.
“Ooohhh shit, look, I’ll bring back the stuff I took from the other guy in the building, too. Come on, man, cut me some slack. Give me a break!”
AWOL looks up, locking eyes with the man, before walking back over to the side of the table. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. If nothing else, I’ve already committed far too much time on this promo to not go to the end and put it on IWC TV. My…fans…would be extremely disappointed.”
“Jesus Christ,” the thief screams, tears now flowing freely from the corners of his eyes, “You can’t do this! You’re putting it on TV? They’ll fucking arrest you for murder, man! They’ll give you the fucking needle!”
“You know, that’s what I thought for the longest time, but the further I have gone on, the more I’ve realized that apparently people in my line of work can get away with anything they want. I don’t really question it. I’m just going with it.” He shrugs and gestures towards the camera with the blade of the machete. “Besides, as far as anybody out there knows, you’re just an actor I hired for a CD promo.”
“The body, man! They’ll find me, and they’ll know it was you!”
“Well, that’s what the circular saw is for. Don’t worry, nobody is ever going to find you, or indeed any sign you were ever here. And it’s not as if anyone will be looking for you, will they?”
“Please! God. Oh god, please, just let me go. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just name it.”
AWOL stops, thinking.
“Anything?”
“Yes, fuck, I’ll do anything.”
AWOL ducks back down, an inch away from the man’s face.
“Then be quiet. You’re kind of ruining this for me.”
The man looks to be about to scream as AWOL shoves the tape back over his mouth. The camera pans back as the thief frantically thrashes, giving out the last of his strength to muffled screams and a last desperate attempt to break his bonds. AWOL centers himself over his chest, lifting the machete into the air as the image fades away to gray.
“I want to thank you. I feel like I’ve made a lot of progress today.”
The final sound is the “Schunk” of a blade striking home.
