A city street. People shuffle back and forth along the cracked pavement of the winding sidewalks that line the congested streets oblivious to their own pitiful plight as the car horns ring out into the morning sky, and the shouts of people can be heard over the noise of a construction site not far away. The incessant drumming of a jack hammer on concrete, tearing apart what had been formed by the hands of men before these ones who seek only to destroy, shatters the chilly morning air.
The camera pans across the busy street and over an open air cafe where several well to do people sit leisurely enjoying their morning, a sharp contrast to those around them shuffling off to be a part of the corporate machine, crushing them beneath the gears of war that churn along indifferent to those who fall before their treads.
The ants go marching, two by two; three by three; four by four; and then they go marching on no more.
Some men want to see it all burn.
They desire the ability to open the eyes of the marching lines of foolish ants walking aimlessly to their dooms.
They protest they are merely the ones lucky enough to be awakened to the truth of our lives, that through their enlightenment they are free from the confines of the struggle that afflicts the masses of tiny specks seen sweating and bleeding by no one from their perches in the heavens, encased all in glass.
Then, some men want nothing more than to have faith that the ants are willing to walk their own path, and fall like lemmings from the cliff face of their own demise. In this knowledge, they find solace that they can choose where to walk for themselves. They lie to themselves, and foolishly believe that they are free... free from the oppression of those who look on. They believe that they are free of the constraints that are placed on the masses of mewling babes swaddled in rags and left to die, squalling among the others, tired, hungry, and alone. They deceive themselves into a false hope that they are not the ants, and yet their perception is like that of a twisted, tricky carnival mirror. They allow themselves to be deceived, so that they can live their lives without knowing they choose the same fate.
Then, there are those few, the ones who have decided. They have seen the lines of ants marching along without a care in the world beyond eating, shitting, and dying. They have laid witness to the countless acts of violence and hatred perpetrated by their own brothers and sisters. They have stared into the twisted glass of funny mirrors, and seen the truth behind them, and they have broken free of the shackles that bind them to the fate of the masses. They have truly awakened themselves to the fight, and realize what is at stake, and as they watch on, they take up the mantle of the rebellion, and they fight against it, not because they want to preserve themselves, or because they want to save others from the sad affair of the death that awaits the columns marching on into infinity. They fight because they relish the struggle, the enemy locked in fierce combat, the blood pumping through their veins, and the bones snapping in their hands as they fight because they choose to.
THAT! That is what makes the difference between the masses of ants marching along in columns and the few who have awakened to become proud and free. The line between them is thin, veiled truly by little more than perception.
Some can see the truth, and some are still blindly wandering.
The camera pans across the city, speeding along now as it careens around corners and narrowly misses colliding with the throngs of traffic slowly rushing along through their irrelevant hours of a life they wish could be their own.
The camera races over the city just starting their meaningless day, and comes finally to a small hotel. We see Sebastian St. Paul leave one of the rooms, and get into a very nice four door Lexus before it takes it's place in the doldrums of never ending lines of cars stretched as far as the eyes can see, and eventually disappears, lost in the crowd of cars.
The camera pans back across the parking lot of the tiny hotel, and comes to rest on the door where first we spotted the Stunning One. Now, as the door swings open, we see Darina Weimer take the note left by SPP, and begin to read it to herself, standing without a care in the world in a tiny pair of shorts and a sports bra.
“Guys.
I went with Victor to start getting our new place set up. I left the address in the truck on the GPS. Load up everything, and come on out. Bring breakfast and coffee.
SSP”
“Alright you lazy bastards! Get up! It's time to move.” Darina yells back over her shoulder into the room. “Fifteen minutes to get it together and then we load up. Do NOT make me wait!”
The scene fades to black as the door closes behind her. The scene fades back in to the interior of the fancy Lexus from earlier, and we fade into the conversation already underway.
“... still wondering what it is exactly that you hope to have us accomplish, to be honest, Victor. I mean, Charles is good at what he does, but do you think he can really fish all that stuff out of those hard drives?” SSP asks Victor, wondering exactly why it had to be his crew even now.
“And too, if all you needed was some computer guru to go diving for deleted material so you could gain some substantial evidence in your case against Andrea, why wouldn't you just hire one of those, instead of a bounty hunter and his crew of what can honestly only be called mercenaries? I am still trying to get my brain wrapped around what it is that you actually want with us.” St. Paul continues to drive the questions, trying to get Victor to spill something, anything, to lead him closer to the agenda behind the plan.
Victor continues to drive for a few minutes, just staring out of the front window of the car, totally speechless. As impatience is just about to get the better of Sebastian, Victor finally begins to shed some light on their predicament.
“Johnathan Cable is a driven man. He is steadfast in his convictions, and will always stand and fight even in the face of defeat. His career used to be something far different than what it is right now, and before that, the life he led was far from glorious. With the recent events in John's life, I am honestly not entirely sure why it was important that he hire YOU specifically, and from me to you, I wouldn't worry about it, or press the issue. My advice to you, Sebastian, is to take the paycheck and the roof over your head, and take care of your team the best you know how. I know how they feel about you. I know how you feel about them. In the sea of chaos and hatred that professional wrestlers try to survive in, those are your anchors. They will keep you safe, and they will protect you if you protect them. Think about what this deal means to them, and you'll do just fine. In the mean time, I need to go over the training schedule with you.”
With that, the scene fades to black.
New Beginnings. A brand new start. The proverbial clean slate. A NEW BREED. Woo! Did I find a ringer or what? I mean, have you SEEN this guy? 6'5”. Almost 300lbs! Talk about experience? This guy has more in ring knowledge in his pinky finger than... than... than Paul Frost THINKS he has in his entire fat head!
Do you have any idea how much that is?
I didn't either, so, I had John hire a whole crew of scientists to figure out the algorithm needed to come up with the total number there, and well... they told us it would be while.
Seriously though. All joking aside. No really, guys. ALL joking aside:
This must be like a wet dream for you Insanimaniacs, huh? I mean I know how you love to deliver punishment, in your sick, twisted, dementia of a reality that you call home, but I ALSO know that you guys are just as happy RECEIVING punishment, and this week on Brawl, you guys are in for one hell of a beating!
Week after week I make my way to the ring in front of the millions of brainless fans booing me from their nasty ass, bug ridden couches while they visibly grow fatter before me, and I think to myself:
How dare you? How dare any of you sorry flea bitten bastards even think to raise your voices in protest of me?
You should be chanting my name in awe.
You should be falling before me prostrate, awaiting the heavenly words to issue forth from my lips:
'You are worthy'
Those words would finally give your lives meaning, and yet here you are, choking on your french fries and your quadruple stacked triple cheese bacon monstrosity cheeseburgers while you chug down ten gallons of diet coke (because you're watching your figure after all) booing the greatest damned piece of artwork that the good Lord ever pieced together.
Yeah. That's right: Artwork. A flawless masterpiece to be exact, and every one of you trashy sweat hogs should count yourself BLESSED to be in my presence! It isn't every day that any of you fucking losers get to see perfection embodied to this degree, so bask while you can. Soon enough, the time for fun and games will come to an end, and when it does, the hopes and dreams of the most twisted couple I have ever laid on eyes on will come crashing down, crumbled to dust beneath my boots.
No seriously. I thought that RJ and Raz were a strange couple, and then, like some weird after hours movie on old school MTV, these two fucking clowns come strolling out of the oddball closet, and think that they can just traipse around here and do whatever the hell they want.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am ALL for following your own path, and doing what you feel for you, but it just so happens that your paths and my path have crossed for the LAST time.
Oh? You thought that I was so wrapped up in my hunt for Raziel that I forgot how Lunatic is the son of a bitch that tossed me over the ropes in BOTH of the Battle Royal Matches? You think I missed the fact that Grim walked away, or should I say THE Tristan Slater walked away, with the WGWF TV Title a couple of weeks ago? You think I just forgot what you both have cost me in the last few weeks?
In my first six weeks here, I have managed to find myself involved in no less than three matches for WGWF Gold, and I have failed to find the finish line.
It has been at your hands that I have failed. It has been the two of you who have thwarted my progress towards becoming a WGWF Champion, and the worst part is, it wasn't even your intention! It was ACCIDENTAL. You couldn't even plan to fuck me up, it had to just magically happen that way! It wasn't like you woke up one morning and said to yourselves:
'Selves, TODAY is the day that we are going to screw Sebastian St. Paul out of a WGWF Title shot. TODAY, we will leave our mark on that sexy, sculpted, flawlessly chiseled Adonis.'
Oh NO! You guys got up from your lazy little nap on the hard metal cot inside your cramped, stone walled confines and decided to toss your name in the hat and let chance fly to the wind, and see what happened, not just once, but TWICE for fuck sake!
Well what happened was that you have found yourself squarely in the sights of a hunter of men, and THIS time, when we finally meet each other inside of those ropes without ten other hungry assholes trying to rip our faces off and shit down our necks, there will only be one team laughing when the bell rings. There will be only one team still capable of walking out of the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit. There will only be one team; one you goofy bastards, just one; that goes on to challenge Heels on Wheels for those coveted Tag Titles.
If you think for one second that I am going to step out in front of my home crowd, and fail to show those sorry pieces of shit what they lost when they let me move to the sunny beaches of Jacksonville, Florida, you are sadly mistaken. They may have THOUGHT losing the automotive industry was the biggest loss to the state since the dawn of time, but come Monday, I will show them just how wrong they were.
Losing ME was the worst tragedy the state of Michigan has ever endured, and when the dust settles, Grimoire Xmyles, Lunatic, It will be the New Breed standing over your broken bodies as you struggle to breathe let alone laugh about how badly you just had your asses beat in front of the millions of worthless morons watching at home.
This time Insanimaniacs, there will only be pain and blood for you. No distractions. No pile of bodies to fight through to get to you. No prayer in hell of you finding a way to come out on top, and no chance of surviving to see a bright sun shiny Tuesday morning!
Come Monday night on Brawl, Joe Louis Arena, Detroit Michigan... the New Breed shows the WGWF what is really in store for you all, and when we claim every single Title in this place, there will never be another question as to what my PLACE is again. The time has come for us to take our rightful position OVER this company, and we are going to start by ripping you nut jobs apart at the seams.