Wing A: Emmett vs. Pelirojo vs. McManus

[Russ]

DEADLINE:
FRIDAY 30TH JULY @ 23:59 GMT
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OTHER TIMES I'M SURE YOU CAN WORK OUT!

GOOD LUCK!

ONE ROLEPLAY EACH, 2,750 WORD LIMIT

[johnny rotten]

Prison.

This is supposed to scare me. Supposed to intimidate me. To make me tremble, in complete awe of the circumstances.

I'm not afraid.

A small 4x6 cell, temperatures that make Canada look like Mexico, and guards that get their kicks by GIVING kicks.

But, I'm not afraid.

You see, regardless of where I am in this world, I am in a prison. Standing on the 50 yard line at Texas Stadium, sleeping on one of the concrete slabs inside the prison....it makes no difference. I'm trapped inside a prison either way.

A prison inside my own body.

"Congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis" . 6 words that would forever be a part of my life. 6 words that would try to define me. Try to beat me. Try to force me to live a life that I never wanted to lead.

I'll never let it beat me.

For those without a PhD in geneology or pathophysiology, allow me to elaborate. CIPA is a type of hereditary sensory and autonomic neuropathy known as an HSAN IV disorder. Long story short? I can't feel pain. I can't feel heat or cold. I can't sweat.

I know what you are thinking. At first glance, that sounds like I hit the lottery. No pain? Awesome! Never cold, never hot, never stinky with sweat? Fantastic! It isn't until you let that percolate in the recesses of your mind for a bit, that you realize it is not all it's cracked up to be.

Remember when you were a young child? You'd play on the playground with other children, you'd run, skip and jump like any normal kid. And, like any normal kid, when you fell from the monkey bars, you got a boo-boo, and you cried. Now, imagine that you fell off the monkey bars, and broke your arm. Or dislocated your elbow. Or cut a giant gash in the back of your head. Now imagine that you don't feel it. No pain, no inkling that anything has gone wrong.

Naturally, my parents ensured that nothing like that would ever happen to me. Our home was "child proofed" to the max. We relocated to northern Mexico, so that I could live in a temperate climate. I was not allowed to run, jump or play with other children. I saw my doctor twice a week, and I received full body x-rays twice a month, to ensure that I hadn't injured myself in some way.

For many years, CIPA ruled my life. What I did, where I went, even what I THOUGHT was ruled by it. Then, there came a day that changed my life forever. A day that, for any other teenage boy, would just be another day. The carnival came to town. I had never been before. At the ripe old age of 15, I had never been to a carnival before. The rides were too dangerous. The crowds were too dangerous. But, on this day, my mother and father decided that I was old enough and mature enough to make my own decisions.

So I went. And I witnessed my first ever wrestling match. Under a dusty old tent, sunlight streaming through the holes that have torn through the years, I watched two of the biggest men I had ever seen, wrestle each other for nearly a half hour. I was hooked instantly.

From that day on, it was my mission in life, albeit my secret mission, that I would one day be like those men. That I would hear the cheers of the crowd. That I would test myself against other men, to see who has the skill and who has the will to win.

********************

Dr. Serkov: Congenital insensitiv......this is a joke, right?

Dr. Serkov looked up from the file that he is reading. Seated across the desk from the doctor is an averaged sized man, with a frock of bright red hair. The man is wearing a simple grey sweatshirt and an old pair of jeans. The two men are seated in what is obviously a doctors office, as various pieces of medical equipment are scattered about. In addition, there are several posters of the human anatomy, and a few random x-rays adorning the walls of the room.

Super Loco Pelirrojo: You caught me Doc. I flew all the way to Siberia, entered myself into a wrestling tournament, willingly allowed myself to be locked inside a prison cell for 24 hours, all so that I could put one over you. Good catch. How did you see through my ruse?

SLP smiles broadly, as the gruff physician scowls in annoyance at his sarcasm.

Super Loco Pelirrojo: Look Doc. I'm 25 years old. I've trained for seven years. I've been slammed to the mat, I've been punched in the face and I've been stretched to the limit......

Dr. Serkov: But that was all in sparring, or training sessions. You have yet to have an official match yet, isn't that right?

SLP leans forward a bit in his chair, resting his forearm against the edge of the desk.

SLP: Exactly right. I know my body better than you, better than any doctor in the world. I trained for seven long years without wrestling an "official" match, for good reason. You see, I needed to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was ready. I can't go in there, like any normal green rookie and get pounded. Because, if that were to happen to me, it could be life threatening. I need to KNOW that I will be competitive. I need to KNOW that I have a real chance of winning this thing.......

Dr. Serkov waves his hand in the air between the two men, and drops the file closed onto his desk.

Dr. Serkov: I really don't see how I could possibly sign off on letting you compete. What if you broke your leg in the first minute of the match? But, because you can't feel it, you continue the match. And the break gets worse. But, you continue still. Pretty soon, you have turned what was a simple injury into something that requires extensive surgery to save your leg.....IF that is even possible!

SLP: Listen.....

Again, the doctor interrupts the much younger man.

Dr. Serkov: No, YOU listen. I cannot sign for you to participate in this tournament in good conc......

SLP: I'll give you 10% of my winnings.

Dr. Serkov stops in mid sentence, and leans back into his chair. He strokes his chin for a moment, before leaning forward again and opening the file. He picks up a pen, but before he writes anything he looks at SLP.

Dr. Serkov: No need to bring percentages into it. A flat fee of $20,000 Euro's will suffice.

SLP nods his head in agreement, and Dr. Serkov signs the document. Both men stand up and shake hands, before SLP leaves the office. Dr. Serkov is left by himself, shaking his head from side to side.

********************

Seven years. That is how long I trained. That is how long I practiced every hold, every counter. Every counter to every counter. That's how long I worked my cardiovascular system. That's how long I lifted weights, to strenghten my body.

Compound all that training with the fact that I can't sweat, and we see just how arduous my journey was. Having a digital thermometer on my wrist, having to stop before my body temperature went above 103 degrees. Showering my body in cold water, only so that I can continue to work out and raise the temperature again.

It was not easy for me. But, I don't want it to be easy.

********************

Ivan: So, you're making your debut here? Isn't that.....crazy?

SLP is standing in his cell, speaking through the bars to the guard on the outside. The cell is stark; only a cot, a sink and a toilet are visible in the room. It is obviously cold, as we can see each mans breath as they speak.

SLP: Actually, I think it is a stroke of genius. You remember what I was telling you about my disorder? Not being able to regulate my body temperature?

Ivan nods his head.

SLP: Well, the enviornment here is absolutely PERFECT for me. I can run around, I can wrestle as hard as I can, for as long as I want.....and the temperature will help keep my body temperature down. I won't overheat and suffer heat stroke. As a matter of fact.....this'll probably be the best location for me to EVER wrestle. Anywhere else, and I'd have to stop what I am doing every 5 or 10 minutes and pour cold water over myself.

Ivan chuckles a bit.

Ivan: So that is why you are wearning nothing but boxer shorts, while I am in this wool coat?

SLP glances down at his nearly bare body. He reaches for his sweatshirt and jeans and begins to pull them on.

SLP: I was working out a bit before you came up Ivan. Pushups, pullups....whatever I can do.

SLP finishes putting himself together. He walks towards the bars and lowers his voice conspiratorially.

SLP: Listen Ivan.....my opponents, Xavier McManus and Bridge Emmett......either one of them here yet?

Ivan shakes his head 'no'. He reaches into his breast pocked and pulls out an unfiltered cigarette. He offers one to SLP, who declines by holding his hand up. Ivan lights the butt, takes a deep drag, and releases a plume of blue smoke before responding.

Ivan: No, I haven't seen them yet. What do you know about them anyway?

SLP: McManus is a lot like me. He's not letting his situation define him. He has suffered from some sort of head injury, causing him amnesia. Now, just like me, he could have allowed that to shape his life, to be who he was. But, instead of using it as a crutch, he seemingly saw it as an opportunity. With no past, he could be whoever he wanted to be. And, apparently, who he wanted to be was one HELL of a talented wrestler. "The X-Factor", "X-Face", "Triple-X".....all potential match ending maneuvers.

Ivan takes a deep drag on his smoke, as SLP continues.

SLP: Then we have Bridge Emmett. The guy is your stereotypical wrestler, and that is not a bad thing. He is big, he is strong and he knows his way around the squared circle. Watching him compete in HIW, is like watching some nature show on Animal Planet. He stalks his prey, and the moment they are ripe for the picking, BAM!! He strikes, and it is all over.

After yet another drag, Ivan speaks, smoke escaping from his mouth as he does.

Ivan: Sounds like you are in for one bad night my friend.

SLP: No Ivan, thats where you are wrong. I would be willing to bet everything that I own that both Emmett and McManus are going to focus on each other. Why bother worrying about the sick red headed freak? He won't be a problem! THAT will be their downfall. I am going into this thing, eyes wide open. I know that McManus could tie me into a pretzel. I know that Emmett could break me in half. They are both among the finest wrestlers today.

They are sitting back, thinking that they only need to worry about each other. I've seen this type of thought my whole life, and I thrive on it. Let them forget about me. Let them downplay me. Let them think that the frail rookie can't hang with the big boys. Because at the end of every day there is a "puesta de sol".

Ivan looks at SLP quizzically.

SLP: Sunset. It means sunset.

Ivan simply smiles and chuckles, as he slowly walks away from the cell. SLP quickly takes his sweatshirt off, and drops to the cement floor where he begins doing push ups.

********************

I have no experience. I am well aware of that fact. Just like in any other sport, I know that when I am performing my craft for real, it will seem like a totally different animal than when I was training. This much, is a given.

But, while I have no experience, I have a massive amount of something else. Something that will propel me to a win in this match, and a win in this tournament.

I have confidence.

You see, nobody has ever believed in me. When I turned 18 and I told my parents that I was going to learn to wrestle, they didn't believe in me. My father actually laughed at me. When I went to wrestling school after wrestling school just looking for someone to train me, it was clear that they didn't believe in me either. But, I never stopped believing in myself.

Confidence.

It's a simple word really. But it's meaning goes deeper than any of us could have ever imagined.

Xavier McManus. Bridge Emmett. Super Loco Pelirrojo. We may not be the Main Event. But we WILL be the most talked about match on the show. Bank on it.

********************

SLP stands inside his cell, looking out the single 2x2 window that adorns the wall. A breeze of cold, arctic air blasts his face, but he does not wince. He simply closes his eyes, as the wind continues to blow upon his face, and we fade to black.

[Austinn]

EDIT: BBCode was missed out on some parts.

Just Outside the Salekhard Airport
26th July, 2010

He’s still a little wobbly in the legs, but he’s able to make his way out of the airport doors. He pulls the collar of his trench coat up a little further over his face with a cool draft. The sunny conditions he’s become accustomed to in England have suddenly been converted into a snowy land of sheets of white. Had he not have the ability to adapt well, he’d have a nosebleed by now. Here he is, in a place he thought he’d NEVER find himself in; Siberia - the region where the acclaimed Siberian Wrestling formerly held its operations, where Bridge Emmett will walk into The Experts for the first time and make history.

He raises his hand and soon enough, a yellow cab, adorned with logos, advertisements and with a few foreign symbols on its display, pulls up to the curb with a screech. Just like pretty much everything else in this frost-bitten wasteland, it’s covered with snow.

He gets in with an uneasy feel, taking a seat on the leather seat. The inside of the cab is quite clean, contrary to what he’d expected. It’s heated, another bonus. Plus, it has a pine cone scent.

Cab Driver: “Куда? (Where To?)”

He hesitates.

“About that...”

Cab Driver: “Oh! I’m Sorry, my English speaking friends! I am Sergei! I be your driver, no?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Sergei: “Where you want go today sir?”

“Do you have any clue of where this place called Hotel Arkitika is?”

Sergei: “Again? Yes, I know! I just come back from there with nother person, this business trip or something?”

“Yeah... you could call it that.”

Sergei: “Okays. 527 Ruble, discount 5 ruble, ‘cause I like you style. ”

Bridge hands the cheapskate a couple of the Russian bills which he’d received from the airport.

“Keep the change.”

Sergei: “No changes anyways.”

The driver says with a smile. He starts the engine and the half hour long trip begins. So many thoughts run through Bridge’s head. The facility, the matches, the potential of big named opponents with a reputation. What he’s up against are representatives from The Experts, the interfed with an affiliation with his own, now defunct federation; HIW. It’s about a quarter into the trip, and the driver begins to break the silence.

Sergei: “So... what with all the travellings to Hotel Antarktika?”

“Oh, that. It might be a little complex, but there’s this... okay, let me start off with this. I’m nothing but a wrestler. A simple, pureblood wrestler, you know?”

Sergei: “Yes. I’m of watching that sometimes on the TVs. TFWR and SW. I’m know those.”

“Riiiight. So anyway, The Experts is a group of federations with wrestlers in them, and just so happens, this time of year, some big ass tournament is being held for the most coveted prize in that whole damn company and arguable, the industry; the True Expert Championship.”

The driver lies,

Sergei: “I’m get it.”

“So for this title, it would be a big understatement to just say that it’s ‘coveted’. Simply put, all the wrestlers want it. Bad. Currently, it’s on the waist of some douchebag called Hannibal Cage. Now, to decide if the title changes hands, The Experts are holding this tournament, which involves wrestlers fighting each other. In the end, the wrestler who makes it to the very end gets the title. Simple as that. Now, to answer your question, that tournament is being held here and before we’re moved to this dank called ‘The Facility’, we get to stay in some 3 star hell hole called Hotel Antarktika.”

Again, the words go into one ear for the Russian, and out the other.

Sergei: “So people come for belt?”

“In a nutshell; yes, but it’s the value of that belt really... it’s not really seen as just a belt now per se, but rather, an honour. Something that’s earned and a title that only the best of the best can hold.”

Sergei: “You think you good wrestler huh?”

“I’ve said this time and time again, and it should be simple for you to understand: I don’t THINK I’m a good wrestler, I KNOW that I am. Why? I’ve had ten years of experience and since my come back to the fed I’m in, I’ve been undefeated. I swear, when I get back to London, back to HIW, I’ll have two belts around my waist. The Barely Legal Title AND the True Expert Title.”

Sergei: “You confident spunk there. I am wishing you the... luck.”

Bridge laughs a little.

“Thanks. The luck... I’ll see if I’ll ever have a use for that.

And with that, the conversation ends with the Russian cab driver very much confused...

---

The impact of the cell doors clanging close gives him a shock. He takes a good look at the shitty little room, so much in contrast to the openness of the apartment situated in the Hotel Antarktika. Sure, the apartment wasn’t Hilton, but it had good food, a cosy bed, a warm balcony and a television, although a majority of the shows he couldn’t understand. There was nothing but a solid bed, a dirty floor and a foul looking toilet, sitting nauseatingly by the end of the rock hard mattress. He sighs, taking in a deep breath. Almost instantaneously, he begins to cough with violence, copping the full force of the cesspool’s stench. It’s only a matter of seconds until he just can’t take it anymore.

“Guard!”

He yells, prompting one of the Russian guards to come up to him with a not so alerted look.

Guard: “My name Vladimir. What you want prisoner?”

“OUT!”

They just stare at each other for a second.

Vladimir: “Sorry, out no possible. You go out cell if like, just not outside facilility.”

“Out of the cell? Can I like... get out now?”

Vladimir: “Sure, is possible. Non nonsenses though, or we put you back in.”

“Whatever you say.”

And simple as that, the guard props the key in and slides the cell door open. It seems like an eternity before Bridge finally takes a step out. He looks around hesitantly, seeing only rows upon rows of other cells. He shudders a little and begins to make his way through the different rooms and areas, Vladimir on his tail without his knowledge. Finally, he decides to take a look at a suspiciously plain door, unlike all the labeled or coloured doors.

Vladimir: “That is-”

“Shit!”

Bridge spins on his heels to face the guard, his fists already in position for a surprise slug fest.

Vladimir: “... There is toilet in-”

“Ah no, never mind. Oh, so, what’s this?”

He peers in to see a small room, a desk in the corner and a stool out in the centre, with a camera mounted on a tripod facing it.

Vladimir: “This promo area... you speak here, and prisoner can be given permission to watch what you say. You want go now?”

“22 more hours and its right back to Hotel Antarktika...”

He said over and over in his mind, ignoring the question for a second.

“Oh what? Oh, yeah, sure... is there a time limit?”

Vladimir: “Not really, but boss say that too long make it boring.”

“Sure, sure.”

He says, barely even noticing the guard, he walks into the room.

Vladimir: “Will enjoy speaking to you Mr...”

“Emmett.”

Vladimir: “Mr. Emmetts. Good luck.”

He flashes a grin, before shutting the door behind him. He takes a seat on the stool and switches the camera on. He sees the battery bars are already pretty low. He makes a few quick final adjustments to the picture before finally hitting the record button.

---

Open to a headshot of Bridge Emmett, his eyes heavy and his hair in a mess. The backdrop is quite plain, just a white brick wall which leaves nothing much to look at. “The Extreme Tournament 2010... How many promos can I hear with those serving as the first... four or so words?

Why do I even bother to freeze my ass off in this hell hole? What possible reasoning is there to find Bridge Emmett, of all the fucking wrestlers in the world, serving a 24 hour quote unquote sentence in Siberia: a country I’ve never even heard of for Christ’s sake until just a few weeks ago? I’ll tell you, right now, there is a danky little cell waiting for me, all polished up with shit and blood. I could be there right now, just me and my thoughts, but hell, you can barely stand it. I have to actually EXPLORE this god forsaken building, just so I can get away. ‘Ya know, right now, I could be training... I could be fucking MEDITATING but no, you find me hear, solitary confinement, cutting a promo that might not even be viewed by my two wastes of sperm deemed opponents.”

He wipes his mouth with the rim of his hand. “Xavier McManus and El Loco Transfesto or... something... two cats I can’t say I’ve played with, thankfully. I don’t know where they’re from, nor do I care – I’m the last Barely Legal Champion of HIW and soon to be, True Expert. Anyway, right now, I’m pissed. I’ve come all this way to beat someone to a bloody pulp, someONE... ONE! Now, I find out I need to clear TWO blocks of shit out of my way! If you’re smart enough to be able to work a condom, you’d know that this can potentially decrease my chances of advancing. I’m here for a cause though, I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for one thing; that True Expert Championship. The title which’s been held by names like Sandy Makel, Level-One, Black Death and as now... Hannibal Cage.” Saying the name, he sneers, before continuing.

“What would pulling in that True Expert title mean to me you ask? There’s one thing I’ve got set on... the moolah, the glory. ONCE, I go through whoever the hell I need to, it’ll be around MY waist, which in fact gives me the title of holder of BOTH the Barely Legal title AND the True Expert title. Now, what’s the use rattling on about what I WILL have, rather than what I’m actually going to DO to make sure that I claim it? El Pedifillio and Xavier McManus, I haven’t seen any of these two perform but then again, do I really need to? I’ve seen a clip or two, a snippet of promo but I’m Bridge Emmett. I have ten years of experience under my belt, an authentic undefeated streak since returning to HIW and a countless amount of other titles under my waist. I don’t need to waste my time examining a match and looking up the Oxford’s website for each word in a promo that I can’t fucking understand! I sometimes ask myself though, what makes the shitload of other titles in this industry... so different to this True Expert title?

Is it the fact that only the best of the best can hold that shiny piece of gold? Is it the fact that the people who compete for this lump of a miner’s last resumé achievement list item hail from only the top quality federations on the wrestling circuit? Maybe... just maybe, it’s because if you hold this title, you have a quality seal that says you’ve gone through hell and back but wait... just wait... I see a little flaw in this insignificant list of qualifications... what if the person who has a shot at this lucks out, what if it goes onto the waist of someone who doesn’t DESERVE the prestige of this waist warmer, a la Hannibal Cage? Huh. You’d think, The Experts. They’re meant to be the highest ranking people in the field of wrestling, yet, they can make such a big mistake as this?” He pauses for a moment, letting the viewer take everything in.

“That brings me back to the FIRST question, and believe me, I’m no dog running around for his AIDS ridden tail, fuck no, I actually have a POINT when I get the chance to do a promo, unlike these other so called ‘athletes’. So I and so many others ask, If this interfederation isn’t perfect - well, at least doesn’t flaw in the one of the biggest fields of interest such as this, why would you find someone like me, crawling to it? I’ll tell you why, because it’s the best this industry has.

That’s right, I said it. For once in my life, I asskissed. It gets me no where, but fuck it. So all in all, what brings me here? That title... only the best can host, only from the best leagues. I don’t give a shit, but I have to acknowledge it. With that in mind, it’ll be my key to winning. All I have to do is keep that in the ‘ole frontal lobe, and I can breeze my way past this Xavier McManus and this Super Loco Perilphillia, even if he can’t feel any pain. Target one area, and it’ll die without him knowing. Go to Xavier McManus, do the same, just with a little more effort and there’s the first round for you – nothing too big.” He nods and smirks a little.

“So take your chances and lace up your boots, there’s no stopping me. Face it, Decimation has a name-

Bridge Emm- FUTURE TRUE EXPERT, Bridge Emmett!”

[Vinny SCCW]

The squeal of hard rubber against asphalt rises through the mid-summer air, just loud enough to temporarily supersede the sound of the commercial plane's engines as Flight 146 into Salekhard Aiport touches down, en-route from Moscow, Russia. The small city of Salekhard, the center of the autonomous Orkug of Yamalia, Russia, is not used to many visitors, but over the past few days the city has welcomed a hundred or so new “tourists” to its secluded self. Despite being the only city north of the Artic circle, even Salekhard experiences a season that vaguely approximates Summer. The temperature hovers just under sixty degrees Fahrenheit as the passengers of Yamal Airlines Flight 146 disembark down a metal stair case and retrieve their luggage right on the tarmac, next to the small plane for heading into the terminal.

Among the hodgepodge of air travelers is a man that looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties that stands out from the pack both because of his size – over six feet tall and over two hundred pounds of mostly muscle – and because of his wild, peroxide-bleached blond hair. The man rubs his eyes hard, the bags underneath them are plenty visible after the long journey from Chicago to New York to London to Moscow and finally to Salekhard. The man, carrying a pair of black duffel bags slung over his left shoulder, slips through most of the crowd and makes his way toward the ground transportation area, flipping the hood of his black sweatshirt up over his hair so as not to draw anymore stares from the locals. The smell of human body odor assaults his noses as he boards one of the packed buses for Salekhard with dozens of other passengers.

When the bus finally arrives outside the Arktika Hotel in Salekhard centre, the man is thankful to be freed from what can only be thought of as a precursor to his later confines. As he disembarks from the bus, the man reaches into the pockets of his jeans and produces two items. The first is an American passport, flipped open to show the man's picture with the name “Toohey, James” printed underneath it. Mr. Toohey smiles at this before looking over at the second object: a small handheld camcorder. With a flick of the thumb, the man activates the camera, pointing it up from his hand in the direction of his face and the thin layer of clouds overhead.

“Salekhard, Russia,” the man says looking down at the camera, “The X-Factor has landed. Took a lot of doing to get me here all the way from Midwestern America, including this little baby.”

The man waves the passport in front of the camera as he raises it up closer to eye level before continuing.

“But now that 'James Toohey' has made it through customs and past ye olde Iron Curtain, I'd say it's safe for Xavier McManus to come out and play,” Xavier McManus flashes a quick smirk. “See for those of you who don't know, 'James Toohey' isn't my real name. Then again neither is Xavier McManus. I could spend the next three hours trying to explain the nuances of this to you, but let me see if I can give you the Cliff's Notes version. I woke up about three years ago on a college campus in Cincinnati, Ohio. I woke up with no memory of who I was or how I got there. You can call it amnesia if you'd like, but the thing about amnesia is... its temporary. And to me, three years isn't exactly 'temporary' anymore. Now when I woke up I found I only had one thing in my possession; a piece of paper with the number of safety deposit box written on it. When I got to that box and opened it, inside was a life.”

“Whether it was my old life or not, I can't possibly know. What I do know is there was a passport, birth certificate, driver's license, social security card and $250,000 worth in a bank account all under the name 'James Toohey.' The question that most people would ask themselves in this situation is: 'Am I James Toohey?' I asked a different question; one that came to me in an instant of brilliant epiphany... 'Do I WANT to be James Toohey?' Well, I don't know what you might to do, but I say phooey to Toohey, and kept his alias just in case I needed it. Turns out if I hadn't I would have never made it here to Salekhard... for the Experts Extreme Tournament.”

A knowing grins washes over the face of McManus as he pans the camera around to show the city streets of Salekhard right in front of the Arktika Hotel.

“One thing you need to know about me is that I operate my life under one maxim: everything is a choice. When I woke up, I found I had a rare choice that few people before me had ever had the opportunity to make. I could use to search is desperate futility for the man I was... or I could make my own path and decide to become the man I know I could be. I chose to become Xavier McManus. I chose to become a professional wrestler. And I chose to come here, to Siberia, to be come the greatest wrestler on the face of the Earth: the True Experts Champion.”

McManus moves the camera from one hand to the other and back again as he rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt to reveal a plethora of brightly colored tattoos running up the forearms of both his arms.

“You see these?” he asks, “These tattoos represent a living lifeline carved with needles and ink into my very flesh. These show who I am, where I've been and what I've accomplished. And believe me when I tell you that there is a special spot reserved to mark this tournament and my place in it. But first thing's first...”

With that the feed from the camera abruptly cuts out. A moment passes before the feed returns. Now it is the dead of night, and the camera's 'night-vision' feature has been activated. Xavier McManus sits on the cargo-bed of what appears to be a large logging truck. The picture bounces unsteadily as the truck makes its way uneasily down a rural, rocky road. McManus' eyes look like glass beads in the green glow of the camera as he holds on to the camera with one hand and the back of the truck with the other.

“First thing's first,” he picks up from where he left off, “I have to make my way out to the Facility. Now I've done some wild things in my three years on this planet, and I've been to jail... but never prison,” he winks coyly at the camera, “So I'm not entirely sure what to expect. One thing I didn't expect is to have to bribe a trucker to take me right up to the front gate of the place. Apparently, most people don't like going to prison. Who knew? Not me that's for sure. You know what else I didn't know? Apparently I understand Russian. I can't speak a damn word of it, but I listen to the people around here talk and its like... my mind somehow understands and translates it for me. Its weird, you know? I like to think of it as one of the side-effects of my re-birth. I frankly don't know a lot about myself, like how old I am or where I come from, but that doesn't bother me. What bothers me is that I know things... things I haven't learned in the past three years that manage to fight their way to the front of my consciousness.”

He pauses and stares off into the dark wilderness of Siberia as the truck rattles along.

“Oh well, its coming in handy right now. Hopefully there's something rattling around in the old brain-pan about how to survive in prison. See, I'm a little late on getting to the party up here since I had obligations back in the States, so Uncle X is going to have to bunker down starting tonight for his 'prison sentence.' Fortunately, the extra time away from here gave a last chance to scout out my opponents for this match, Super Loco Pelirrojo and Bridge Emmett. And...”

The truck slows down and the camera moves in McManus' hand away from his face and over to his left as an imposing cement structure gradually comes into focus. Two guard towers loom over the high walls and imposing front gate. Barbed wire snakes along the top of the walls and a slow circle of spotlights gradually canvases the perimeter of the prison. It looks like an apparition under the night-vision effect of the camera, with several spots fading in and out sight in the darkness.

“Hold that thought, it looks like we're here.”

The camera feed again cuts out abruptly.

When the feed returns there is sound but no picture, or rather no distinguishable picture; a mostly black screen with a sliver of light in the upper left hand corner. Different colors and shapes move in and out of that slit as words are exchanged between a trio of men.

The first voice is discernibly McManus', “So no personal effects?”

The second voice repeats the phrase in Russian, before a gruff negative response is given by the third voice. The second voice repeats the stern “no” back to McManus, before a shuffling of sounds and colors makes everything indistinguishable. Suddenly the sound comes back, but now the only visual is a dark orange color... like the inside of a prisoner's uniform. The sound of footsteps echoes down a corridor for a few moments before stopping. The sound is replaced by that of a heavy steel door gradually creaking open. The footsteps resume, stop again, the heavy door slams shut. It is then that a pair of fingers appear on the screen, lifting camera from the front breast pocket of McManus' prison garb.

“No personal effects, they said,” he says just above a whisper, “Luckily I know a thing or two about slight of hand. Unfortunately this means I won't get to use that baseball to act like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape but I'll settle for this.”

McManus takes the camera firmly in his hand and pans it around the prison cell. The cell is small, four feet by six feet, with thick, hard cement walls and a heavy steel door with a pair of bars over the only opening in the door's facade. Light from the main walkway outside the cell streams in and leaves a rectangular mark on the floor. In the room there is a small cot with no mattress right beside a cold metal toilet bowl that doesn't exactly look inviting. There are stains along the walls of various shades, long cracks in the ceiling, and the carved words, names and markings of dozens of previous occupants. After encompassing the entire cell, McManus brings the camera back to focus on himself.

“Home sweet Hell,” he says.

“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I believe I was discussing my first round opponents: Super Loco Pelirrojo and Bridge Emmett. Now I told you I can understand Russian, but I also know a little bit of Spanish. If I'm not mistaken Super Loco Pelirrojo means 'Super Crazy Ginger Kid', right? Something like that? Now, here's a cat that I dig and not just because he might be the only one here with crazier hair than mine,” McManus ruffles his peroxide-blond locks, “But rather because he's got himself a special 'gift' like me. See, this cat can't feel pain. That's something heavy right there.”

“But what does it mean for this tournament, and more importantly, what does it mean for your career, Big Red? Does it mean you're impervious, unbeatable, impregnable? Nah, I don't think so. I'm no doctor but I'm pretty sure that you don't need to feel pain to make someone's body stop working on them. I've spent a long hard time learning my submission maneuvers and while I may not be able to get you to tap out... I can get you to pass out. Or maybe instead of wrenching in a Kimura for pain, I just use it to snap your arm. I won't feel bad because you can't feel it, and more importantly you won't be able to use it. Trading blows with you would just be a waste of my energy, and you said it yourself, I'm the superior wrestler between the two of us. I'm going to work on shutting your body down, whether you want it to or not. Maybe you'll want to keep fighting on a broken leg... but explain to me how you're going to stand on it, Carrot Top?”

“There's another thing, too, my fair-haired friend. It's called adrenaline. See, if you can't feel the pain, if you can't understand the sensation of terror, of fear, of being pushed to your physical limits... then how can you tap into a wrestler's greatest strength: his adrenaline rush. Let's say you've got the upper-hand on me, and my body's aching with the pain that your's can't feel... that's when my adrenaline kicks in. But adrenaline is more than just a sudden burst of energy, homeboy. See, you get on that rush, on that adrenaline high, and guess what happens to your average, everyday guy like me? He can't feel pain. That's right. If my heart starts pounding hard enough, me or Bridge, or anyone else in this tournament can become just like you. Goodbye strategic advantage, huh? So I hope for your sake, and the sake of your career, SLP, that you've got something more than the ability to take a punch. Otherwise its going to be a long, sad plane ride home for you.”

McManus gives a quick wink to the camera.

“And then there's Bridget Jones' Diary. Here's a guy who better be wearing MC Hammer's parachute pants, otherwise he's acting way too big for his britches. Bridget, you talk an awful lot of smack for a guy who is just as unseeded as me and El Homeboy de Redhead. And it seems like you got an axe to grind with Hannibal – don't call me Nicolas – Cage. Newsflash for you, sunshine, if you wanna dance with the Cage, you got to get through the three-way tango with me first. You got your sights set so high, you're not going to see it coming when I jack you in the jaw. Sure you can look down your nose and me now, but after I smash it off your face its going to be awful hard for you to look down it at anybody. See, you think it's as simple as just targeting one of my body parts and going to work, huh? What you don't know about me, kid, is that I'm smooth like butter. Butter, dipped in grease, slathered in KY Jelly and tossed down a Slip-N-Slide. You think you've hot me in a hammerlock – Oops, where'd he go? - and now all of sudden you're face down, tapping the eff out because I've locked in the X-Face before you could scream for mommy to help you.”

“Perhaps you've heard the saying 'Pride goeth before the fall.' Now I've never been one for Bible study or stealing other people's material, but I'm going to have to borrow that one from my boy, Jesus, because I think it was tailor-made for you, sweetness. So check yourself before you wreck yourself... Before you get X'ED OUT. I'll see you boys soon enough.”

With that McManus flicks off the camera feed.