Post by A.C. Smith on Nov 14, 2012 20:55:46 GMT -4
Our scene opens today on a fuzzy picture of a television set showing an old, non-HD sitcom. The bug in the corner says, “Now: WKRP in Cincinnati,” revealing that we’re watching a show that ran for four seasons on CBS in the late-1970’s and early-1980’s. Centering around a radio station and featuring an ensemble cast, the show is most famous for a Thanksgiving episode that saw absent-minded general manager Arthur Carlson dump live turkeys out of a helicopter thinking they could fly.
That’s not the episode we’re watching, however. Instead, morning man Dr. Johnny Fever, played by Howard Hesseman, is reading in bed while supervising the three-man rock band Scum of the Earth at their hotel room before their upcoming show in the Queen City. All of the band members are eating lunch while carrying a certain disgust about them.
Band member #1: “They sent YOU over here to look after us?”
Fever: “That’s right.”
Band member #2: “Well, who’s watching YOU, then?”
Fever: “Nobody. I’m a responsible adult.”
Band member #3: “Really? We’re IRRESPONSIBLE.”
Fever: “I think you’re boring.”
Dramatic pause.
Band member #1: “…boring?”
Band member #2: “We’re NEVER boring. Watch this.”
The Brit takes his bowl of salad and dumps it on his head.
Fever: (sarcastically) “I take it back. You’re fascinating.”
The third band member responds by violently yanking the room’s phone out of the wall, sending it flying across the room in the process.
Fever: “Even better.” (to the original questioner) “Can you top it?”
The band member in question nods before knocking over a nearby lamp. The glass shatters, and he puts the lamp shade on his head. Fever then mockingly goes back to his magazine, and our screen is suddenly paused as Scum of the Earth continues to wreak havoc around Fever’s bed.
We zoom out, and we eventually see the back of a man sitting in a chair several feet away from the television. The man’s head is shaking from side to side as the camera does a semi-circle around him, and as we go to the other side, we see that the man in the recliner is none other than the Big Apple Asskicker, A.C. Smith.
Over his right shoulder, we see not the skyline of New York City, but the Atlantic Ocean through a large window and a map of the mid-Atlantic area on a nearby wall. Smith’s suitcase, only partially unpacked from the short drive down the East Coast to Delaware, sits on the floor next to the window, as does a plastic bag for his laundry that hangs off a latch next to the glass.
Smith still hasn’t said a word as we digest the scene, but it’s very clear that the Big Apple Asskicker is far from happy. A mischievous smirk makes its way to his face, a glare shapes his brown eyes, and the first word out of Smith’s mouth is delivered with an understated, yet gravelly, tone.
A.C.: “…boring.”
Smith lets a chuckle emerge from his muscular throat, and once again he spends several seconds shaking his head in abundant disapproval. He still hasn’t blinked in the entire time we’ve shown him, and he bends over a bit, getting closer to the camera before opening his mouth to speak.
A.C.: “I’ve been called lots of things in my career. I’ve been called a dumb oaf. I’ve been called uncoordinated. I’ve been called a fraud, a phony, a sham, and every possible synonym for a waste of space you can imagine. And throughout a 10-year career in this business, I’ve slowly but surely disproven every derogatory attack thrown my way.
But boring, as Shadow called me earlier this week? That’s new. Points to him for originality heading into this week’s three-way for the Xtreme Championship, I suppose, but much like everyone else that’s tried to find chinks in my armor while at a significant disadvantage, he couldn’t be more wrong.
In fact, that was pretty much exactly what I said all throughout his ramblings, ones that reeked of a man who has never recovered from a loss to Evan Harrison that happened some time ago. Never getting over something doesn’t make someone a better person, and Shadow’s living proof of that, as we all found out. Allow me to show you what I mean.”
Still angry, but always in control of his actions and emotions, Smith flares his nostrils just a bit as he pauses, bringing air deep into his lungs before exhaling as his cheeks puff out slightly. He continues.
A.C.: “Instead of being excited over another chance at the APW Xtreme Championship, it’s almost like he’s miserable, resigned to never being able to avenge his loss to Harrison. And he was so busy talking crap about someone not even in the match, someone who will not hold any control over the match’s outcome and the eventual Xtreme Champion, that he was unable to make any sense at all when talking about me, someone who has all the control in the world over how Thursday’s match will go.
That was his first mistake, and he didn’t stop there. No, that would have been too reasonable. Instead, he started off by saying I wasn’t an Asskicker, referring to someone who he thought fit the description, Slade Craven. Well, Slade tried to go down that same path several months ago. It was before the ladder match we had that decided who the last participant in the Test for the Best tournament would be. And what Shadow neglected to bring up was that, that night, Slade Craven, the man who claimed he pioneered the ladder match in APW, never had a chance. Instead, it was me, not Slade Craven, not Mark Mania, and certainly not Nick Watson, who climbed the ladder, earned the spot in the tournament, and stole the show giving Terry Marvin all he could handle.
He mocked my education. It’s true, I didn’t exactly get a degree from Yale. My studies didn’t come in a lecture hall or a lab, but on the streets of New York, where I earned 2,000 stitches in four years taking the most violent criminals you could ever see out of the Big Apple and into the clink. He mocked my police background, saying he was a fireman and, thus, way better equipped to handle the rigors of in-ring competition. I’m pretty sure 10 years, six World Championships, and a list of people I’ve retired that’s a who’s who of wrestling would beg to differ.
He called Nick Watson a budding star. I’ll get to why he isn’t in a moment. He said I was a wimp for getting knocked out by Evan Harrison. Right, because a back-and-forth, 20-minute match with a man Shadow never stood a chance in hell of beating didn’t have anything to do with that or anything. And then, he called me boring and a dunce. Why? My guess is that, after not dealing in anything resembling actual logic, he wanted to go out with the same personal insults I’ve been disproving for a decade, just to put the capper on him signing his own death warrant.
Or maybe, he’s just that stupid.”
Smith finally allows himself to crack a smile, but still shakes his head slightly before moving on.
A.C.: “Shadow should ask his buddy Slade Craven what I’m capable of. Sure, Slade hasn’t really shown his face all that much since I humiliated him that night in Philadelphia, but I’m sure Shadow’s got his phone number, unless the hole Craven’s hiding in doesn’t allow for good cell service. Slade Craven said much of the same things about me that Shadow did. I promised the world that I’d prove him wrong in a multi-way match on the following Overdrive with huge stakes up for grabs. Sounds like a movie we’ve all seen before, huh?
Shadow isn’t a new challenger. He’s the same naysayer I’ve been beating into oblivion for years, despite being, ahem, boring and a dunce. As far as I’m concerned, he can keep going with this train of thought, focusing more on personal insults than on what it’s going to take to win this match and the APW Xtreme Championship. He can keep digging himself a hole by name-calling and rationalizing and pretending my domination of his boy Slade Craven didn’t happen. That’s just fine.
Me? I’m going into this match with only one thing in mind, and that’s winning the title that slipped away from my grasp at One Night in Hell. I get something that’s so valuable in this business, and something that doesn’t come around very often: A second chance. Thursday night here in Newark, I’m going into the building with one mission: To win the Xtreme Championship. And I will stop at nothing, NOTHING, to do that.”
We hear rumbling and footsteps from off-screen, and after a few seconds, Bobby the Bavarian Man-Bitch and Stevie the Slovakian Slobberknocker appear around Smith’s chair. Unlike the seated Smith, who’s clad in a ratty white t-shirt and sweat pants, Bobby and Stevie are actually dressed very well, in crisp button-downs, nice jeans, and have even shaved for some unknown occasion.
Bobby: “A.C., last chance. We’re going clubbing; you coming with us?”
A.C.: “Nah, I’m okay."
Stevie: “Come on, Ace. It’s going to be fun. We promise we won’t embarrass you!”
A.C.: “Don’t you remember, Stevie? I’m boring.”
All three men crack smiles.
Bobby: “Come on, Stevie. More women for us.”
A.C.: “Don’t kid yourselves. You couldn’t get women here if you had fifties hanging from your zippers.”
Bobby and Stevie playfully smack Smith on his shoulders before leaving, and we hear a car revving up and speeding off into the distance a few seconds later. Once again shaking his head as the noise dies down, Smith then refocuses on the camera.
A.C.: “I could go on and on about Shadow and how screwed he is going into Thursday night, and I honestly don’t think I could ever get bored. However, I’d be remiss not to mention the current Xtreme Champion, Nick Watson, one who hardly looked the part last week when he got steamrolled by Kurt Noble. It would have been one thing if he’d put up some semblance of an effort. Instead, he coasted in, still on a high from winning the title at One Night in Hell, and it cost him. He looked like someone who was in way over his head, and there’s no reason why that won’t continue into this week.
He won his match at One Night in Hell because of Sienna Harrison. That’s not a criticism, it’s not me picking nits, it’s a fact. Strangely, I’m not mad at him for it. Evan Harrison got what was coming to him. I thought it was going to be me hitting the decisive blow and taking his title. It wasn’t. Instead, his sister finally stood up for herself, and Watson was in the best position to capitalize while I was laid out after doing all the dirty work. Hey, it’s a title win, and if that’s the way he and Sienna drew it up, then that’s the way the cookie crumbles, I guess.
The events of One Night in Hell don’t bother me, at least not as much as Watson probably thinks they do. But how he’s behaved since? That’s a different story. When you win a championship, one a lot of people in Action Packed Wrestling and around the wrestling world would love to hold, you don’t take a week off. You don’t slack off and rest on your laurels. It becomes your duty to go out there every week and hold up your end of the bargain. Watson came into One Night in Hell wanting to give fans someone to cheer for. That’s laudable. But since then, his behavior hasn’t been one of a champion. It’s been one of someone who got to the top of the mountain and thought that’s all there was to do. And that couldn’t POSSIBLY be further from the truth.”
Smith holds up the index, middle, and ring fingers on each hand, and raises those hands up near his face for the camera to see.
A.C.: “Six times, I’ve won the top prize of the federation I’ve been involved in. I speak from experience when I say that as a champion, you have a duty to bust your ass every single night, the same way you did when you had the strap in your sights. Nick Watson hasn’t done that. And I see that as an insult to every wrestler that’s EVER aspired to be a champion.
I saw what Watson had to say earlier today, and it makes me sick. For starters, he complained that I’m constantly doing things irrelevant to my matches. Wow, what a concept! Someone that lives a life outside the business and is (gasp) PROUD to do it? God forbid I be allowed to do things like a regular person without checking with the all-knowing authority that is Nick Watson!
Meanwhile, for someone who mouths off about me going on tangents to spend half his time talking about Sienna Harrison when myself and Shadow want nothing more than to destroy him and give APW fans an Xtreme Champion they can be proud of? I guess, somewhere, Watson has a delusional reason for why that’s OK, but anyone with half a brain has done exactly what I did when I heard him go off half-cocked: Call him a hypocrite and laugh at him.
Think about that for a second. Nick Watson is supposed to be the Xtreme Champion, and, as such, one of the toughest men in the business. And people are outright LAUGHING at him for his performance last week, one he failed to mention AT ALL in his little shpiel today, I may add, and wondering if he fell down and hit his head with how he’s telling me to live my life. I have ALWAYS been an independent man, and I resent people trying to tell me what to do. My way’s gotten me a 10-year career in this business, six World title reigns, and the most passionate, loving fans anyone, including Nick Watson, could ever ask for.
But no. Apparently, I’m just wasting my time.”
Another chuckle from Smith, who at this point is having a grand old time tearing his two opponents to shreds.
A.C.: “I’ve accomplished more in 10 years than Nick Watson will in a lifetime. And you know what those 10 years includes? The two times where I’ve BEATEN Nick Watson cleanly. One was at the Test for the Best ladder match, and another was in a straight-up, one-on-one contest where I had no trouble dispatching him.
Watson can try and counter with his win at One Night in Hell. But that win, easily the biggest of his APW career, came after I’d gotten knocked out by Evan Harrison. I was out of the picture, and he and Sienna Harrison took advantage of it. Watson never got in a good shot that night, and he’s NEVER gotten one in on me. That won’t start Thursday night, when I go in, dismantle him and Shadow, and make good on a second chance at the Xtreme Championship.
Watson is too preoccupied with things that don’t matter to take this challenge seriously. He’s too busy thinking about Sienna Harrison, who did more in five seconds to alter the result at One Night in Hell than Nick Watson did in 20 minutes. He’s too busy trying to tell me what to do when I couldn’t care less and have too much real-life experience to take him seriously.
Let me turn the tables for a moment and give Watson some advice, advice from a 10-year veteran that he should immediately take to heart. After he loses his Xtreme Championship to me, one he never would have won without Sienna Harrison, he needs to take a long look at himself and re-evaluate his priorities. Nick Watson has talent. But he’ll never be able to fully take advantage of it until he gets his head out of his ass and focuses on what matters. Kurt Noble started to teach that lesson last week. Thursday night at Overdrive, I finish it, and I take the title I so desperately wanted to win in Japan a few weeks ago.”
We hear a door slam off-screen, and Smith doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Seconds later, Bobby and Stevie resurface, each bearing shiners on their eyes and assorted bruises on their cheeks and chins.
A.C.: “Let me guess: You hit on a bartender’s cousin?”
Bobby: “Sister.”
A.C.: “Even smarter.”
Stevie: “We didn’t know! The bartender was old and crusty, and she was GORGEOUS!”
Smith rolls his eyes, and a knowing, ‘Boy am I glad I didn’t go out with YOU guys,’ smile creeps onto his face.
A.C.: “WKRP marathon?”
Bobby: “Sure! Is this the one where they kill all the turkeys?”
Bobby and Stevie sit down in two chairs, one on each side of the room. Smith lifts up the remote control, hits the ‘play’ button, and Scum of the Earth resumes tearing their hotel room to shreds as our scene fades to black.
That’s not the episode we’re watching, however. Instead, morning man Dr. Johnny Fever, played by Howard Hesseman, is reading in bed while supervising the three-man rock band Scum of the Earth at their hotel room before their upcoming show in the Queen City. All of the band members are eating lunch while carrying a certain disgust about them.
Band member #1: “They sent YOU over here to look after us?”
Fever: “That’s right.”
Band member #2: “Well, who’s watching YOU, then?”
Fever: “Nobody. I’m a responsible adult.”
Band member #3: “Really? We’re IRRESPONSIBLE.”
Fever: “I think you’re boring.”
Dramatic pause.
Band member #1: “…boring?”
Band member #2: “We’re NEVER boring. Watch this.”
The Brit takes his bowl of salad and dumps it on his head.
Fever: (sarcastically) “I take it back. You’re fascinating.”
The third band member responds by violently yanking the room’s phone out of the wall, sending it flying across the room in the process.
Fever: “Even better.” (to the original questioner) “Can you top it?”
The band member in question nods before knocking over a nearby lamp. The glass shatters, and he puts the lamp shade on his head. Fever then mockingly goes back to his magazine, and our screen is suddenly paused as Scum of the Earth continues to wreak havoc around Fever’s bed.
We zoom out, and we eventually see the back of a man sitting in a chair several feet away from the television. The man’s head is shaking from side to side as the camera does a semi-circle around him, and as we go to the other side, we see that the man in the recliner is none other than the Big Apple Asskicker, A.C. Smith.
Over his right shoulder, we see not the skyline of New York City, but the Atlantic Ocean through a large window and a map of the mid-Atlantic area on a nearby wall. Smith’s suitcase, only partially unpacked from the short drive down the East Coast to Delaware, sits on the floor next to the window, as does a plastic bag for his laundry that hangs off a latch next to the glass.
Smith still hasn’t said a word as we digest the scene, but it’s very clear that the Big Apple Asskicker is far from happy. A mischievous smirk makes its way to his face, a glare shapes his brown eyes, and the first word out of Smith’s mouth is delivered with an understated, yet gravelly, tone.
A.C.: “…boring.”
Smith lets a chuckle emerge from his muscular throat, and once again he spends several seconds shaking his head in abundant disapproval. He still hasn’t blinked in the entire time we’ve shown him, and he bends over a bit, getting closer to the camera before opening his mouth to speak.
A.C.: “I’ve been called lots of things in my career. I’ve been called a dumb oaf. I’ve been called uncoordinated. I’ve been called a fraud, a phony, a sham, and every possible synonym for a waste of space you can imagine. And throughout a 10-year career in this business, I’ve slowly but surely disproven every derogatory attack thrown my way.
But boring, as Shadow called me earlier this week? That’s new. Points to him for originality heading into this week’s three-way for the Xtreme Championship, I suppose, but much like everyone else that’s tried to find chinks in my armor while at a significant disadvantage, he couldn’t be more wrong.
In fact, that was pretty much exactly what I said all throughout his ramblings, ones that reeked of a man who has never recovered from a loss to Evan Harrison that happened some time ago. Never getting over something doesn’t make someone a better person, and Shadow’s living proof of that, as we all found out. Allow me to show you what I mean.”
Still angry, but always in control of his actions and emotions, Smith flares his nostrils just a bit as he pauses, bringing air deep into his lungs before exhaling as his cheeks puff out slightly. He continues.
A.C.: “Instead of being excited over another chance at the APW Xtreme Championship, it’s almost like he’s miserable, resigned to never being able to avenge his loss to Harrison. And he was so busy talking crap about someone not even in the match, someone who will not hold any control over the match’s outcome and the eventual Xtreme Champion, that he was unable to make any sense at all when talking about me, someone who has all the control in the world over how Thursday’s match will go.
That was his first mistake, and he didn’t stop there. No, that would have been too reasonable. Instead, he started off by saying I wasn’t an Asskicker, referring to someone who he thought fit the description, Slade Craven. Well, Slade tried to go down that same path several months ago. It was before the ladder match we had that decided who the last participant in the Test for the Best tournament would be. And what Shadow neglected to bring up was that, that night, Slade Craven, the man who claimed he pioneered the ladder match in APW, never had a chance. Instead, it was me, not Slade Craven, not Mark Mania, and certainly not Nick Watson, who climbed the ladder, earned the spot in the tournament, and stole the show giving Terry Marvin all he could handle.
He mocked my education. It’s true, I didn’t exactly get a degree from Yale. My studies didn’t come in a lecture hall or a lab, but on the streets of New York, where I earned 2,000 stitches in four years taking the most violent criminals you could ever see out of the Big Apple and into the clink. He mocked my police background, saying he was a fireman and, thus, way better equipped to handle the rigors of in-ring competition. I’m pretty sure 10 years, six World Championships, and a list of people I’ve retired that’s a who’s who of wrestling would beg to differ.
He called Nick Watson a budding star. I’ll get to why he isn’t in a moment. He said I was a wimp for getting knocked out by Evan Harrison. Right, because a back-and-forth, 20-minute match with a man Shadow never stood a chance in hell of beating didn’t have anything to do with that or anything. And then, he called me boring and a dunce. Why? My guess is that, after not dealing in anything resembling actual logic, he wanted to go out with the same personal insults I’ve been disproving for a decade, just to put the capper on him signing his own death warrant.
Or maybe, he’s just that stupid.”
Smith finally allows himself to crack a smile, but still shakes his head slightly before moving on.
A.C.: “Shadow should ask his buddy Slade Craven what I’m capable of. Sure, Slade hasn’t really shown his face all that much since I humiliated him that night in Philadelphia, but I’m sure Shadow’s got his phone number, unless the hole Craven’s hiding in doesn’t allow for good cell service. Slade Craven said much of the same things about me that Shadow did. I promised the world that I’d prove him wrong in a multi-way match on the following Overdrive with huge stakes up for grabs. Sounds like a movie we’ve all seen before, huh?
Shadow isn’t a new challenger. He’s the same naysayer I’ve been beating into oblivion for years, despite being, ahem, boring and a dunce. As far as I’m concerned, he can keep going with this train of thought, focusing more on personal insults than on what it’s going to take to win this match and the APW Xtreme Championship. He can keep digging himself a hole by name-calling and rationalizing and pretending my domination of his boy Slade Craven didn’t happen. That’s just fine.
Me? I’m going into this match with only one thing in mind, and that’s winning the title that slipped away from my grasp at One Night in Hell. I get something that’s so valuable in this business, and something that doesn’t come around very often: A second chance. Thursday night here in Newark, I’m going into the building with one mission: To win the Xtreme Championship. And I will stop at nothing, NOTHING, to do that.”
We hear rumbling and footsteps from off-screen, and after a few seconds, Bobby the Bavarian Man-Bitch and Stevie the Slovakian Slobberknocker appear around Smith’s chair. Unlike the seated Smith, who’s clad in a ratty white t-shirt and sweat pants, Bobby and Stevie are actually dressed very well, in crisp button-downs, nice jeans, and have even shaved for some unknown occasion.
Bobby: “A.C., last chance. We’re going clubbing; you coming with us?”
A.C.: “Nah, I’m okay."
Stevie: “Come on, Ace. It’s going to be fun. We promise we won’t embarrass you!”
A.C.: “Don’t you remember, Stevie? I’m boring.”
All three men crack smiles.
Bobby: “Come on, Stevie. More women for us.”
A.C.: “Don’t kid yourselves. You couldn’t get women here if you had fifties hanging from your zippers.”
Bobby and Stevie playfully smack Smith on his shoulders before leaving, and we hear a car revving up and speeding off into the distance a few seconds later. Once again shaking his head as the noise dies down, Smith then refocuses on the camera.
A.C.: “I could go on and on about Shadow and how screwed he is going into Thursday night, and I honestly don’t think I could ever get bored. However, I’d be remiss not to mention the current Xtreme Champion, Nick Watson, one who hardly looked the part last week when he got steamrolled by Kurt Noble. It would have been one thing if he’d put up some semblance of an effort. Instead, he coasted in, still on a high from winning the title at One Night in Hell, and it cost him. He looked like someone who was in way over his head, and there’s no reason why that won’t continue into this week.
He won his match at One Night in Hell because of Sienna Harrison. That’s not a criticism, it’s not me picking nits, it’s a fact. Strangely, I’m not mad at him for it. Evan Harrison got what was coming to him. I thought it was going to be me hitting the decisive blow and taking his title. It wasn’t. Instead, his sister finally stood up for herself, and Watson was in the best position to capitalize while I was laid out after doing all the dirty work. Hey, it’s a title win, and if that’s the way he and Sienna drew it up, then that’s the way the cookie crumbles, I guess.
The events of One Night in Hell don’t bother me, at least not as much as Watson probably thinks they do. But how he’s behaved since? That’s a different story. When you win a championship, one a lot of people in Action Packed Wrestling and around the wrestling world would love to hold, you don’t take a week off. You don’t slack off and rest on your laurels. It becomes your duty to go out there every week and hold up your end of the bargain. Watson came into One Night in Hell wanting to give fans someone to cheer for. That’s laudable. But since then, his behavior hasn’t been one of a champion. It’s been one of someone who got to the top of the mountain and thought that’s all there was to do. And that couldn’t POSSIBLY be further from the truth.”
Smith holds up the index, middle, and ring fingers on each hand, and raises those hands up near his face for the camera to see.
A.C.: “Six times, I’ve won the top prize of the federation I’ve been involved in. I speak from experience when I say that as a champion, you have a duty to bust your ass every single night, the same way you did when you had the strap in your sights. Nick Watson hasn’t done that. And I see that as an insult to every wrestler that’s EVER aspired to be a champion.
I saw what Watson had to say earlier today, and it makes me sick. For starters, he complained that I’m constantly doing things irrelevant to my matches. Wow, what a concept! Someone that lives a life outside the business and is (gasp) PROUD to do it? God forbid I be allowed to do things like a regular person without checking with the all-knowing authority that is Nick Watson!
Meanwhile, for someone who mouths off about me going on tangents to spend half his time talking about Sienna Harrison when myself and Shadow want nothing more than to destroy him and give APW fans an Xtreme Champion they can be proud of? I guess, somewhere, Watson has a delusional reason for why that’s OK, but anyone with half a brain has done exactly what I did when I heard him go off half-cocked: Call him a hypocrite and laugh at him.
Think about that for a second. Nick Watson is supposed to be the Xtreme Champion, and, as such, one of the toughest men in the business. And people are outright LAUGHING at him for his performance last week, one he failed to mention AT ALL in his little shpiel today, I may add, and wondering if he fell down and hit his head with how he’s telling me to live my life. I have ALWAYS been an independent man, and I resent people trying to tell me what to do. My way’s gotten me a 10-year career in this business, six World title reigns, and the most passionate, loving fans anyone, including Nick Watson, could ever ask for.
But no. Apparently, I’m just wasting my time.”
Another chuckle from Smith, who at this point is having a grand old time tearing his two opponents to shreds.
A.C.: “I’ve accomplished more in 10 years than Nick Watson will in a lifetime. And you know what those 10 years includes? The two times where I’ve BEATEN Nick Watson cleanly. One was at the Test for the Best ladder match, and another was in a straight-up, one-on-one contest where I had no trouble dispatching him.
Watson can try and counter with his win at One Night in Hell. But that win, easily the biggest of his APW career, came after I’d gotten knocked out by Evan Harrison. I was out of the picture, and he and Sienna Harrison took advantage of it. Watson never got in a good shot that night, and he’s NEVER gotten one in on me. That won’t start Thursday night, when I go in, dismantle him and Shadow, and make good on a second chance at the Xtreme Championship.
Watson is too preoccupied with things that don’t matter to take this challenge seriously. He’s too busy thinking about Sienna Harrison, who did more in five seconds to alter the result at One Night in Hell than Nick Watson did in 20 minutes. He’s too busy trying to tell me what to do when I couldn’t care less and have too much real-life experience to take him seriously.
Let me turn the tables for a moment and give Watson some advice, advice from a 10-year veteran that he should immediately take to heart. After he loses his Xtreme Championship to me, one he never would have won without Sienna Harrison, he needs to take a long look at himself and re-evaluate his priorities. Nick Watson has talent. But he’ll never be able to fully take advantage of it until he gets his head out of his ass and focuses on what matters. Kurt Noble started to teach that lesson last week. Thursday night at Overdrive, I finish it, and I take the title I so desperately wanted to win in Japan a few weeks ago.”
We hear a door slam off-screen, and Smith doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Seconds later, Bobby and Stevie resurface, each bearing shiners on their eyes and assorted bruises on their cheeks and chins.
A.C.: “Let me guess: You hit on a bartender’s cousin?”
Bobby: “Sister.”
A.C.: “Even smarter.”
Stevie: “We didn’t know! The bartender was old and crusty, and she was GORGEOUS!”
Smith rolls his eyes, and a knowing, ‘Boy am I glad I didn’t go out with YOU guys,’ smile creeps onto his face.
A.C.: “WKRP marathon?”
Bobby: “Sure! Is this the one where they kill all the turkeys?”
Bobby and Stevie sit down in two chairs, one on each side of the room. Smith lifts up the remote control, hits the ‘play’ button, and Scum of the Earth resumes tearing their hotel room to shreds as our scene fades to black.
