The Ugly Truth

[Chris Madison]

July 2nd, 2013
Miami, Florida
12:00 P.M.

The ash gray pavement of a parking lot the camera opens to is cracked and weathered. A familiar style of cinematography is seen as the picture from the handheld camcorder jumps with every thud of a footstep. Steadily the pace between steps quicken and periodically the sound of the rubber soles of the boots can be heard scrapping against the asphalt. Suddenly the steps come to a halt as the camera is straightened out and the clanking sound of a chain linked fence is heard. The production crew from the Meltdown Supershow is working hard packing all their gear.

The camera pans the area before focusing on one individual trailer. The door to that trailer creeks as it swings open. Standing in the doorway is a nerdy male seeming to be in his early sixties. His receding hairline has left him with a white horseshoe haircut around the side of his head. With his index finger he pushes up the large coke bottle frames of his glasses from the edge of his nose. His short sleeve button down shirt is tucked into a tight pair of Levi jeans which come up right bellow his belly button.

He reached into his breast pocket which sat perfectly on his portly gut and pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes. He taps on the bottom of the container out of habit before removing one the cancerous sticks and placing it between his two lips. With a quick light of a match from the matchbook he keeps tucked into the plastic surrounding the box his cigarette is lit. A couple long inhales and he lets out a stress reducing sigh. Over watching the crew get all the equipment together it was obvious the man was of a supervisory role.

"God damn it Jose!" He yelled out between drags. He shuffled his way down the steps as he mumbled to himself, "if you want things done right I guess you truly have to do it yourself."

He waddled over to a young Hispanic male who seemed to be rolling up some of the electrical wiring. You could tell the young man, in his late teens or early twenties, had been out in the blistering Miami son for awhile because sweat dripped off his head like a leaky faucet. His red no sleeve shirt was drenched, as if he was standing in a downpour and his denim jeans seemed almost brown from all of the dirt. With the cigarette hanging from the edge of his lips he grabbed the wiring from Jose and started to roll it his way.

"Do you see how I'm doing it Jose" he questioned with a condescending tone in his voice. "If its not done this way then it will never fit in the containers. Let me see...Comprender?"

He hand the wiring to Jose who places it in a large steel container. As he walks he incoherently mumbled to himself under his breath. Jose puts a smile on and nods until the larger gentlemen gets by. Jose quickly replaces that smile with a middle finger salute to his boss and utters "pinche puta". The unknown man holding the camera at this time chuckle to himself as these events continue to unfold. Incapable of turning only his neck the chubby man twists his upper body slightly, shooting a glare at his employee. The camera continues to unknowingly stalk the same individual as he makes it back to the top of the stairs leading to his trailer.

Squeezing the remains of his cigarette between his thumb and middle finger he takes one more long drag. He extends his arm out and flicks the remnants to bottom of the staircase. The cigarette bounces off the pavement breaking off the lit head and sending sparks flying in the immediate area. "TRACY" he yelled out before breaking out into a coughing fit. He quickly reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief, placing it over his mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the sound of impending death.

The door to the trailer swung open and a beautiful young woman stepped out. Her pin straight blonde hair matched her deep blue eyes, accenting a face you could simply lose yourself in. She wore a snug purple blouse which left little to the imagination and a tight black dress which hugged her curvaceous hips and stopped right above her knees. A perky smile perfectly complimented the look as she stood patiently awaiting direction from her boss. "How can I help you Mr. Phillips" she questioned ready to tend to his needs.

He wiped his mouth after practically dry heaving for over a minute and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. "Did you get all of their final envelopes together?"

She simply nodded her head, causing the ends of her hair to bounce up and down.

"Termination notices included, correct?" He stared at her with a stern look.

"Of course Mr. Phillips, exactly as you had asked. They really have no idea they are being let go?"

"Don't you get yourself all caught up in worrying about something like that. These guys find work easy. They'll land on their feet. Most important thing is that we have kept our jobs. One more possible show an that's all she wrote for these guys."

You could tell those words didn't resonate well with her. That infectious smile of hers quickly changed to a look of disgust because of his vile callousness. Mr. Phillips, as he's become to be known, takes out that pack of Newport cigarettes again and ignites the cancerous stick he removed and placed against his lips. He takes a few deep inhales of the noxious smoke before informing Tracy, "I'm going on my break in my office. If there's any calls just take a message and I'll get back to them later tonight, unless of course it's President Jeff or Sienna Harrison. You are to notify me immediately if the call!"

Reluctantly she replies with a simple, "of course Mr. Phillips".

Mr. Phillips grinds his half finished cigarette into the wall of the trailer, just enough to put out the smoldering tip without compromising the integrity of his smoke. He turns and goes inside leaving Tracy on the steps by herself. There is a sudden change in her demeanor as she looks around attentively to see if anyone is paying her any mind. Once she realizes no one is paying attention to her she throws her hand into the air and with a few quick flicks of her wrists signals for someone to come to her.

Her eyes are apparently affixed at the handheld device recording the unfolding events. The chain link fence behind the mystery director clank again as he rises to go feet. The picture becomes shaky once again showing the ash gray pavement of the parking lot as he moves towards her. He makes it to the steps and slowly makes his way to the top stair, right next to the young secretary. She folds her left leg in the air, bent at the knee as she rises to her toes with her right foot. The smooching sound of her lips to human flesh is heard but not seen. Finally the camera rises up to her eye level as she comes back down to normal height.

"He's all yours" she whispered with a stunning smile."I'll be back in an hour. Is that enough time for you?"

The camera followed her as she tip toed slowly down the staircase. Her high heels clicked every time the point met the ground below her. The camera quickly does a one eighty and reveals the identity of the camera man to be Chris Madison. His light brown hair is just long enough to slick backwards. With the lens focused on his face he breaks his silence and addresses the audience. "I told you the Black Hand is more than just a group of wrestlers bonded together. We are just representatives of an ideology and it can be found within anyone. Even your god damn secretaries! We are a generation of men and women who refuse to be molded into what you want us to be! But that's not why I stood by in Miami. I'm not here to preach, it's time to reveal the filthy truths!"

As quiet as possible, Madison opens the door and peeks his head into the mobile office. The initial room is vacant. A computer desk is set up with a phone and some shrubbery strategically placed for design. On the far wall is another door which is also shut. Madison creeps in with the camera facing forward before discretely closing the door behind him. He twists the deadbolt lock to the door and pauses for a moment, hoping the clunking sound it created didn't disturb Mr. Phillips.

Not a sound is heard and Chris continues to slink around until he finally reaches the door. With a firm grip on the door knob, he places his right ear to the think slab of wood which barriers Mr. Phillips from his impending doom. Not a peep is heard, and Madison listened for a solid minute or two. A jiggle of the handle reveals the door to be locked from the inside, a mere speed bump in his plan. Chris takes a step back and with one impactful front kick perfectly placed the flimsy door shatters around the lock and swings open. The crashing sound startles Mr. Phillips who was leaning back in his office chair with his feet up on the desk, resting his eyes.

Mr. Phillips looks like a deer caught in headlights as he sits fully upright. "What's the big idea!" he shouts while pound his fists down onto the desk in front of him.

"Sleeping on the job? Tsk tsk tsk. What would Jeff or Sienna say about your ability to supervise if they knew you were taking paid naps?" Madison places the camera down on the center of the desk pointing towards Mr. Phillips. He inched closer and grinds his fists, knuckles down on the desk."You know damn well why I am here..."

With the two men standing nose to nose separated only by a large oak desk, Mr. Phillips' face turns a ghostly white. The words that rolled of the tongue of Madison so effortlessly immediately struck fear into his core as the sweat beaded down like a waterfall. "Oh please Chris, don't do this." he pleaded with hopes of Madison taking it easy on him. He raises his right hand up and holds it as if he was taking an oath. "I swear on my grand kids, I had nothing to do with it."

The cryptic message he was spewing from those trembling lips was denying any involvement in the technical difficulties which caused Madison's tag match to black out during the broadcasting of the Meltdown Supershow. Madison looked over his desk as a picture frame grabs his attention. He picks the frame up and looks at the picture encased. It shows Mr. Phillips sitting on a couch with three young boys climbing on top of him in the midst of laughing. A portrait which caught the tender moment of a grandfather playing with his three grand sons. Madison smashes the picture against the edge of the desk sending shattered glass to his feet. He removes the picture from the frame while reaching over and grabbing Mr. Phillips by his shirt and pulling him closer.

"Is it wise to lie on these sweet, innocent, young boys? Time to cut the crap! The truth may set you free!

Madison shoves Mr. Phillips backwards while releasing the hold of his shirt. He stumbles backwards and falls into the office chair, sending it to roll towards the rear wall. Madison circumvents the desk places both hands on the arms of the chair, confining Mr. Phillips in his seat.

Visibly shaken and intimidated Mr. Phillips sat paralyzed in fear without any options. Madison is a professional athlete and he knew he was in no condition to try and fight back. The two stared at one another before finally Madison nodded his head and lifted his hands from the chair. "I guess I have to do this the hard way. Madison whispered with a sadistic smile on his face. He reached over and backhanded Mr. Phillips causing him to shriek in pain.

Madison reached down into his khaki cargo shorts and pulled out a roll of duct tape from one of his large side pockets. He stretches out a section cutting the tension in the room with the tearing sound of the adhesive glue. Chris proceeds to bound Mr. Phillips' hands to the arms of the chair and then one final piece to cover his mouth. He smacks him a three more times before posing a question. "I know it was you! The whole broadcast runs smoothly except from the start and end of my match. Who told you to do it! I want a god damn name!"

Mr. Phillips lets out a mumble which couldn't be deciphered with his mouth covered by duct tape. Madison laughs as Mr. Phillips' eyes ball up with tears. They slowly stream down his face building up at the strand of duct tape covering his mouth like a dam. Madison puts his rear end on top of the desk leaving his feet to freely dangle in the air.

Madison turns his head an cups his right hand around his right ear. "What's that? You're gonna have to speak up. I can't hear ya" he jokingly shouted.

Chris leaped from the desk landing on top of Mr. Phillips' feet. He let out a muffled groan and Madison extends his arm out. He grabs one side of the duct tape over his mouth and quickly yanks it unleashing an ear-piercing howl. He watches as Mr. Phillips collects himself. Panting, almost out if breath, he is finally capable of being understood. "I'm sorry Chris, what options did I have?"

"Finally, you know all of this was entirely unnecessary. All you had to do is man up to it." Chris reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small gravity knife. He flicks his wrist and the blade swings open. He saws open both bounds and frees Mr. Phillips from his rolling prison. "All I want is a name. Tell me who forced you to pull the plug."

"You know who...do I really need to say it? If she finds out, it will be my job."

"If you don't say it may be your early retirement."

Mr. Phillips pouted like a child not getting his way. He rubbed at his wrists which were sore from how tight the tape was around them. After letting out a sigh, disappointed in himself he finally muttered, "Sienna..."

Madison's face scrunched up in anger. His fists balled up as he started to pace back and forth. "I knew it! That bitch! She couldn't stand the fact that I wouldn't sit by like a good little boy with my mouth shut. And Jeff? He had nothing to do with this?"

Mr. Phillips buried his head into his hands. "No, he's been on me the last couple of days trying to get a tape of the match to release to the fans."

Madison's attention quickly changes to the ringing cellphone in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at the name on the caller ID. It's his close friend, Frankie Morrison. He answers the call and listens to the voice on the other end. Mr. Phillips watches on as Madison goes through a roller coaster of emotions during the call. Not before too long Chris breaks the silence on his end.

"Again?"

"Where is she?

"I don't know when, but I'll be there..."

Madison reaches down and grabs his handheld camera. Mr. Phillips stands to his feet as he watches Madison storm out of his office. The scene cuts out to static and a snowy picture. The picture returns with Madison filming himself once again, this time at an unknown location.

"July eleventh, two thousand an thirteen, North Charleston South Carolina. A start of a new era for APW overdrive. I make my debut on APW's flagship program and can guarantee a performance which will be unmatched by all!"

"You know, my father used to say with one achievement you can inspire thousands. Growing up he really pushed my brothers and I to compete at a high level. After awhile I started to resent the man, he really was like a slavedriver. But looking back at it now he was just trying instill some core values in us. Drive, integrity, honor, desire for more."

"I never thought of myself as the type to inspire the masses. Throughout school I was the guy in the background who blended in with the shadows. I wasn't a leader of any sort. The only places I shined was wrestling mats and jui jitsu tournaments. But since I broke into this industry I have been a whole different man. I have been driven to be the best in that ring night after night. I have always conducted myself with the highest integrity. I honor the sanctity of this business and the performers that sacrifice themselves. Lastly I always find myself searching for more. Never am I satisfied with myself. The core values my father pounded into us as children unknowingly affect me to this day."

"This week I find myself in a 'prove yourself battle royal'. A slap in the face to all of us in this match if you ask me. We're contracted competitors for the APW. Contacts which were signed by President Jeff. If he was unsure of our abilities do you think he would sign us all to contracts? What's there to prove? Might as well rename this, 'I'm not creative enough to figure out what to do with you battle royal'. But I'm sure it's what's good for business, right Mr. Duvall?"

"At least I'm not the only one Mr. Duvall feels that they must prove themselves. First there is Joseph Johnson. A mystery man to most. Your timing has prevented anyone from finding out anything about you. This supposed man of a thousand moves has yet to be able to showcase those holds. If the title of this battle royal truly applies to anyone it's you. Your the new kid on the block. You are the one who hasn't proved them-self. You haven't had the chance. With Meltdown ready to close its doors for good you were kind of left on the front steps looking in."

"I'm sure you have a list of accomplishments and accolades longer than the eye can see. We all do, it's what has gotten us to this point in our career, competing for one of the top companies. But Joseph, all those titles and wins in the past doesn't make you any more qualified to win this thing than the next guy. I don't know you from a whole in the wall and I hope your moniker is sincere because you may need a thousand holds to stop me from tossing you over that top rope to your ass, on the floor!"

"Then there's Jace Savage. If anyone should be insulted its you. A blatant slap in the face to all the work you have done over on Meltdown. I know it was your agenda to try and make that brand an entity of its own. Perhaps that's what caused it to crumble from the top down. Meltdown was what it was. A farm system so guys can develop their skills and be ready for the main brands. It was never meant to stand on its own. Wishful thinking for sure."

"All that hard work you have put in, going to Test For The Best to represent Meltdown, and Mr. Duvall wants you to prove yourself. A true slap in the face if you ask me. But now you're lumped with the rest of us Meltdown misfits. All that hard work down the drain. Something like this should light a fire under your ass. You should put your foot down and tell them how you're tired of being over looked. You're tired of being passed over. But you won't, you'll come out like a good ole boy and talk about how it's for the fans. A little bit of advice if you will, the fans won't do a damn thing for you! The sooner you realize that you are out there for yourself, the sooner you'll stop having to prove yourself."

"Wyatt Crash, last week you got one over on me. Touché. I knew there was something about you. Regardless of who pinned who, you and Mr. Enigma came out on top. It's a shame a bright moment in your early APW career has to be tainted by the juvenile actions of our general manager. Simply because I'm a strong supporter of the first amendment and she didn't like what I had to say, the fans missed out on a phenomenal tag team match. But that what you fight for right? For the company? For the fans? Your foolishness has blinded you! They don't care about you. There was no outcry because they didn't get to see Wyatt Crash on television. There was no uproar because of the actions of one of the upper management figures pulled our match. The masses still bought the product and continued on their merry way. Pathetic! That's what they are. These people are pathetic and you embody everything about them! I'm going to make sure I personally send you up and over those ropes come Thursday!"

"Jerry Matthews, this is our first run in, and to be honest I don't know much about you. I do know you have strong opinions based on your beliefs. Agree with you or not, one must respect that. I don't really consider myself a religious man. I refuse to go to mass and listen to someone preach to me when they have their own issues. My church is in that ring. My mass is now on Thursday nights. When all is wrong in the world it's the one consistency in my life. It's my rock. And win, lose, or draw I always find comfort in going to that ring. It's therapeutic. Thursday I want you to bring your big ass to that ring and try to cleanse me of my sins, I beg of you! After I'm done you'll be sure to get another visit from the archangel Gabriel, this time he'll be visiting the hospital to tell you hang those boots up."

"Lastly there is you...Brian Hollywood. Our paths have been somewhat intertwined since we got here. An unlikely pairing put together with the sole purpose to job to the Unforgiven. Well they found the right guy didn't they? In as anticlimactic of a finish for our debut you stumbled over your own feet into the arms of the silent destroyer, Sentinel. You can claim foul play all you want...but truth be told, no one drugged you. You simply weren't good enough. It's time for you to man up and admit it!"

"The second time around I wasn't going to make the same mistake and let you cost me the match. Just when Sentinel thought he had you done for a second time I rolled him up and pinned him to the mat for three! Proving that I didn't need your help. I never wanted it! You were Siennas plan to hold me down. Now is my chance to get retribution for that debut you cost me. Conveniently enough during another debut. This time you won't cost me my moment!"

"After Overdrive opens up the fans will be on their feet! The fans will cheer the one man left on his feet. I will be that man! If not for anything else, just to be able to turn my back on those fans and walk out of that ring stepping over their fallen heroes!"

"I will not be stopped!"

The scene cuts to the sound of static and a snowy picture once again.