Post by Peter Shelley on Oct 27, 2013 10:58:16 GMT -4
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
When in Japan, appear in a horrendously convoluted game show where the lines between winning and losing are hazily established and humiliation, entertainment value and agonizing pain are the only real certainty.
An apocalyptic nightmare of glaring lights illuminates the stage where Masaki Takuya, the tuxedo wearing host of Ultra Wasabi Fun Time Happy Challenge Game Show walks on stage to a big band fanfare and a massive ovation from the live studio audience. A veteran game show host of comparable stature to Regis or Barker, Takuya takes their steady demeanor and adds a hit of acid to create a wacky persona that has captivated audiences for two generation. He wields his microphone like a mighty sceptre, lording over his subjects with a charismatic flair.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Ultra Wasabi Fun Time Happy Challenge Game Showwww!” announces Takuya. The crowd eat his every word, their roars like thunder for the man of the hour.
“Today on the show, we have a very fun time happy guest. He is a big American celebrity and appearing this week in APW One Night In Hell! Please welcome Mr. Peter Shelley!”
The big band fires up another volley of smooth jazz sounds for Peter to walk out to. Getting just as polite an observation as the host, Peter Shelley smiles warmly as he takes his place at the podium wearing a kimono and a slightly lost expression.
”Where'd Madame Yoko go? I'm here for my massage now,” asks Peter, revealing a little more about himself than he should have. Thankfully this Japanese audience don't catch a word of it.
“Now Mr. Shelley, you know the rules. All you have to do is consume increasingly spicy levels of Japan's famous horse radish paste to win a big cash prize for a charity of your choice. Are you ready?” Takuya says in English. Peter cocks his head sideways at the host, half failing to understand his accent and half unable to comprehend why he's here.
“I'm sorry, what?” Peter fidgets with his sea green belt.
“What charity will you be representing tonight Peter?” questions Takuya, ploughing through Peter's confusion with follow up questions.
“Oh. Um, I'll be representing Why Don't You Shut The Hell Up productions, they're uhh... an upcoming film company in Hollywood that makes awareness videos for the homeless, alcoholics, people like that,”
“Well then without further delay! Let's play Ultra Wasabi Fun Time Happy Challenge Game Show!”
***
“Okay Peter, we come now to the final challenge. For five hundred million yen, you must take two eye vodka shots, snort this entire line of thermal paste and then empty this salt container into your mouth. Two people have died attempting this and nobody else has completed it. Are you sure you want to play?”asks a sweating Takuya, tugging anxiously at the collar of his damp shirt.
”Fucking bring it!” mumbles Peter through a mouthful of frothing saliva and snot. Two beautiful ladies in sparkling silver dresses bring out the five hundred million yen tray and place it on the table in front of him. Paramedics and a concerned Stephen are on stand-by behind the curtains.
“Well then, on the count of three,”
Just like in Bloodsport when Jean-Claude Van Damme gets salt in his eyes, Peter doesn't see but senses where the challenge is. With no vision, he picks up the first vodka shot and slams it straight into his eye, screaming in agony as the pure alcohol goes straight into his bloodstream but before he lets the pain truly set in he throws the other one back too. With tears streaming down his eyes, he drags his nose across the five inch strip of industrial strength heat paste and snorts it quick enough to put Eric Clapton to shame. As a baffled crowd look on, he grabs the salt container, unscrews the lid and empties it in its entirety into his mouth before throwing it down on the ground. The audience erupt into cheering and whistling. Peter collapses on the floor and clutches his nose and face, screaming in mortal agony.
“I CAN NOT BELIEVE IT! You are grand prize winner! Everybody give Peter Shelley a round of applause!” yells Takuya, making subtle cut-throat gestures to the camera. The production staff quickly cut to commercial.
***
In the back of an ambulance, Peter lies in a stretcher drowning in his own phlegm and drool as the thermal paste sears deep into his nostrils. Blood oozes out of his nose and down his lips as he is raced to a hospital. Yet despite all his suffering, Peter wears the smile of a man with no regrets. Ever since his early days of watching Wheel of Fortune, he dreamed of the day he could one day be on a game show and now he can tick that fantasy off of the bucket list. Of course, it may well come at the expense of any opportunity to complete the other items on his bucket list but at least he knows if he dies tonight he can go out with dignity on his face.
”Oh my God, Dad. Are you... okay?” Stephen asks, clutching his fathers hand for dear life. Peter's body shakes as he tries to wheeze the words out.
”Son... come closer.” Peter whispers. Stephen leans his head down close to his fathers chest, feeling the wasabi breath hit his ear.
”What is it it dad?”
”Come closer, I haven't got long left,” splutters Peter, reaching up weakly to take a hold of Stephen's head.
”No dad, just hold on!” Stephen pleads. Tears well at the corner of his eye as the thought of losing his old man stabs him in the heart with a solemn blade.
”Son, please... There's something... I have to tell you,” Peter beckons him in closer.
”I'm listening,” Stephen puts his ear right to the lips of his hoarse father, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek.
”I'M A MILLIONAIRE BITCH! AHAAAAA!” roars Peter, right down the ear of his son who leaps out of his skin in fright. Frustrated an angry, he punches his father in the arm.
”God damn it Dad. You could've been killed out there. You can't do this ahead of the biggest match of your career!”
”Coulda' woulda' shoulda', I am the toughest son of a gun to ever set foot on Japanese soil.”
The ambulance rolls to a stop but when the doors swing open and Peter's stretcher is rolled out onto the hot asphalt ground beneath them, there is no hospital in sight. Instead, an army of suits greet them lead by a man with a pencil moustache and slicked back hair.
”Mr. Shelley. I am Nobuhiko Keiij, Director of Advertising for the Osaka Orangeade Concern. Would you like to appear in a commercial?” he asks, with a greasy expression plastered across his face.
”Dad, no. You've already nearly died on TV once today!” pleads Stephen.
”Sure! What does it entail?” Peter agrees, completely ignoring his son and his physical pain. The director rubs his hands together with glee as they whisk the Shelley Boys away to the set.
***
Standing in front of a green screen with two bicycles, Peter Shelley and another Westerner stand face to face with scripts in hand. To the APW audiences, Peter's opposite is instantly recognisable but Peter doesn't have the slightest clue. Tall, pale, but with a muscular physique and wearing a cycling suit, he looks world-weary and older than he should for his age.
”Who the Hell are you?” Peter asks with an introduction absent of manners.
”I'm you, twenty years ago,” says Michael Callahan, smirking. He offers a hand to shake but gets nothing back from The Shooter for his vague answer.
”Who are you really?” Peter grows impatient.
”I'm former APW World Heavyweight Champion Michael Callahan of course. Pleased to meet you,”
His hand remains extended but Peter refuses to shake it.
”Why are we in this commercial together?”
”It's symbolic,”
”Symbolic of what?”
”Of a few things but mainly the fact I need more money. I'm saving up for helicopter lessons,”
Peter pauses, processing the information before finally shaking the former Pro Life Champion's hand. He still has no idea who he is but any man who wears a cycling suit and wants to fly must be just as narcissistic as him.
”Fair. Well, I'm glad we got that out the way,” says Peter. Unnerved by the retired professional, he considers introducing himself but Callahan cuts in with knowledge of him already.
”I didn't like it when you made fun of Seattle. I live there,” says Callahan sternly, shaking his head in disappointment.
”I've never been but I imagine it's full of people like Frasier,” Peter admits. Peter hates that show with a passion.
”Only the Liberals but they're a niche market. Most of them are Red Bull swilling yokels,” Callahan admits himself.
”Great. I guess we best film this commercial then,”
”Let's do it,”
***
In a poorly green screened city park in the heart of Tokyo, Peter Shelley cycles on a professional long distance cycling bike along the dirt path at a calm and measured rate. Behind him, the younger, cocksure Michael Callahan approaches and zooms past him without a moments notice.
”See you later old man!” Callahan taunts as he sails off into the distance.
”OLD?! I'll show you old, Beef Jerky. Let's go!” says Peter. The image cuts to a seizure causing orange background and bright, glowing letters.
“NEW, FROM OSAKA ORANGEADE CONCERN!”
A man in an orange jumpsuit throws a can of Orangeade to Peter. He guzzles it down in a matter of moments, leaking some down his chin before crumpling it and throwing it over his head.
”Ahhh! Thanks!” Peter sighs, refreshed. ”That's the good stuff-woah wuh, wait!”
Peter's body suddenly morphs and twists into a Harrier Jump Jet. Blasting off a good thirty feet over the trees, Callahan can only pedal for his life as Transformer Peter Shelly locks on and launches a volley of missiles.
”OH SHIT!” screams Callahan as the missiles turn him into vapour. Shelley turns back and punches his way through the orange background holding a can as “American Bicycle Man”, a new Japanese commercial hero is born.
“NEW ORANGEADE ENERGY ZOOP ZOOP PLUS X-100, IT'LL TURN YOU INTO A WEAPON OF WAR!”
A shredding J-rock guitar riff peters out the commercial as Shelley's grinning face holding the orangeade can creeps out the collective Japanese audience.
***
”Hello everybody!
What better way to spend your time in a foreign country than getting hospitalised, meeting hacky, retired wrestlers and shooting a commercial for a lousy energy drink huh? It's been an amazing experience as I've been treated to the sights and sounds of a nation at peace with itself. Truly a galaxy of obsessive eccentrics in stark contrast against the cold and blank canvas of its incredibly dull other half. I've had a wonderful time trying the things that make Japan what it is but I can not stress enough how much I am looking forward to going back home, grabbing a Coors Light and putting this neon soaked nightmare behind me once and for all.
Before I can do that though, I've got to do something that I've been positively starved for since the first time his name was ever mentioned to me and that's put “The Lost King” Scott Wilson in my rear view mirror once and for the last time. You've been a real thorn in my side Scotty boy. You really have been a pain beyond comparison. Even my biggest rivals in the board room weren't quite as petulant as you and yet believe it or not? I actually respected you at one point. When the bell first rang for us and we had that blistering, knife-edge encounter in our double debut spectacular, I saw you as a true warrior of the squared circle. I saw you as a hard worker and a talented performer. Not very bright and a little bit too self-involved for my tastes but god damn it you pushed me to the limit. Then all of that melted like the cheese on a Philly steak when I won and rather than bow your head, gracious in defeat, you had to open your dumb mouth and start spouting excuses.
“Wahhhhhhhh!!! Petey cheated! Wahhhh! He stole my crayons!” Why don't you shut the hell up Scott? I mean really, what is this, kindergarten? When you didn't get your way, you pissed and you moaned like a spoilt little kid until you got your precious rematch but oh wait? What? I humiliated you AGAIN! Quicker than you can say The American Revolution, I ousted the royalty and sent you back to the little leagues where you belong. But you couldn't hack that either could you? So you lobbied again for an even more difficult match that you don't have a ghost of a chance at winning and expect to beat me and six other people. Well guess what? It didn't work the last two times, it's not going to work tonight. Any respect I once had for you is gone. Where I once saw a man, I now see a tragic man child in a mask throwing his dolly on the floor and screaming “IT'S NOT FAIR!”
Well it's time for me to put that pacifier back in your mouth and shut you up for good because frankly I'm getting sick and tired of giving you pity bouts like you're my desperate ex-wife. I'm going to show you for the third time why you have not and will not be able to beat me. I will utilise expert precision and control to put you back in your place and back in the line with another thorough beating. I will execute you in the middle of that ring to such an embarrassing degree that all the tears in the world couldn't earn you a second second second chance at trying to upset greatness. It stops now Scotty, once and for all I will painfully explain to you how much of an idiot you are pursuing your dog eat tiger optimism.
After One Night In Hell, I never want to see your big dumb mask again. I don't want to hear you cry foul when I complete my trifecta of victories over you by putting you on the table and sacrificing you to Shelleyotaxalicotl, the Aztecan God of pure perfection and I certainly don't want to see you next week on Asylum challenging me to a Hell in a Cell match featuring all of the Overdrive and Asylum roster. When this is done, dead and buried, I want to take my reservation seat at the champions dinner table while you go back to trying to make a crowd interested in your pre-show dark matches. We're going to separate the men from the boys Scott, we're going to separate those who can and those who can't, we're going to separate the winners and the losers and Scott? I am most definitely the winner.
As for the rest of you chumleys including such feared names in the industry as Nathaniel Havok, Ewan McGregor and the mighty “Fev”, I want you to understand that when I put you all through tables it's strictly a matter of business and nothing personal. I don't want any hard feelings when I simply uphold the natural order of the world when the winners win and the losers lose. There's no stopping this hype train my friends, no getting off Mr. Bones Wild Ride. Instead, I want you all to sit back and enjoy watching Team Turtle stampede in our millions through the audience and redefine the industry with crash helmets and football jerseys.
Without question, I am a cut above you all. I'm the real slick corporate player here and I'm making moves to the boardroom. I can not be touched because I am a chosen one, on a road to immortality and everlasting glory that you people can not even comprehend. Like Old Frank, I'm the chairman of the board and for all of you, the end is truly near. You all face the final curtain. I've said it clear, I've made my case, I'll drag you kicking and screaming down each and every highway of pain in ways unimaginable but at least when I do you'll know I did it...
... My Way.”
When in Japan, appear in a horrendously convoluted game show where the lines between winning and losing are hazily established and humiliation, entertainment value and agonizing pain are the only real certainty.
An apocalyptic nightmare of glaring lights illuminates the stage where Masaki Takuya, the tuxedo wearing host of Ultra Wasabi Fun Time Happy Challenge Game Show walks on stage to a big band fanfare and a massive ovation from the live studio audience. A veteran game show host of comparable stature to Regis or Barker, Takuya takes their steady demeanor and adds a hit of acid to create a wacky persona that has captivated audiences for two generation. He wields his microphone like a mighty sceptre, lording over his subjects with a charismatic flair.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Ultra Wasabi Fun Time Happy Challenge Game Showwww!” announces Takuya. The crowd eat his every word, their roars like thunder for the man of the hour.
“Today on the show, we have a very fun time happy guest. He is a big American celebrity and appearing this week in APW One Night In Hell! Please welcome Mr. Peter Shelley!”
The big band fires up another volley of smooth jazz sounds for Peter to walk out to. Getting just as polite an observation as the host, Peter Shelley smiles warmly as he takes his place at the podium wearing a kimono and a slightly lost expression.
”Where'd Madame Yoko go? I'm here for my massage now,” asks Peter, revealing a little more about himself than he should have. Thankfully this Japanese audience don't catch a word of it.
“Now Mr. Shelley, you know the rules. All you have to do is consume increasingly spicy levels of Japan's famous horse radish paste to win a big cash prize for a charity of your choice. Are you ready?” Takuya says in English. Peter cocks his head sideways at the host, half failing to understand his accent and half unable to comprehend why he's here.
“I'm sorry, what?” Peter fidgets with his sea green belt.
“What charity will you be representing tonight Peter?” questions Takuya, ploughing through Peter's confusion with follow up questions.
“Oh. Um, I'll be representing Why Don't You Shut The Hell Up productions, they're uhh... an upcoming film company in Hollywood that makes awareness videos for the homeless, alcoholics, people like that,”
“Well then without further delay! Let's play Ultra Wasabi Fun Time Happy Challenge Game Show!”
***
“Okay Peter, we come now to the final challenge. For five hundred million yen, you must take two eye vodka shots, snort this entire line of thermal paste and then empty this salt container into your mouth. Two people have died attempting this and nobody else has completed it. Are you sure you want to play?”asks a sweating Takuya, tugging anxiously at the collar of his damp shirt.
”Fucking bring it!” mumbles Peter through a mouthful of frothing saliva and snot. Two beautiful ladies in sparkling silver dresses bring out the five hundred million yen tray and place it on the table in front of him. Paramedics and a concerned Stephen are on stand-by behind the curtains.
“Well then, on the count of three,”
Just like in Bloodsport when Jean-Claude Van Damme gets salt in his eyes, Peter doesn't see but senses where the challenge is. With no vision, he picks up the first vodka shot and slams it straight into his eye, screaming in agony as the pure alcohol goes straight into his bloodstream but before he lets the pain truly set in he throws the other one back too. With tears streaming down his eyes, he drags his nose across the five inch strip of industrial strength heat paste and snorts it quick enough to put Eric Clapton to shame. As a baffled crowd look on, he grabs the salt container, unscrews the lid and empties it in its entirety into his mouth before throwing it down on the ground. The audience erupt into cheering and whistling. Peter collapses on the floor and clutches his nose and face, screaming in mortal agony.
“I CAN NOT BELIEVE IT! You are grand prize winner! Everybody give Peter Shelley a round of applause!” yells Takuya, making subtle cut-throat gestures to the camera. The production staff quickly cut to commercial.
***
In the back of an ambulance, Peter lies in a stretcher drowning in his own phlegm and drool as the thermal paste sears deep into his nostrils. Blood oozes out of his nose and down his lips as he is raced to a hospital. Yet despite all his suffering, Peter wears the smile of a man with no regrets. Ever since his early days of watching Wheel of Fortune, he dreamed of the day he could one day be on a game show and now he can tick that fantasy off of the bucket list. Of course, it may well come at the expense of any opportunity to complete the other items on his bucket list but at least he knows if he dies tonight he can go out with dignity on his face.
”Oh my God, Dad. Are you... okay?” Stephen asks, clutching his fathers hand for dear life. Peter's body shakes as he tries to wheeze the words out.
”Son... come closer.” Peter whispers. Stephen leans his head down close to his fathers chest, feeling the wasabi breath hit his ear.
”What is it it dad?”
”Come closer, I haven't got long left,” splutters Peter, reaching up weakly to take a hold of Stephen's head.
”No dad, just hold on!” Stephen pleads. Tears well at the corner of his eye as the thought of losing his old man stabs him in the heart with a solemn blade.
”Son, please... There's something... I have to tell you,” Peter beckons him in closer.
”I'm listening,” Stephen puts his ear right to the lips of his hoarse father, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek.
”I'M A MILLIONAIRE BITCH! AHAAAAA!” roars Peter, right down the ear of his son who leaps out of his skin in fright. Frustrated an angry, he punches his father in the arm.
”God damn it Dad. You could've been killed out there. You can't do this ahead of the biggest match of your career!”
”Coulda' woulda' shoulda', I am the toughest son of a gun to ever set foot on Japanese soil.”
The ambulance rolls to a stop but when the doors swing open and Peter's stretcher is rolled out onto the hot asphalt ground beneath them, there is no hospital in sight. Instead, an army of suits greet them lead by a man with a pencil moustache and slicked back hair.
”Mr. Shelley. I am Nobuhiko Keiij, Director of Advertising for the Osaka Orangeade Concern. Would you like to appear in a commercial?” he asks, with a greasy expression plastered across his face.
”Dad, no. You've already nearly died on TV once today!” pleads Stephen.
”Sure! What does it entail?” Peter agrees, completely ignoring his son and his physical pain. The director rubs his hands together with glee as they whisk the Shelley Boys away to the set.
***
Standing in front of a green screen with two bicycles, Peter Shelley and another Westerner stand face to face with scripts in hand. To the APW audiences, Peter's opposite is instantly recognisable but Peter doesn't have the slightest clue. Tall, pale, but with a muscular physique and wearing a cycling suit, he looks world-weary and older than he should for his age.
”Who the Hell are you?” Peter asks with an introduction absent of manners.
”I'm you, twenty years ago,” says Michael Callahan, smirking. He offers a hand to shake but gets nothing back from The Shooter for his vague answer.
”Who are you really?” Peter grows impatient.
”I'm former APW World Heavyweight Champion Michael Callahan of course. Pleased to meet you,”
His hand remains extended but Peter refuses to shake it.
”Why are we in this commercial together?”
”It's symbolic,”
”Symbolic of what?”
”Of a few things but mainly the fact I need more money. I'm saving up for helicopter lessons,”
Peter pauses, processing the information before finally shaking the former Pro Life Champion's hand. He still has no idea who he is but any man who wears a cycling suit and wants to fly must be just as narcissistic as him.
”Fair. Well, I'm glad we got that out the way,” says Peter. Unnerved by the retired professional, he considers introducing himself but Callahan cuts in with knowledge of him already.
”I didn't like it when you made fun of Seattle. I live there,” says Callahan sternly, shaking his head in disappointment.
”I've never been but I imagine it's full of people like Frasier,” Peter admits. Peter hates that show with a passion.
”Only the Liberals but they're a niche market. Most of them are Red Bull swilling yokels,” Callahan admits himself.
”Great. I guess we best film this commercial then,”
”Let's do it,”
***
In a poorly green screened city park in the heart of Tokyo, Peter Shelley cycles on a professional long distance cycling bike along the dirt path at a calm and measured rate. Behind him, the younger, cocksure Michael Callahan approaches and zooms past him without a moments notice.
”See you later old man!” Callahan taunts as he sails off into the distance.
”OLD?! I'll show you old, Beef Jerky. Let's go!” says Peter. The image cuts to a seizure causing orange background and bright, glowing letters.
“NEW, FROM OSAKA ORANGEADE CONCERN!”
A man in an orange jumpsuit throws a can of Orangeade to Peter. He guzzles it down in a matter of moments, leaking some down his chin before crumpling it and throwing it over his head.
”Ahhh! Thanks!” Peter sighs, refreshed. ”That's the good stuff-woah wuh, wait!”
Peter's body suddenly morphs and twists into a Harrier Jump Jet. Blasting off a good thirty feet over the trees, Callahan can only pedal for his life as Transformer Peter Shelly locks on and launches a volley of missiles.
”OH SHIT!” screams Callahan as the missiles turn him into vapour. Shelley turns back and punches his way through the orange background holding a can as “American Bicycle Man”, a new Japanese commercial hero is born.
“NEW ORANGEADE ENERGY ZOOP ZOOP PLUS X-100, IT'LL TURN YOU INTO A WEAPON OF WAR!”
A shredding J-rock guitar riff peters out the commercial as Shelley's grinning face holding the orangeade can creeps out the collective Japanese audience.
***
”Hello everybody!
What better way to spend your time in a foreign country than getting hospitalised, meeting hacky, retired wrestlers and shooting a commercial for a lousy energy drink huh? It's been an amazing experience as I've been treated to the sights and sounds of a nation at peace with itself. Truly a galaxy of obsessive eccentrics in stark contrast against the cold and blank canvas of its incredibly dull other half. I've had a wonderful time trying the things that make Japan what it is but I can not stress enough how much I am looking forward to going back home, grabbing a Coors Light and putting this neon soaked nightmare behind me once and for all.
Before I can do that though, I've got to do something that I've been positively starved for since the first time his name was ever mentioned to me and that's put “The Lost King” Scott Wilson in my rear view mirror once and for the last time. You've been a real thorn in my side Scotty boy. You really have been a pain beyond comparison. Even my biggest rivals in the board room weren't quite as petulant as you and yet believe it or not? I actually respected you at one point. When the bell first rang for us and we had that blistering, knife-edge encounter in our double debut spectacular, I saw you as a true warrior of the squared circle. I saw you as a hard worker and a talented performer. Not very bright and a little bit too self-involved for my tastes but god damn it you pushed me to the limit. Then all of that melted like the cheese on a Philly steak when I won and rather than bow your head, gracious in defeat, you had to open your dumb mouth and start spouting excuses.
“Wahhhhhhhh!!! Petey cheated! Wahhhh! He stole my crayons!” Why don't you shut the hell up Scott? I mean really, what is this, kindergarten? When you didn't get your way, you pissed and you moaned like a spoilt little kid until you got your precious rematch but oh wait? What? I humiliated you AGAIN! Quicker than you can say The American Revolution, I ousted the royalty and sent you back to the little leagues where you belong. But you couldn't hack that either could you? So you lobbied again for an even more difficult match that you don't have a ghost of a chance at winning and expect to beat me and six other people. Well guess what? It didn't work the last two times, it's not going to work tonight. Any respect I once had for you is gone. Where I once saw a man, I now see a tragic man child in a mask throwing his dolly on the floor and screaming “IT'S NOT FAIR!”
Well it's time for me to put that pacifier back in your mouth and shut you up for good because frankly I'm getting sick and tired of giving you pity bouts like you're my desperate ex-wife. I'm going to show you for the third time why you have not and will not be able to beat me. I will utilise expert precision and control to put you back in your place and back in the line with another thorough beating. I will execute you in the middle of that ring to such an embarrassing degree that all the tears in the world couldn't earn you a second second second chance at trying to upset greatness. It stops now Scotty, once and for all I will painfully explain to you how much of an idiot you are pursuing your dog eat tiger optimism.
After One Night In Hell, I never want to see your big dumb mask again. I don't want to hear you cry foul when I complete my trifecta of victories over you by putting you on the table and sacrificing you to Shelleyotaxalicotl, the Aztecan God of pure perfection and I certainly don't want to see you next week on Asylum challenging me to a Hell in a Cell match featuring all of the Overdrive and Asylum roster. When this is done, dead and buried, I want to take my reservation seat at the champions dinner table while you go back to trying to make a crowd interested in your pre-show dark matches. We're going to separate the men from the boys Scott, we're going to separate those who can and those who can't, we're going to separate the winners and the losers and Scott? I am most definitely the winner.
As for the rest of you chumleys including such feared names in the industry as Nathaniel Havok, Ewan McGregor and the mighty “Fev”, I want you to understand that when I put you all through tables it's strictly a matter of business and nothing personal. I don't want any hard feelings when I simply uphold the natural order of the world when the winners win and the losers lose. There's no stopping this hype train my friends, no getting off Mr. Bones Wild Ride. Instead, I want you all to sit back and enjoy watching Team Turtle stampede in our millions through the audience and redefine the industry with crash helmets and football jerseys.
Without question, I am a cut above you all. I'm the real slick corporate player here and I'm making moves to the boardroom. I can not be touched because I am a chosen one, on a road to immortality and everlasting glory that you people can not even comprehend. Like Old Frank, I'm the chairman of the board and for all of you, the end is truly near. You all face the final curtain. I've said it clear, I've made my case, I'll drag you kicking and screaming down each and every highway of pain in ways unimaginable but at least when I do you'll know I did it...
... My Way.”
