My Card

[11:02 AM Tuesday, April 21. Location: an office somewhere within the deep confines of Wrestleworld Castle where Claudia Michaels sits perched on the edge of a desk looking at her cracked nails with disinterest with her American Dream Championship slung over her shoulder. A knock at the door pulls her out of her trance.]

Claudia Michaels: Come in.

[The door swings open. The Professional steps inside the office straightening his jacket as he does so.]

Professional: You wanted to speak to me about something?

Claudia Michaels: Um, yes. Close the door will you?

[The door closes behind The Professional, nearly giving him a heart attack in the process. He spins around to find himself eye to eye with former trainer and corner man Percy. Percy nods to him coldly in acknowledgment and crosses his arms. Pro double takes between the nonchalant Claudia as she looks over some papers without a care in the world, and the ghost from his past playing doorman to the Consigliere.]

Professional: Why the hell is he here?

Claudia Michaels: ...Huh?

Professional: Him! Percy! The guy who just shut the door. Why the hell is he here? Oh god, is this like the scene in Goodfellas when Pesci gets whacked?

Claudia Michaels: No, there'd be plastic on the walls and floors if that were happening. I thought he was with you.

Professional: Why?

Claudia Michaels: He's been following you around this castle since you got here. I thought you were starting an entourage or something. I'm sorry, I thought you knew about him.

[Claudia rises from the desk and joins Professional in his awestruck glaring at his former ally. Seemingly un-phased, Percy huffs through his nose, waves them off dismissively, and exits the room. After a long and pregnant pause, Claudia turns to Pro.]

Claudia Michaels: What the hell was that about?

Professional: No clue. You wanted to see me about something...?

Claudia Michaels: Ah yes.

[Claudia begins to circle around the desk slowly, tracing it's edge with her hand as she makes her half-menacing, half-seductive walk around to her seat. Professional self-consciously straightens his tie and stands at attention as HBG takes her seat and starts poring over her papers.]

Claudia Michaels: Underworld's been doing splendid lately. King of the World was a banner night for us as a whole. I retained my championship, we gained two new members in OTP, and Wraith won Feast of the Fallen. Maverick showed exemplary team work with you against Sweet Melody and displayed promise as a member of this organization. Everyone did well, Pro. That is, everyone but you.

[The Professional's head drops as his lips curl into a sad smile of understanding.]

The Professional: Ah...I see...

Claudia Michaels: This isn't the first time you've lost either, Andrew. In fact, you've been on quite a streak lately. I thought you had the April Song situation under control, and yet here we are with you holding two losses at her hand. Don't get me wrong; winning isn't everything. As a matter of fact, I'd be more than pleased if you put her out of commission with great prejudice for the rules. However, that wasn't the case either was it? You ended up getting ran out of the arena by a pack of women that you've wronged in some perverse parody of a Benny Hill chase. All that was missing was the farty circus trumpet music.

The Professional: It's a Sax... I mean, the song's called 'Yakety Saks".

[Claudia stares down the Professional with a mixture of intimidation and disbelief. Pro hangs his head lower and nods meekly.]

The Professional: Sorry for interrupting.

Claudia Michaels: Underworld is growing in it's numbers, Andrew. We're at six members and growing by the day. There are currently four active titles within Wrestleworld and we have the numbers to take them all at this juncture. My question for you is what are you going to be doing when Mav and Wraith are chasing the European and Shogun titles respectively? Where will you fit in when OTP is locking down the Campeonatos for us? Will you be shining that American Dream Championship on my shoulder? I don't want that. I also don't want redundancy in Underworld. So where do you fit in, kid? I brought you in as a goon in a suit to play gun for hire, but we both know you're better than that. Make this easy for me and tell me why you still belong within the elite of this very stable you helped found? I don't need another yes man watching my back. I don't need another guard or an insurance policy, especially one whose proven that he can't pay off dividends. Tell me why you should be in one of the top floor suites of this castle instead of the dungeon being punished for your insolence. I'll give you the night to think it over, but you better have a damn good answer when the sun hits the horizon.

The Professional: Right...right...

[Claudia's face furrows into a mocking punim of sympathy as she rises from her seat and reaches across the desk to lift The Professionals drooping chin. As their eyes meet, her face contorts back into it's usual cold demeanor.]

Claudia Michaels: Don't act like you didn't know what this was. I thought you were better than that. Be a good boy and prove me right. Now get out of my office.

[The Professional nods somberly and turns to walk out the door. As soon as he steps over the threshold of the doorway, his lowered gaze meets a giant pair of white sneakers standing in his path. He lifts his head just in time to catch a bear claw swipe of a slap to the side of the head from Percy. The Pro's nearly knocked off his feet by the hit, but finds himself anchored by the firm grasp of Percy's hand on his shoulder. Percy points at Professional's chest, and then taps on the side of Pro's temple with the same finger, before letting go of him and walking away. Taken aback by the onslaught of negativity he's just suffered, Pro shakes off the slap and rolls his shoulders.]

The Professional: What the hell man?!

[Percy turns and regards Professional coldly, before stepping into a nearby utility closet. Percy points at his eyes, and then back at the Professional, before slowly closing the door on his own glaring face. Throwing his hands up in clear frustration, The Professional storms toward the utility closet and slings it open, only to find it empty, save a mop bucket, a shelf of expired cleaning supplies, and an open air vent. He shouts into the air vent angrily.]

The Professional: SO YOU'RE JUST LIVING IN THERE NOW, HUH!?! LET'S SEE HOW YOU FARE COME WINTER WHEN WE'RE BLASTING THE HEAT!...jackass. I thought this place was haunted or had raccoons in the vents for the longest times. Turns out it's just a fucking weasel.

[Pro turns to face the cameras with indignant disgust.]

The Professional: And what the hell do you people want? I mean, besides baring witness to my misery. I guess you want words from me on facing Reno Dumont at Chapter 13 in an Outlaw Rules match, huh? Well that better be all you want, because that's all you're getting from me! Reno, I've told you since the word go that Nobi would be nothing but trouble for you. What happened? So far he's gotten you thrown off a balcony by association, cost you two Parejas wins with his unhealthy fixation on me, and flat out hit you in the head with a barbwire laced chair. You know, people tell me all the time that they don't understand why I decided to align myself with Claudia against Nobi. They have the audacity to tell me to my face that Nobi's a 'nice guy' and a 'good friend' despite his idle threats to behead me and terse insults regarding female genitalia. Meanwhile, what have I done? I've sung his praises for making me the professional that I am today. I've given him guidance on how he should leave me alone and join you in your common goal of being Campeonatos de Parejas. I've even tried to nudge him toward those titles, both literally and figuratively, with my constant presence in every single AD title shot he's unfairly awarded. How am I the bad guy? I'd like that question answered for me, and when it is I advise you to pay close attention to the answer Reno. Listen with ears peeled and breath bated as I'm buried by every Tom, Dick, and Harry on social media with an egg for a picture over why they think I'm a bad person. I want you to take notes on what they say about me, and then next year when you finally come to your senses and leave that loser in the dust like I did, I want you to compare those notes with what they say about you. I'll give you credit, Reno. You've shown the resolve of a warrior and the patience of a saint in this war between Wild Cards and Underworld. I've thrown you from a balcony after your friend abandoned you to beat traffic and what'd you do? You came back from it and kept fighting. You've suffered Nobi's incompetence with a grin on your face, and took his misguided attacks and absence when you needed him most on the chin. In truth, as it stands you probably have more of a reason to leave that Hollywood Z-Lister than I ever did. Lucky for you, Mav will be taking him out in a match similar to our own on the very same night you and I finally meet one on one. The good news? someone may take Nobi off your hands without you having to break his pure and tender heart with your inevitable betrayal. Isn't that what you really want? for him to go home and leave you to your own devices. We both know you work better alone anyways, and that things were going just fine before Nobi was foisted upon you by those bastards Drake & Jones. Consider 13 your lucky chapter if Maverick puts Nobi out of your misery.

[The Professional exhales and swings his arms at his side nervously with all of the doom struck energy of a military postman about to knock on the door of a fresh widow.]

The Professional: The bad news is that I have something to prove here. I need to prove that I'm not complacent. I need to prove that I haven't gone soft living in this life of leisure. I need to prove that I'm not a redundancy within the ranks of the Underworld. The bad news is that you have to survive the hyper motivated attack of a man with everything to lose. I'd have no excuses if I don't walk away with the win in this match, Reno. I also have no excuse for letting you walk away from this match period. Outlaw Rules should be to my advantage. I'll be transparent in saying that I haven't had a match since joining Wrestleworld that didn't involve a little weapon play. This should be up my ally. The cuffs are off so to speak, and if you don't know what happens when the cuffs come off, go ask April Song while she's getting her cheek stitched up from where I walloped her with them at KotW. I've rested on my laurels for too long Reno. I've been house broken pet sleeping in the lap of luxury, only barking when asked to. It's time for me to stand up and start marking some territory, and that all starts with you. The gloves are off.

[Pro throws his gloves off at his side like a hockey player ready to square off. Just as he does so, a pizza slicer shoots out of his sleeve. He catches it and spins it in his hand like a gunman ready to draw. He slowly raises it to the lens of the camera, arm quivering momentarily, before steadying entirely. The Pro menacingly spins the blade with his thumb while it's inches away from the camera's lens.]

The Professional: That starts with me carving the alphabet into your forehead so fast that I keep the vowels in order as they come pouring out of your mouth in agony.

[The Pro slowly starts slowly side stepping, all the while holding the blade right up to the camera's lens as he circles the reluctant AV tech as he begins to circle and swipe like a tactical fencer.]

The Professional: Do you know what the fucked up thing about it all is though Reno? It really isn't personal between us. It really is just business. You might not see it that way because you take issue to some of the things I've done to you and Nobi, but he's just as guilty of muddling up your work life as I am. I felt nothing for you when I threw you off that balcony, just like he felt nothing for you as he left before the show ended like a true unprofessional prick. I felt nothing when you tried to double team me in the chamber, just like Nobi felt nothing when he slammed that chair into your head. I felt nothing when you chased me out of the arena when I was beating down Sweet Melody, just like Nobi felt nothing but an obligation to be by your side for fear of totally alienating you when you rushed that ring and ran us off. Just like I'm not done with you, he isn't done with you, but eventually he will be. Why not be done with him first? I've given you ample propositions that you've ignored in the past. Propositions that Nobi actually took me up on mind you. I come to you with one final offer that you must not, will not, cannot refuse: Don't come to Chapter 13. Stay home. Keep a few more years on your career. Let us take care of your Nobi problem. I'll even promise to you that I'll make it as quick and painless as possible for the little silver screen scamp if it puts your conscience at ease. If you think about it, that would mean one less ally to compete against in the American Dream Championship seeding. Isn't a little guilt for betrayal today worth foregoing a load of guilt in the future? Let me take out the trash for you. It's what I do. It's the exact thing I'm here to do actually. Let us 'handle' your Nobi dilemma while you do the exact same thing he did to you when you were almost paralyzed by me. Stay home, Reno. Facing me right now really isn't worth whatever payoff you might get out of a potential victory. You have nothing to prove. You have everything to gain. So do I. Unlike me, all you have to lose is a few pints of blood and a pound of flesh. Make the right call, Reno. Do it. Do it before I make the decision for you and take both of you out. One way or the other you're not running into that ring to save your burden of a buddy Nobi. Either you walk away or I slice your Achilles tendons so you can't walk period.

[Pro slowly lowers the pizza slicer. The camera comes back into focus as the blade leaves the foreground and reveals Professionals writhing, seething, sneering smile.]

The Professional: The way I see it, you and I both have been made an offer we can't refuse. Either I show up and win or my fate's sealed. On the other side of the coin, you stay home or your fate meets it's bitter climax a few years early. There is no illusion of choice, no mirage of an alternative, not a single ghost of opportunity. We either are or we aren't. We be or we cease to be. We live or we die. Even though I've posed this Faustian offer across the battle lines we both know that one way or the other you really don't have a say in the matter. I'm walking out of 13 with a red right hand, the only thing you really get to decide is whether the left has a fresh coat of crimson to match.

[The camera slowly fades to black as a poem appears on the screen in gold leaf italics print.]


I've been beheaded by kings,
Profited from queens,
And assaulted by two jokers misdealt in my hand.

All that remains to wonder,
All that's left to ponder,
Is where the true Wild Card lands

I've crossed two rivers
The shuffle, the bridge, and then the unceremonious flop
All that's left is the final turn as we hold hands to see whose pair comes out on top