A brief autograph signing with The Shield underneath the warm summer sun. Although these types of events seemed strange and the three men who portrayed the characters weren't always up for them, they were a necessity. Why would three people trying to kill the EBWF sign autographs? But it wasn't the 1980's so one every now and then wouldn't kill them. Seth Rollins had already headed off on his own and this left World Champion Dean Ambrose and relative newcomer Roman Reigns. They had ducked off into an alley to converse without being asked for pictures or signatures. Ambrose was wearing dark sunglasses and took a drag from a cigarette. He didn't smoke much anymore but the current situation called for it.
Dean Ambrose: What the fuck is going on?
Roman Reigns: Askin' the wrong person.
Dean Ambrose: A week before the show and Orton is gone? Who is running this circus?
Roman Reigns: So it's a pretty safe bet that Randy DIDN'T toss a glass of water into Vince's face.
Ambrose laughed sarcastically and pressed the remains of the cigarette into the while behind him.
Dean Ambrose: Yeah, I guess not. Figured he was smarter than to fall for whatever Vince was throwing at him. Guess not. He promised me the world and I saw through it so a guy that knows him better than me shouldn't be such a dumb ass. How do I know he's not going to go out there and half-ass the match? It's CONFIRMED on the website that he's gone so why should he even care? He's not even getting his ninety days.
He quickly sparked up another cancer stick from a silver colored lighter and exhaled the smoke deeply.
Dean Ambrose: I'll fuck him up. I'll break his face if he tries to pull some Goldberg vs Lesnar at Wrestle Mania shit on me.
Roman Reigns: Man, you had gave some thought to leaving to just a month ago. I don't think you should go out there and start throwing real punches.
Dean Ambrose: Who's going to care?! If he's heading over to Vince no one is going to give a shit if I beat his ass!
Roman Reigns: Orton doesn't look like a pussy to me. Just saying.
Ambrose flicked aside his cigarette and nodded along, again in an overly sarcastic, animated manner. He was getting worked up and paranoid from dealing with the unknown.
Dean Ambrose: Oh, well, thanks Joe. I think as long as I don't get anywhere near his freakishly huge thighs, I should be good!
Roman simply rubbed a couple of fingers along his temple while Dean threw his head backwards and made an agitated groaning sound.
Dean Ambrose: ..If this is some kind of work and no one tells me before the match I'm going to be really fucking pissed off.
Roman Reigns: You haven't heard anything?
Dean Ambrose: NOPE.
Roman Reigns: I'm sure someone would have said something to you.
Dean Ambrose: They sure as hell didn't tell Punk when he dropped the title to Christian!
The member of the Anoa'i family didn't have a counter argument for that. After a pause he rubbed at his chin.
Roman Reigns: ..Good point.
Obviously, his team mate wasn't going to be able to provide any answers. He was going to have to talk to someone in charge. Nothing going on made any sense. Wouldn't the buyrate die a horrible death if everyone knew the outcome of the main event beforehand? Was Orton even going to show up with the intent of performing at his best? He didn't want to find himself in the same spot Punk did right before Mania. There were a lot of thoughts weighing heavily on his mind. Where the hell was Wes Ikeda when you needed him?
In 1992 Los Angeles was a warzone after a race riot erupted that made the city a very dangerous place to be. Lootings, arsons, and civil disturbance were rampant. Although the events leading up to these scenario's were very different, the situations were similar. The Shield had turned the EBWF into a battleground and just two short weeks ago a riot took place. There attacks had become far more frequent and broader with each passing occurrence. At Summer Slam they were planning something big and on this evening a slew of men in black gear stood on the streets of South Los Angeles. The same streets were complete chaos ensued after the verdict was announced. More than a decade later the memory remained. Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns were at the forefront and Dean Ambrose, the leader, stood closest to the camera.
Dean Ambrose: In 1992 an injustice took place and the people of Los Angeles decided to act. They refused to stand idly by and allow a corrupt system to dictate their lives. They acted and for six straight day's they tore every inch of this city apart. At Summer Slam we are going to make those riots look like a camp fire..
From anyone else this might have seemed like an empty threat but when it's coming from The Shield it's almost gospel at this point.
Dean Ambrose: And there isn't anyone who is going to be able to stop us. Everyone that gets lined up in front of us gets knocked right back down into the dirt. Miz. Waltman. Triple H.
Ambrose looks back over his shoulder at the men formed behind him with a wicked grin appearing on his face.
Dean Ambrose: Ah..speaking of Hunter..he's not around anymore, is he? Do you know why? WE SCARED HIM TO DEATH. We scared him so badly that he's left his wife all alone! The Game, The King of Kings, whatever you want to call 'em, WE MADE HIM A COWARD!
He shouted to the camera and Triple H himself as he hoped he could hear him wherever he was at the moment.
Dean Ambrose: And we're going to do the exact same thing to Randy Orton. I think we're already halfway there. When we dropped him flat on his back on that steel ramp I could hear him whimper and I could see the look of utter defeat in his eyes. He didn't want anymore of that, he didn't want anymore of The Shield and he didn't want anymore of ME. I don't care what he says, how he walks, or how he acts..he knows that he is DONE.
Dean Ambrose: I do take solace in the fact that Randy Orton is not going to insult me with inane, cartoon threats like John Cena. He isn't going to be more concerned with his shitty taste in music rather than ALL OF THIS like Waltman. But he is going to beg just like them. Oh yeah. The great Randy Orton and his year plus long title reign that doesn't mean SHIT to me!
Ambrose adjusted the championship title that rested on his shoulders and gave the plate a few pats. It's shine and luster continued to drain and fade away every time it made an appearance.
Dean Ambrose: Oh, Orton said he only wants this title right here so I won't have it. That's his motivation? That's what he's bringing to the fight? Well, I've mentioned that I don't give a damn about this piece of junk. I've literally spit on it! Do you want to know my motivation? I want to knock Orton's teeth out because he's married to one of the monsters who helped create this abortion of a company. I want him to never show his face again like Bo Dallas, like Triple H, because he is an inherently evil human being without a single redeeming quality to his name! That's what I'm fighting for!
He drove the point home by directing a thumb directly towards his heart which was hidden behind his thick black vest.
Dean Ambrose: I am a man of my word. When I say I'm going to do something..it happens. When I'm done with Orton, when this company's next line of defense inevitably fails, we are going to kill Summer Slam just like we killed Wrestle Mania. I'm a better man than Randy Orton, I'm a better fighter and he's going to admit it to the whole world!
The men behind Ambrose nodded in approval at the words of their captain.
Dean Ambrose: Randy's said that the only reason anyone else got a shot at a title run is because he allowed it to happen. No. NO! That's not the case! The only reason Orton even got his bloated, overrated World Title in the first place is because I wasn't around to kick his ass! Yeah, trust me, even at his very best, when he was on top of the world, he wouldn't have been able to touch me! He wouldn't have done it then, he can't do it now. I'm better than he ever was or could hope to be! It's actually god damn scary how good I am!
He smirked, only for a moment, and smacked his lips while keeping his eyes bored straight through the camera.
Dean Ambrose: Enjoy it, Orton. Enjoy it all. Enjoy every last thing I do to you! Embrace every drop of blood that I draw from your face with my fists. Salivate every last time my knuckles crash into your beady little eyes you privileged fuck! DREAM about your wifes pretty little eyes when they stare down at you and they can't even recognize what they're looking at anymore!
The World Champion was growing angrier with each word that came from his mouth.
Dean Ambrose: What I’m gonna do is I’m gonna take this belt here, I’m gonna shrink it
down to a vapor, and it’s gonna pass through my skin, into my pores,
into my blood cells, and it’s gonna become a part of my body. It’s gonna
become a part of me. This belt, from this moment on, is going to pump
along with my heart, my blood. Every breath that I take with my lungs
will be taken along with this belt. And then
nobody can take it from me because it’s a part of me. So Randy Orton
if you ever want it back, if you ever wanna take this home again? You’re
gonna have to drag my dead body down the street with you. You aren't man enough to do that. So be prepared to burn like everyone else.
For the very first time possibly ever, Ambrose didn't throw the title into a heap or disgrace it. Instead he kept a death grip on the gold and kept it attached to his shoulder like an extra appendage.
Muffled, fevered shouts from a voice that was growing hoarse. But the screams weren't filled with terror but nearly demented outbursts. Each word was incomprehensible and there was nothing pitch black darkness to look at. Some thumping and pounding noises could be heard before the sound of tires loudly screeching suddenly brought them to a halt. Things went silent for a few moments before a pair of figures were seen standing over the camera. Two long haired men in dark jackets and black jeans. One man's jacket was made of thicker material and a hood was resting over his head where both dark and bleached blonde colored hair hung out. The larger second man's hood was along his shoulders but it was too dark and obscure to make out his face. Both men reached towards the camera and seemed to be grasping onto something. They carelessly yanked a shrouded body out of the darkness and dropped it roughly to the ground. What they had reached into was the trunk of black car they had popped open. And what they had dumped like a sack of rocks onto the hard ground was a man bound tightly by his arms and legs with thick ropes. He was coiled up so tightly that he could do very little but wiggle on the ground like a helpless worm. The landscape was barren and the moon was out. The Chihuahuan Desert, west of Texas. The side of the man's face was pressed against the sand and his dull, faded clothing was dusted with the granular material. His face couldn't be seen from the camera angle but he had medium length brown hair and facial scruff. He managed to roll over onto his back and his shouting continued although this time he could be heard clearly. A great deal of cursing and threats. The two men stood over him and stared with frozen, blank expressions and were unfazed by the promises of bodily harm.
Seth Rollins: Could you...?
The screaming was abruptly cut off as Roman Reigns sent his boot against the side of the bound man's head. His skull dropped and he went silent as Seth Rollins pulled his hood down. Now it was possible to get a few words out without having to shout.
Seth Rollins: I'm actually somewhat impressed that he managed to find us. He came up to a few of the lower ranked members and started screaming about how "The Ascension will rise" and other such...nonsense. Attacking and clawing at them like some kind of animal.
Rollins knelt down and looked the man over before glancing over his shoulder at Reigns.
Seth Rollins: There's something so tragic but beautiful when someone's mind completely snaps. Don't you think?
Reigns didn't respond and continued to stare down at the raving lunatic who he had just booted in the face.
Seth Rollins: There are lot of sick people in this world. Present company included. I thought tying him down and tossing him into the trunk of a car would at least give him a little scare. But it looks like he's too far gone for that, isn't it? Kind of takes the fun out of things. You need help my friend. Serious mental care.
Man: ...The...Ascension...will rise. You are nothing...more than...false idols. Conor O'Brian...he speaks the truth.
The crazed man weakly managed to say as he cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes into a glare. He remained pressed against the sand like an insect that had just been stepped on.
Seth Rollins: Hm. Well, that's troubling. It looks like if you put a mad man in front of a camera and allow him to rant that SOMEONE is going to end up listening. In my own personal diagnosis Conor O'Brian is in desperate need of psychiatric help himself. He has an obvious case of dissociative identity disorder. I'm honestly curious as to what happened in his life to make him descend into becoming a full on crazy. Very intriguing. I guess I'll never be able to find out as he won't be doing much talking after I'm finished with him. I'll give him points for persistence though. I would have thought after the beating you gave him that we wouldn't be seeing much of him. It's AMAZING when you consider the mind's power over the body. Despite how savage of a beat down you gave him he is so deranged and lost in his disillusions that he can't comprehend how outmatched he is. Amazing but also incredibly sad.
Man: ...False idols...
The captive sputtered out through pants.
Seth Rollins: Yes, I heard you the first time. We've never claimed to be idols or prophets, friend. We're here to ensure that injustice is stomped out wherever it may lurk. By my accounts we've been doing a pretty admirable job. Conor O'Brian speaks about society's ills but doesn't actually do anything to change them. In fact, I can't really make any sense out of anything he says but, then again, he is completely insane so that explains a lot of that. When we see a wrong-doing we actually head out and extinguish it. Conor just...confines in his imaginary friend.
Rollins sighed and shook his head in pity at the cult-like devotion of the imbecile on the ground.
Seth Rollins: We see and we hear everything. Everything. So when someone like Conor O'Brian says that we aren't important...we have to show him the error of his ways. And although I don't believe gaining a following is his M.O. I'm going to make sure that more people like you don't sprout up. Despite about how he goes on about his grand designs and masterful plots I truthfully don't take in stock in his words. Just ramblings of a man who lost his sanity somewhere far, far in the past. I would say he suffers from delusional disorder as well. Grandiose type if I were to wager a guess. Just a very, very fragile psyche. But we won't allow an army of the misguided and sick to start sprouting up. Can't have that, can we?
The former Tag Team Champion dusted his hands off and nudged the cretin lightly on the shoulder with the tip of his boot.
Seth Rollins: Two weeks ago Roman physically dominated him. This week, I'm going to put the fear of God into his heart. Or, more fittingly, the fear of The Shield. And we'll proven that even the absolute raving, frothing and mentally ill can be converted into a believer.
Reigns snatched a few of the ropes that constricted the annoyance's body and harshly tossed him back into the trunk of the car.
Seth Rollins: I have a few other methods I want to give a shot. Being crazy is not an acceptable excuse to not be afraid. It might give me some extra motivation to see what makes Conor tick as well...
The trunk was slammed shut.
Backstage at the iWireless Center two members of The Shield were off in their own secluded corner while the Warfare event was going in the arena around them. Joe "Roman Reigns" Anoa'i sat on one of the large storage crates that held pieces of the stage and various other props. He had a match later on in the evening so he was already dressed in his entirely black ring gear. Johnathan "Dean Ambrose" Good was also using one of the crates to rest on but he was lounging on it back first with his hands propped behind his head. A pair of Beats Headphones, that every wrestler seemed to own as they were essential for long travels, were fitted around his neck and since he wasn't on the show he was simply dressed in street clothes. The three real-life personalities that made up the justice seeking trio mostly kept to themselves. They traveled, trained and ate together with almost no outside company. It wouldn't be out of the question to say that they were secluded from the rest of the roster, much as they were on television. They were never known to complain and they did whatever the management asked of them. But something was amiss. Particularly in the case of the World Champion.
Dean Ambrose: I don't think I understand this place anymore.
Roman Reigns: Syxx isn't your first choice for the main event?
Dean Ambrose: He isn't my second choice. Or third. Or fourth. I mean, yeah, the dudes over because 85% of the audience are meat head, bro types that still think crotch chopping and chanting "WE WANT PUPPIES" during matches is cool. I don't think he's broken down or ancient like some of the guys because he can still put on a good enough match. Fuck, he's fourty one not seventy one. But he seems like a real dick and completely out of touch. For example, do you want to know what one of the first things he tweeted when he came back was? It was either to Lacey or Rain, doesn't matter which one. "You are the most talented Diva on the roster".
Unlike his televised persona, Reigns was capable of showing a wide range of emotion. And the complete look of confusion that currently masked his features was an example of this.
Roman Reigns: The fuck?
Dean Ambrose: Sure, I guess that's true. If you don't count A.J. and Paige. Or Trish. Or Maryse. Or The Beautiful People. Kaitlyn. MsChif. The Ninja's. Take all of them out of the equation and, yeah, one of those two are the best we have to offer. If I had a pair of tits and I worked here that comment would have drove me to kill. Then he goes on his blog and wrote something to the effect of "Those Shield guys are really good workers but they're just a copy of a copy".
Ambrose had sort of been lazily passing the time before this conversation took place. But he was starting to get a little more worked up and speaking with his hands a lot when he began to talk business.
Dean Ambrose: What we're trying to do isn't anything like the nWo. That's why I was so pissed off when they shot that angle where Cena got spray painted. At least we got to do damage control on that one. I was never inspired by them. I know you weren't and Colby sure as hell wasn't either. They were cool for their time, I guess, but this is two completely different animals. But, hey, thanks omnipotent one. I'm glad I've got fuckin' X-Pac's approval of my in ring work because you just know that what I've been waiting for my entire life.
The sarcasm was obvious and thick.
Dean Ambrose: I've already decided I'm laying into that motherfucker in our match.
Ambrose probably felt as though his spot was pretty well solid in the company and he wouldn't get reprimanded too harshly for being stiff. And it wasn't as if he wasn't planning on injuring Waltman. Just roughing him up. But Reigns, a newcomer to the promotion, seemed a little weary of that idea.
Roman Reigns: I don't know, man. He's probably a tough old bastard.
Dean Ambrose: That's fine but he's still getting his receipt for that shit. I don't care how long he's been around or what he's done. If you don't treat me with respect I'll beat some into you. Look down on everyone else but you aren't doing that to me. He's all chummy with Orton and Cena but I'm beneath him? I don't think so.
Most newer talent made sure to shake every hand and "yes sir"ed their way through existence until they got enough pull to do and say as they pleased, within boundaries. But Ambrose had never been that type, even on the indies, and he saw no reason to conform now. He felt that kind of attitude took him to the main event within a matter of months and wasn't about to alter the course.
Dean Ambrose: Everything in wrestling is a copy or draws inspiration from something. For instance, are you aware that Randy Savage straight up stole his promo style and "oh yeah" from King Curtis Iaukea and Pampero Firpo? I mean, he's a complete legend and he popularized it but still. Isn't that what EBWF prides itself on doing with the WWE's ground work?
Reigns chuckled in that low, deep tone of his.
Roman Reigns: Man, do you know who my family is? I know everything about the old school stuff.
Silence filled that section of the arena while Dean stared blankly up towards the ceiling. He was talking to someone with a ridiculously rich wrestling lineage.
Dean Ambrose: Ah. That's right. You're apparently related to anyone with any percentage of Samoan DNA who has ever stepped into a ring. Anyway, I hear people talk. "He's trying to be Heath Ledger" or "He's trying to be Brian Kendrick". "They're trying to be the nWo". Heath Ledger's performance as Joker is only one of the most iconic in recent cinema. It's not my fault everyone else was too stupid to draw anything from it. I mean, Syxx's act is every indy guy's first gimmick from 2002. Orton's been doing the same..
As best he could, he mimicked Randy Orton's cold, methodical sort of promo style and even narrowed his eyes in the same, steely sort of manner.
Dean Ambrose: .."R..K..O. Punt..you..in the skull.." thing since, like, 2010 with no alterations.
A sigh. He felt a rant coming on. One of the many reasons he kept himself away from twitter so these thoughts wouldn't get broadcasted to anyone who didn't deserve to hear them.
Dean Ambrose: Everyone here is out for themselves. The point, or I thought, of this whole thing is to make the company as big as it can be. Zero unity. No one encourages each other unless you're a part of that Cena, Syxx, Orton circlejerk. Did you hear that Claudio got a standing ovation backstage after his match on RAW? That ain't ever gonna happen here. Syxx is on his little blog writing how "I must become World Champion. Nothing else will do". ..You know, instead of, "Man, these Shield kids are really hot right now. I would love to work with them and elevate everybody and use my experience for some good." I know everyone wants to be World Champion and help carry the company, but, fuck..greedy bunch of bastards. Notice I said HELP CARRY. It's not a one man or woman show. This is supposed to be a team.
Roman Reigns: I agree with you. The top guys aren't anything without a strong midcard. If the top guy is making money and getting fed then the crowds are bigger and we're all getting paid more. But this must be how the big leagues are.
Was that the case? This was the champ's very first exposure to a huge, national audience. Reigns as well. Ambrose had developed a cult following as Jon Moxley in the gory promotion CZW and heard horror stories about the major companies but this was his first taste of it. It all sounded so stupid to him and it was apparent that he was growing angry.
Dean Ambrose: Fuck that! It's pro wrestling! This is the best but dumbest job on the planet! All the guys my age bitch about not getting opportunities like the world's going to end tomorrow. I guess I kind of see their side when Syxx shows up and looks down on them. Everyone that was around before us kept this place growing for the six years he was gone. But still. Do you know how many guys on the indies or even fans would kill to have their jobs? Then all the higher paid guys moan about how they've had to put people over. I bet you Randy Orton or Edge make more than TNA's entire roster. EASY. Go to your mansions and fuck your hot wife or girlfriend.
An exhale followed by a sigh. This place had given him so much and such a little time and put a lot of faith into him. But what was the point if you weren't having fun and everyone around you were all self seeking egotists.
Dean Ambrose: They need to take a good chunk of this roster and have them wrestle in front of fifty people for one hundred dollars in an envelope WHILE being stabbed with glass and barbed wire like I was a year and a half ago. Maybe they might appreciate their jobs a little more. Pro wrestling doesn't owe them anything. THEY owe pro wrestling. And--Who the FUCK keeps calling me?
Airing out his work place issues halted as Ambrose sat up and stared at his phone with contempt. A number was flashing on it. One he had seen for weeks now. Roman leaned over to take a look at the screen and his eyes grew slightly larger. It was a phone number he knew very well from the past.
Roman Reigns: You don't know remember who that is?
Dean Ambrose: No. I keep sending it to voice mail and they never leave anything.
Roman Reigns: That's Connecticut. Vince.
So the rumors were true. McMahon was out poaching potential signee's for his company while the EBWF's talent were in a state of disarray and in-fighting. And now he was knocking loudly at the World Champion's door.
Some time during the week leading up to Sacrifice, the World Champion had decided to meet with the man who had created the WWE: Vince McMahon. Direct rival to the company that he currently represented. He had told no one but Rollins and Reigns. They met at an insanely expensive restaurant and dinner was all on the CEO's dime. Silk curtains, hand written menu's and pale pink tablecloths decorated with moss, twigs and exotic flowers. Vince was in a power suit not anything as colorful or boisterous as something his TV character might wear which somewhat disappointed Ambrose as he figured he really dressed this way in real life. But he was in pretty good shape for a guy who was damn near seventy. Ambrose tossed on a black, button up dress shirt, threw on a blue tie and ate the overpriced free meal. The two waited until dinner was finish to get down to business.
Vince McMahon: Now I'm sure you are well aware that this talk is only preliminary. I don't know the details of your contract but I'm going to assume that it wasn't a very long one. Judging by how you were introduced and how suddenly you rose up the card..
Ambrose didn't acknowledge or deny the claim. He wasn't about to show his hand.
Vince McMahon: You're not the first person on your roster that I've spoken to. I understand that there is some inner turmoil going on with the talent. You're matched with Waltman at the main event, right?
Dean Ambrose: Right.
Vince McMahon: Do you believe that's who your opponent should be?
Dean Ambrose: No. I think I should be wrestling Orton or Cena.
Vince McMahon: Do you know if you're going over or not?
Dean Ambrose: I've heard different scenario's but nothing's concrete.
Vince McMahon: What about Cena and Orton? How well do you know them?
Dean Ambrose: I've worked a main event tag with Orton but all the talk was just going over the match. Cena seems alright but we've only been building a program between him and myself. Don't know 'em. But those are the two I should be working with right now.
Vince only nodded and took a moment to let the information sink in.
Vince McMahon: Would you like to know how a match between yourself and Sean Waltman would go in my company?
An interesting question. Again, the World Title holder stayed silent and only nodded but was curious about what the answer would be.
Vince McMahon: Eight minutes tops with you going over on an episode of RAW. Sean Waltman is not someone I would utilize at the top of the card. I would use him as a trainer at NXT or a backstage agent. Well, you know, if that attitude wasn't present.
Dean Ambrose: He's a dick.
McMahon erupted with one of his loud, hollow, booming laughs.
Vince McMahon: Oh, I know him very well. Could I market him? Of course I could. But we're currently invested in PG programming. "Fuck Everything" isn't a brand we can get behind. I've heard he isn't exactly making new friends since his return. You see, in the WWE we pride ourselves on being a family. We live and die as a team. That's the mindset we have. You have some friends that work for me that would love to see you jump ship. Antonio Cesaro spoke very highly of you. Now, I'll admit when I'm wrong, and I was very wrong about that young man. The match he put on last week was so good that I joined in with the rest of the team and gave him a standing ovation when he came backstage.
That confirmed the rumor. Cesaro, a friend from the indies, was getting respected over there and his talents were appreciated by the boys. He was being treated and revered exactly as he should. It did sound like a far less poison environment. It was also interesting that Vince was almost exactly mirroring the sentiments that Ambrose had described to his stablemate earlier.
Vince McMahon: My door is always open and I'm always open to suggestion. But, ultimately, my decision is final. An attitude like Waltman's would not fly. I run a very tight shift you understand. Someone like that would be shown the door or end up jobbing to Alex Riley and Yoshi Tatsu on Superstar's for months.
Again, Vince was painting a very nice picture and Dean was beginning to think that perhaps the grass was greener on the other side.
Vince McMahon: What is your relationship with Wes?
Dean Ambrose: Right around the time I showed up the shooting happened and he was gone. So we don't really have a relationship.
Vince was smirking internally. Wes was a charismatic leader and with him out of the picture, he would have no influence over Ambrose's decision to stay or go as long as he was on sabbatical.
Vince McMahon: I see. What about Chris?
Dean Ambrose: I don't have a problem with Chris. I think he's doing the best job he can. I sure as hell couldn't do it. But he would probably admit that this isn't a job he's completely prepared for.
Vince McMahon: I would agree. You have to have a leader with a clear vision. Can I tell you my vision for you in the WWE?
Dean Ambrose: What are you going to be able to do for me, Vince? I've main evented pay per views. I've main evented WrestleMania. I'm a part of the program even when I'm not on the show. I don't know too many guys who have had a rise as quickly as mine. I've been treated pretty good.
Vince grinned. He had been waiting for this moment.
Vince McMahon: I'm glad you asked. I know you're travel buddies with the Anoa'i kid and the young man going by "Seth Rollins". I want them too.
It seemed likely that if Dean split that Rollins and Reigns wouldn't be far behind. Who knows how well they would fare without The Shield banner. And since the three of them had already bonded it would be nice to have them along for the ride.
Vince McMahon: Antonio Cesaro is a friend of yours. You want to work with him? You've got it. There's another kid we've just signed by the name of Sami Callihan. I know you to are close. You want him called up so he can be on the road with you? I'll make it happen.
Jon Moxley and Sami Callihan were a tag team known as The Switchblade Conspiracy. Vince was doing everything he could to get Ambrose over on his side. Callihan was one of his best friends and hanging out with him regularly again would be more than welcome.
Dean Ambrose: I'm listening.
Vince McMahon: Now, as I said, we're PG programming. But with you, we want you to have an edge. Something that makes you stand out. You will have bullet points but we'll let your promo's go unfiltered as long as there isn't any harsh language.
Dean Ambrose: Keep going.
Vince McMahon: This is what I'm picturing. We bring you in and you tear straight through Sheamus, Mark Henry and Ryback. The Undertaker has a very prolific streak at our WrestleMania's as I'm sure you're well aware. You end that streak.
Vince was really dangling the carrot now and it was becoming more difficult to resist the temptation. He wanted him to be the man to retire The Undertaker? It was almost becoming unreal.
Vince McMahon: Finally we get you into some matches with Brock Lesnar and at that point we've legitimized you. Then we have you, Rollins and Reigns feuding with one another on top. I'm seeing a new boom period with you three. You want a movie? We have a film division. You can have one.
How much of this was true and how would he have any way of knowing? Could he possibly even come close to fulfilling all of these promises? Something seemed off. Very off. There was something lingering in the back of his mind.
Dean Ambrose: I should have never stepped foot in your developmental system. Not even for a second.
Vince McMahon: Developmental? How long ago were you in our developmental? In your early twenties? You must--
That's what was amiss. Vince was notorious for being fairly out of touch and this was proof. He didn't even remember that the EBWF's World Champion was at one point on his payroll and being squandered in FCW/NXT. He only wanted him because what he had managed to accomplish in the EBWF. He wanted the star EBWF had created. Ambrose cut the chairman off.
Dean Ambrose: No. Not years ago. One year ago. I was there. So was Rollins and Reigns. You had all three of us. Rollins and myself asked for our releases at the same time after we were told there were no plans to bring us up to the main roster and you let us go. Reigns asked for his release after that. You refused to make eye contact with me when we first met. Like I was beneath you.
Vince was cursing up a storm in his mind. Someone was surely going to be fired for not informing him that the entire Shield was once a part of the WWE and not even that ago. But perhaps that was information he should have already known.
Vince McMahon: Ah. Well, you'll have to--
Fake. Completely fake. There was no reason to talk anymore. Whatever Vince was about to say next was cut off as the glass of water Ambrose had used to finish off his meal was tossed into McMahon's face. The water dripped from his wrinkled features and his eyes were wide with shock. But he began to grin and shifted into a sales pitch.
Vince McMahon: Yes that's exactly what I'm looking for! Loose cannon! RIght there!
Ambrose stared blankly with a "are you shitting me?" type of look. He was either an idiot or really thought he was performing some kind of character routine for him. So, he tossed Vince's glass of water into his face as well. That sort of spelled it out for him. That anger that his "Mr.McMahon" character had displayed so many times was forming in his furrowed brow and growling voice.
Vince McMahon: God damn you. Do you know who I am? I'll have you black balled from this industry.
The EBWF Champion slammed his palms onto the table and half grinned, half sneered back in his face.
Dean Ambrose: Tell Cesaro and Sami I said hello.
He left the restaurant thinking he had either done the best thing for his career or the absolute dumbest. A little bit of regret and vindication at the same time. He pulled out his cell phone.
Seth Rollins: What's up?
Dean Ambrose: I just did something really stupid.
Seth Rollins: Whoa. What? Did you agree to anything?
Dean Ambrose: No. I'm pretty sure I'm EBWF for life at this point..
Jonathan Good had just experienced a life altering moment. The course of his life had just taken a drastic turn.
Red and nothing but red. The violent color was all that could be seen as if the lens had been washed in a sea of it. But eventually vague human features could be made out underneath all of the internal body fluid. A pair of eyes and a mouth that was making slow gasps of air like a fish deprived of water.
..I had really hoped this could have been avoided..
A familiar, jagged, broken voice narrated the visual. The camera had panned backwards enough to determine that this blood soaked figure was a male. He didn't have any hair so all that vital liquid covered his entire head like some kind of mask. It had even begin making it's way onto his bare chest and the droplets were slowly trickling downwards.
Dean Ambrose: I don't blame you for this. It isn't your fault. You've been twisted by your upbringing and everyone who surrounds you..
A locker room. But it was much too small to be confused for an arena where an EBWF event might take place. It lacked the accoutrements of a big time production. It was only a gymnasium where young or upcoming wrestlers learned their craft or old-timers came to make a quick buck from nostalgic fnas. A pair of black boots stood over the blood soaked figure who writhed about on his back, desperately trying to sit up. All that will, however, had been severely beaten out of him.
Dean Ambrose: Cody.
Cody Hall. The son of Scott Hall. He may have been unrecognizable in his current state. He shared the same build as his notorious and well known father, minus the abundance of chest hair. A young man in his very early twenties. Tall and fit. 6'8'' to be exact. The black trunks he wore had a design that resembled blood, a tribute to his father who often wore similar styled ring gear, were now very ironic given his current situation. This was not Arkansas or the Verizon Arena. It was Atlanta Georgia. Cody's father to this day battles a well known struggle with drugs and alcohol and had put forth a great effort to finally fight off his demons by moving into the home of Diamond Dallas Page. The former WCW World Champion had become something of a fitness guru and had done his best to get the elder Hall on the straight and narrow path with startling results. Scott Hall, who many assumed would succumb to his vices, had improved dramatically and looked his best in years.
His son was beginning his fledgling wrestling career and took bookings around the Atlanta area with his father serving as a manager and side attraction. After a successful performance in front of a small but lively audience, Cody returned to the locker room. But to his great surprise he discovered that everyone else on the card was nowhere to be found. Members of The Shield swarmed the school and put it on lock down. Cody was trapped inside the locker room with Dean Ambrose and he had no means of escape. He was all alone and men in black guarded every exit and entrance. Presumably, he was approached by Ambrose and things quickly went sour which led to his current predicament. Young Hall did at least have one small thing to be thankful for. His father had not attended this particular show and was able to avoid a similar fate. Whatever kind of beating he had taken must have been harsh. If looking at him wasn't a sure enough sign, the fact that he couldn't even sit up hammered it home. Ambrose had knelt down in front of him and was mindful to avoid the growing puddle of blood forming from Cody's wounded forehead.
Dean Ambrose: I'm sorry. You won't believe me but I truly am. I didn't want this to happen to you but despite every thing working against you..you are still accountable for your own actions. Even after all the horrors you father has committed you selfishly still want to become a wrestler. I truly hope that what you're experiencing right now will change your life. After all, my life was altered beyond my control and I got stronger because of it. I discovered a purpose.
Ambrose dropped down onto his hands and knee's to draw himself closer to the blood soaked face of the aspiring wrestler he had assaulted through unknown means. Cody's fondest desire at this moment was to punch Ambrose's face off. But his vision was blurry and the respectful kid who wanted to soak up all he could about pro wrestling was in over his head.
Dean Ambrose: Can you hear me? I said I discovered a purpose and a meaning. That has to be a foreign concept for you. One one of your biggest influences, a root to a lot of your problems, lives his life through a shitty nu-metal song. This had to happen to you. I am going to be more of an influence on your life than your Uncle Waltman could ever dream of being.
Ambrose's teeth were gritted and his messy hair hung in front of his face as he sneered at the wreck of a man in front of him. There was a glint of a glare in Cody's eyes but it was difficult to tell. Ambrose slid his hands in front of his mouth like a storyteller about to weave a tale about a "cold, stormy night."
Dean Ambrose: Oh. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I meant to call him "Syxx". Because I'm apparently disrespecting the business, HIS business by using his real name. His real name that everyone already knows and anyone with an internet connection can find out. I guess he gets off on insulting his brain washed audience. I have a few questions for you, Cody. Just a few small questions. Is he aware of who I am and what I stand for? Is he not aware that I HATE "his business" and everything IT stands for? I mean, I think I've made that perfectly clear these past few months. Look. I'll prove it. This?
The leader of The Shield pushed himself to his feet and snatched the World Title from off of a bench. Some what fittingly, it appeared to have lost some of it's shine while being held captive by Ambrose. He held it up in front of his face, cleared his throat, and proceeded to spit right on it's golden but tarnished face plate.
Dean Ambrose: It doesn't mean anything to me. Nothing at all. You want it? Here. Take it.
The title was tossed down onto Cody's waist were it roughly remained slumped against his torso.
Dean Ambrose: Question number two. How did "Uncle Syxx" get here? I don't mean his conception. I'm asking you how he managed to find his way into this decade because it's painfully obvious that that last ten years or so have passed him right by. Was he hanging out with Fred Durst and Jonathan Davis in 1999 and somehow stumbled into a time machine that sent him into this year? I'm never seen such a wannabe, hackneyed platitudinous forced "rebel" in my entire life. Also, really nice touch that the "FUCK" on his "FUCK EVERYTHING" t-shirts are neatly censored so as to not offend too much but still nice and edgy enough for high school students to wear. Was "I Did It All For The Nookie" copyrighted already?
Once more he lowered closer to Cody's face. He knew very well that the spawn of the man who once called himself Razor Ramon was in no condition to respond or put forth any resistance. He gripped Cody by his chin so he was forced to stare into his eyes.
Dean Ambrose: That is precisely what he is. An angsty slogan on the back of a high school kids Slipknot t-shirt. Manufactured and ready for consumption. This is someone you follow. This is someone you love and treat as if he were your family. What is wrong with you? Everything he stands for, everything about him, sickens and repulses me. I've always been a little over sensitive to the glorification and rewarding of dumb. You are evidence that promoting someone like SYXX will corrupt the young, impressionable and stupid.
Ambrose removed the black glove he was wearing that was now smeared with blood after releasing Cody's chin. He tossed it across the room where it splatted against a wall and quickly slid down in a heap.
Dean Ambrose: Question number three. Are you aware that Uncles Syxx just loves to smoke weed? It would be pretty impossible not to since he only mentions it on his twitter every hour. How does that make you feel? Does that make you think he's cool? It should make you lose respect for him, Cody. Do you want to know why? I'm not CM Punk and I'm not Straight Edge. But I would have enough respect not to rub my little habits in the face of recovering addict!
He screamed into Cody's face while the blood from his chest trickled down onto the World Title. Cody tried with all he could to get up but it was a futile effort.
Dean Ambrose: Ask your father how it makes him feel. Ask Daddy. Your Uncle Syxx gloats and brags about all the weed he smokes and all the hard drugs he used to do while your father SUFFERS. Uncle Syxx is main eventing pay per views and your poor, disgraced father is scraping the bottom of the barrel and trying to somehow put his life back together. When he reads these things does that temptation ever come back? Does he ever feel like running to a bottle of pills or Jack Daniels?
Cody managed to finally almost sit up as his fathers problems were ran down and the man he was close enough to refer to as an uncle was portrayed as monster. But, almost as if he had expected this topic to stir something up inside of him, Ambrose gave Cody a sharp kick to the gut that forced him right back down. He winced in audible pain and gasped.
Dean Ambrose: Not that your father is some kind of innocent. Far from it. Your dad should be DEAD right now and, as a matter of fact, he DESERVES to die. His pissed his life, his reputation, his dignity away and then..
As angry as Cody may have been, Ambrose's own rage was growing all the more intense. His fists were clenched and each word was practically spat out.
Dean Ambrose: ..And then..he has the audacity to ask complete and total strangers to save his life. To pay for his surgery so he can work out and fail at another attempt at becoming something resembling a human being. That is wrong, CODY! Your father is going to burn in hell and Uncle Syxx is going to fry right along with him! Uncle Syxx is just "so proud of Scott's progress".
A nauseating feeling. Enough to make him want to vomit. Scott Hall needed hip replacement in order to begin his work outs and this was accomplished by donations from generous fans.
Dean Ambrose: Revolting. I hope I'm never so lowly as to BEG fans to give me money for the decisions I made in my life! And, hey, maybe after seeing this Daddy will jump back on the wagon and do us all a favor and DIE! Ooh, you're going to be all alone kid. Because after I'm done with Uncle Syxx he's going to need a kickstarter of his own to pay for all the injuries I so deservedly inflict upon him.
Ambrose slumped down to a sitting position and wrapped his fingers around the edge of his boots. He gave the bloody mess a few short inches away a long stare.
Dean Ambrose: This isn't easy for me. I know you're suffering right now but so am I. Just last week I had to sit through two droning, monotonous "wrasslin promo's" from your Uncle and John Cena. I was called a "little bitch", "one-nuted", and a "rat face".
He rubbed a palm along the side of his head in exasperation. Not out of fright or apprehension. But due to the less than razor sharp with used to insult him.
Dean Ambrose: Such harsh, fifth grade insults. Cena said something about filling my house with rabid squirrels and Syxx did his usual "BACK THE FUCK UP AND SAY IT TO MY FACE, BRO" routine.
He imitated a douchey, overly aggro fan at a metal show in both voice and posture. It was also apparent that John Cena's cartoonish threats had done little to unnerve him.
Dean Ambrose: Do you know how exhausting it is listen to empty threats again and again and again? From two men who swore up and down that they would become King of the Ring and couldn't come close to getting the job down? I don't really know much about that because I've always accomplished everything I've ever sat out to do. Look it up when..you know..you stop bleeding out. The worst part about the whole thing is that both of them started singing the praises of Randy Orton, kissing his ass and becoming full fledged members of his Fanclub. You know the guy that STOMPED BOTH OF THEIR ASSES. I didn't realize losing a match to Randy Orton made you become one of his cheerleaders. Cena has failed time after time and the only reason Syxx has this match is because..
He paused and smacked his lips, very lizard like while his eyes quickly shifted about while hoping an answer would come to him. Alas, he could find no suitable reason.
Dean Ambrose: ..I have no idea why he has this match. He's a 41 year old man who claims to be in his prime despite the fact that, by his own admission, he's lived a life of heavy drug use. He's broken his neck and he's had years of punishment from being tossed around by much, much larger men. He's desperate and grasping for straws. He's even playing that "turn the lackies against the leader" card. The only problem being that these men aren't my lackies and this is not a cult. I've never sought anyone out. Everyone who is here is here because they want to be and we all have our own reasons for wanting to bring down everything Ikeda has ever created. I've never had to pre-program anyone.
After spreading out his fingers he held out his hand which was locked and frozen in place. Unwavering without even the slightest quiver.
Dean Ambrose: Look at this. Does it look like it's shaking to you? It's not. It never is. You are at the moment..
Cody's right hand was lifted off the floor and trembling like a twig in a thunder storm. A volatile mix of anger, fear and desperation.
Dean Ambrose: ..but I'm not. I'm not afraid. Never have been, never will be. I've already beaten the "Best In The World" so to think I'm not up to the challenge of some washed up hasbeen who is stranded in another century and couldn't even become World Champion in his younger days is a bad joke. It wasn't even that hard! Only took a few months! How many years has he been trying? How many DECADES? What a sad, pitiful loser. I'm not intimidated by someone who spent the majority of his career pointing at his dick and sticking his tongue out. I'm twenty seven years old and THIS is what being in your prime looks like.
The confident smirk on The World's Champion's face slowly began to falter. Nothing had suddenly happened to shake his self-assured demeanor but a heavy sigh left his chest. Something had caused him to reminisce and he appeared surprisingly lucid.
Dean Ambrose: I do have a regret. Waltman has a kid. A daughter. I know better than anyone what it's like to lose someone that means the world to you. Sean's daughter probably thinks he's a pretty good human being. She is going to have to watch her father be beaten into an unrecognizable pulp. I know what the sound of a kid trying to scream your name for any kind of help sounds like. I'm glad she won't be in the building because I am going to do horrible, gut wrenching things to her father. It wouldn't stop me but it might make me hesitate for a split second and I cant afford to do that. This is a cold, harsh world and sometimes even the innocent have to suffer..
Although not nearly as crestfallen as he had appeared a few short moments ago, he still seemed to be in a clearer space of mind as opposed to his near insane tirade he went through for the majority of the promo.
Dean Ambrose: All of this is getting old but I'll keep playing this little game for now. I'll run through Waltman, Orton and Cena and all of this tireless effort will have payed off. Because if Wes Ikeda doesn't come out of hiding and put an end to all of this..I'll force him to show his face.
Ambrose rose and stared down at the withering mortified and blood covered young man at his feet. He was neither malicious or sympathetic to the sight. He simply observed it and snatched the World Title from off of Cody's torso and back over his shoulder.
Dean Ambrose: Justice finds your Uncle Sunday night and he's going to pay for all the pain and destruction he's caused. I've had my life altering moment, you just had yours and now it's his turn. Believe.
It was at this point that Cody completely lost all consciousness. The course of his life had just taken a drastic turn.
Michael Cole's arm had gone from stinging to painful in just a few short manner of moments. The veteran interviewer's job was to pose questions to the performers of the EBWF and more often than not he was the source of either ridicule or intimidation. It just went with the job. Wrestlers had egos and seemed to enjoy proving there dominance over meek broadcasters. But this was different. He wasn't assigned to interview a wrestler. He had been forced to against his will. Men clad in thick black clothing drug the interviewer through the hallways of the iWireless Center and his arm was pressed tightly against his back when he attempted to protest. He wanted to keep the appendage so he didn't struggle after that. Worried looks from the staff were given as the scene passed them but they didn't dare intervene. Cole finally thrown down at a pair of boots that stood over him. He looked up, palms pressing against the floor, to see Roman Reigns standing over him. All three core members of The Shield were fear inducing for different reasons but it was pretty simple why Reigns would cause dread for someone. A towering, powerful man who almost always had a look an aggressive, sullen look on his face. A stone wall. Someone who didn't have an ounce of frivolity in him.
Roman Reigns: Stand up.
The deep, commanding voice instructed. Cole, after shaking off his sore arm did as he was instructed. He peered up towards the Samoan in dark clothing and his legs almost began to shake.
Michael Cole: W-What's going on here?
Cole almost instantly regretted asking this. The last thing he wanted was to have his words misinterpreted as disobedience. Luckily, he didn't find himself roughed up or assaulted.
Roman Reigns: What? Not what you were expecting? We're not hiding. Why should we? We'll walk through your hallways and no one is going to do anything about it.
Cole looked over his shoulder to see the other Shield members stoically gazing in his direction without a trace of sympathy.
Roman Reigns: I want an interview. I want you to interview me just like you do your 'superstars'. Humor me.
A feeble, nonathletic man in his mid-fourties was not about to raise any sort of an argument.
Roman Reigns: Introduce me.
The tone in his voice made it clear that he was beginning to lose his patience with Cole's hesitation.
Michael Cole: Ladies and gentleman, at this moment, I'm joined by..Roman Reigns.
No preening, grinning, or posing. Reigns continued to stand with that same, frozen expression.
Michael Cole: R-Roman in your first match with the company..a-ah..well, it ended it before it began as you attacked Chris Sabin with the help of your cohorts almost the second the bell rang.
Roman Reigns: And he had to be carried to the back. Next question.
Michael Cole: Your opponent this week is newcomer Connor O'Brian who had an..u-um..impressive win last week..
It was increasingly difficult to go through his usual announcer schtick under these circumstances.
Michael Cole: Is that the fate in store for him?
Roman Reigns: Do you really think I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do?
Reigns had stopped making eye contact with Cole as the interview went along. He viewed him as an insect and not worth his entire attention.
Roman Reigns: Connor O'Brian can hang out in the forest with wolves and spiders and speak as cryptically as he would like. He can keep on acting as if the darkness is his ally. He just adopted the dark, I was born in it.
His piercing eyes somehow became even darker.
Roman Reigns: What we have here is another wrestler who has wrapped up his quest for fame and fortune in an supposed agenda. He keeps talking about an ascension that's going to be rising. Do you think he even knows what he's talking about? Do you think he has a purpose like we do? And do you think he has back up plan for his "ascension" when I break his spirit and his body? I doubt it. His agenda is not to bring justice to a place that desperately needs it. So I don't have any problem torturing him in the the ring. We've been talking about how corrupt this place is for months and yet he has decided not to heed our words. He signed his contract despite knowing full well that he is now under our very watchful gaze. His punishment must be severe.
Cole had remained as quiet as a mouse. He was a little too filled with anxiety to be of any use.
Roman Reigns: What's the matter? Didn't think I was going to be this articulate? I'm a college graduate. Don't mistake my recent silence and size for a lack of intelligence. O'Brian incorrectly referred to me as a "gorilla" and "muscle".
Reigns gave a slow, sarcastic nods at the insults of his future opponent.
Roman Reigns: These words came from a man raving to himself in a boiler room so I don't find myself wounded too deeply. I'm sure the conversations he has with himself help with the illusion that he has a chance against me.
He pressed on as whatever mental imbalance Connor O'Brian had going on was not of pressing concern.
Roman Reigns: He seemed to think that somehow he could possibly outsmart me in his desperation. Unfortunately for him I'm both stronger and smarter than him and I've had some of the best training in the world. Would you like to know why my training is far more significant than anything he's ever received? Or anyone else for that matter? Because my wrestling training was beat into me. Literally. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to have to do this. I was forced to. You don't get to be the son of a Hall of Famer and not carry on the good name. As you can see, it molded me into what I am now. Powerful. Strong. And bent on destroying everything that my family, the worthless human beings that they are, have helped to build. That's my purpose. That's my cause. O'Brian's vague metaphors and grim musings don't really measure up when you compare the two, do they?
Michael Cole: A-Ah.. Connor has also claimed that you won't be receiving any assistance from the other members of The Shield as they're attention is divided..
Roman Reigns: Again..that's desperation talking. Wishful thinking. Each of us has the exact same goal so we can never be divided. Not as if I actually need help to take out someone like Connor O'Brian. I simply cannot be defeated because those in power have not been ripped from their decadent nests and forced to endure the cold, that we've all had to. I won't be defeated. The painful truth for Connor is that it doesn't matter how many personalities he talks to. They won't be able to help him in this fight and even if they could I would force them to bow at my feet. He's more than welcome to test my resolve but I don't think he's going to like the results. You can believe that.
Following that definitive phrase, Roman leaned in closer to the announcer to give him one last instruction.
Roman Reigns: Get out of my sight.
Cole wanted to run but he had very carefully maneuver his way around the lower ranked Shield members to follow that command. He was able to do so without incident. The hallways were scarce as everyone was wise enough to keep their distance following that encounter.
Three young women were gathered into a creaky, worn and broken room that was big enough to fit veritable mob of humanity that shouted and rabbled in complete disorder. The trio had been snatched from a place where they felt safe and comfortable into the unknown and dreadful. Two blonde's and a brunette huddled close together as the incomprehensible shouting continued to form all around them. Some order finally came when a balled up fist wrapped against a makeshift, wooden judge's bench.
Woman #1: This has to be some kind of mistake.
Seth Rollins: No mistake here. We know who you are.
There was a considerable distance between the women and the voice that informed them of their situation. The prominent member of The Shield leaned back in a leather chair and gave the unknown group of unknown origin a derisive sort of look. One of the brunette's was wearing a short, blue colored dress that was suitable for a ballroom. That might have given some kind of indication. One would assume that the other two hadn't slipped into their outfits for television before they were abducted.
Seth Rollins: For all intents and purposes, you have no names. But whatever you might call yourselves isn't what's important. It's your actions that have led you here.
Woman #2: But we're just dancers!
Seth Rollins: Your guilt has already been determined but if you are really as blind as you claim then I guess I can at least indulge you.
A weary sort of sigh came from their appointed judge as the crowd of men in dark clothing observed. The dancers weren't sure where to keep their eyes. There wasn't anywhere they could look that offered them any relief.
Seth Rollins: You keep yourselves latched onto Fandango like parasites. Lust and thirst completely exudes off of you. You are very deeply connected to a man that uses sex as a tool to draw in impressionable, hungry minds into this evil promotion. You are just as accountable as he is. You leave an imprint on young women to simply live out their existence as trophies for pleasure. Needless to say...
He leaned over the bench so his words held more impact.
Seth Rollins: ...that's wrong. Justice has found you today and not a moment too late. You claim to devotion towards this man and yet we all know that is far from the case, don't we?
Dancer #1: We are devoted to Fandango!
Dancer #2: We're just trying to entertain!
He couldn't hide his smirk. They were so adamant about their innocence that they felt the need to verbalize it. The faces of the drones surrounding them were similar.
Seth Rollins: Are you..sure? I've seen footage that says otherwise.
Attention was drawn to a monitor that was wheeled into the room and placed in front of the ladies. It began to show overhead footage of the three conversing in a small dressing room. Presumably prior or during a televised event.
Dancer #2: Oh, I think they're starting to notice us.
Dancer #3: They have to.
Dancer #1: Pretty soon we'll get to ditch Fandango and hook up with one of those huge names. Wrestlers always do that, don't they? We can sink into someone like Cena or Orton and get ourselves a free ride.
The three look pleased with themselves during the footage but it was a different story in real time. They gave each other looks of dismay.
Dancer #3: H-How did you get that footage?!
Seth Rollins: I don't need to rewind that, do I? You can't hide from us. We're everywhere. Every little wretched detail that you try to cover up is completely at our finger tips. Still claim innocence?
They were silent.
Seth Rollins: Didn't think so.
Dancer #1: Please don't kill us!
Seth Rollins: We're not going to kill you. What kind of people do you think we are? We're fighting against that sort of thing. We don't hurt women.
After a pause he shrugged his shoulders while the dancers squeezed in closer together.
Seth Rollins: ...We won't hurt you anyway. Despite everything you've done wrong and the poor choices you've decided to make in your lives. We realize you're only pawns and the main purpose of bringing you here is to deliver a message. A message you're going to bring back to Fandango and the others that surround him just like you. Once you grovel and crawl back to him and all of his followers know what you've seen here today. Whatever emotion you're carrying with you right now...probably a lot of fear...make sure to spread that around. Makes it much easier to keep everyone and everyone like you under our thumb. Please pay close attention to enhance your viewing experience. After a few hours I think you will be ready to go. Fandango's punishment comes at Warfare and it will be of the physically variety from myself. Your punishment is now.
The dancers were directed towards a small, cramped room with an array of monitors in various sizes stacked up on one another. On these monitors were gruesome, stomach turning videos of various injuries suffered by professional wrestlers. Both career threatening and career ending. The most eye popping stuff from not only EBWF but foreign promotions, backyard wrestlers and everything in between. The door was locked securely behind them.
