Apocalypse: Constantine (c) versus Tyrone Blades [Mayhem Championship]

[Dave]

Constantine's control over WZCW cannot be understated. His alliance with Mr Banks has cast his group – Vis Imperium further into prominence. And his dominance in the ring has landed him the Mayhem Championship. The feud with The Hollow Ones was none of Vis Imperium's concern but Constantine now finds himself at the centre of it. Blades fights to get one up on Vis Imperium and Mr Banks but can he success where everyone else has failed? Both men are on top form heading into this match and, regardless of the result, it will be a huge match.

RP DEADLINE IS TUESDAY THE 25TH OF APRIL AT 23:59 EST. EXTENSIONS AVAILABLE ON REQUEST

 

[Dave]

Not Even The Greats...​

Constantine didn't like waiting. He never had. But not for the reasons that you might have imagined. It was in those times that The Power Trip was alone with his thoughts and that, alone, scared him to death...

He had been waiting for 40 minutes now. 40 minutes longer than a man of his stature should have ever had to wait. But the wait for was even more unnerving with the voice of Mr. Banks still ringing in his ears as they last parted. In truth, this situation was all his fault. The waiting, the loneliness – all of it could be brought back to the desires of the WZCW owner. “See the strategist, John” Banks had told him as he got into his limousine after the show in Philadelphia. He had never needed a strategist before this and the insinuation that he needed one now just put a bee in the bonnet of The Power Trip. Then again, none of this situation would have even arisen were it not for Mr. Banks and his feud with The Hollow Ones and Tyrone Blades...

As Constantine sat alone in the dreary room – all white walls, carpet and décor – so many questions ran through his mind. How could Mr. Banks reward Blades with a Mayhem Championship shot after everything that they had been through? How could he punish Constantine with another Mayhem Championship defence at the PPV after such a destructive match against Vox at Meltdown? Perhaps, most importantly, Constantine questioned whether Mr. Banks was putting his own selfish needs and desires above that of the group. And that question was the most destructive of all. Their relationship was build on a mutually beneficial trust and desire for a better greater good. Could it be that Constantine had been played at his own game and had already lost? Was it true that he was just the leashed dog of Mr. Banks to unleash whenever he seen fit? Constantine didn't like to think it but the more he sat alone, the more he couldn't escape it.

Finally, the door on the other side of the room bursts open and a young, clean-shaven man hurries through it. The young man is already burdened with huge amounts of paperwork and the numerous folders are held wherever possible. Allowing his concern for the young man to overcome him, Constantine sits forward in is chair. But The Power Trip soon remembers the pain that he has been put through and slowly sits back. After a few seconds of fumbling around with his things, the young man sits down and lets out a deep sigh – a wide smile appearing on his face.

Strategist: Sorry for keeping you, mate!

The word 'mate' hit The Power Trip's ear all wrong. Perhaps it was the broad British accent, or perhaps it was the sheer casual nature of his speech but Constantine could feel the blood boiling in his veins. Soon, the strategist lowers his bespectacled eyes towards some of the papers and folders, now resting on the desk.

Strategist: Mick Shaw...

Constantine watches the young man look up from his paperwork briefly to extend a hand towards him. The Power Trip narrows his eyes as he struggles to properly come to terms with the 20-something sitting across the table from him. Choosing not to take his hand, Constantine chooses, instead, to stare through the young man with narrowed eyes.

Shaw: Not a shaker? That's okay, mate. I prefer hugs too.

Constantine recoils as the strategist looks back down to his papers and begins flicking through them with vigour. Constantine continues to sum everything up, almost in a confused state of silence and shock.

Constantine: Is this some sort of joke!?

Constantine's volume shocks the young man with a jolt. He finally looks up from his papers to see The Power Trip examining the room – moving his head from left to right and summoning a disgusted look as he does.

Constantine: All of this... You... This is some sort of joke on me, isn't it?

With that, Constantine erupts out of his seat as the chair shoots backwards. The young man looks up at Constantine with an uncaring look. Constantine looks him in the eyes for a moment, finally getting a read on the youngster. He gives a laugh of derision as he makes for the door.

Constantine: This is a joke. What the hell would someone like you know about getting in a wrestling ring!?

As Constantine reaches for the door handle, the same British voice from before halts him.

Shaw: About getting into a ring? Not much, I'll give you that, mate. But I make it my business to know things, Johnny boy. I make it my business to know how to win and if you walk out that door right now, you'll never know how to beat Tyrone Blades...

The words hang in the air for a moment as Constantine ponders his next move. Truth be told, the venom in his blood is screaming for him to leave and never return. But the pragmatist in him is curious. The curiosity is only amplified by the young man's tone and his sudden confidence. Constantine slowly turns his head to see the young man no longer flustered but sitting peacefully with his hands clasped in front of him. Constantine releases the door handle and moves back inside the room, watching the young man as he draws closer once more. As he rounds him, he looks in the eyes of the strategist once again and suddenly feel an almost frightening sense of error. The Power Trip swallows hard and then retakes his seat.

Constantine: What do you know about beating Tyrone Blades?

Constantine's question draws a wry smile from the young man as he starts picking through his pieces of paper again. Suddenly, he stops – slowly pulling a few sheets of paper from under a stack of folders to his right.

Shaw: You know the last person to beat Blades, mate?

Constantine: Garth Black, yes...

Shaw smiles again as Constantine bites back at him with vigour.

Shaw: Yeah, Black, that's it! I thought a lot about why it was that Garth Black was able to beat Tyrone Blades, you know? And the only answer there is, mate, is that Garth Black wanted it more...

Constantine recoils in his chair a little, his eyes widening at the revelation from the young Englishman.

Constantine: And that's it, is it? He just wanted it more? How ridiculous! We all want to win, kid. That's why we do what we do. And everyone wants to beat Tyrone Blades, believe me.

Constantine laughs with derision again as he pulls his phone from his trouser pocket and turns it on, looking at the vast missed phone calls and messages that he has amassed since this colossal waste of time began.

Shaw: Laugh all you want, mate. But let me lay out all of the cards for you before you storm out of that door again...

With that, Shaw gets to his feet and pulls a sheet of paper from under another stack of folders. He runs his eyes over it for a moment before bringing his hand to his mouth in deep contemplation. After a moment, he looks back at Constantine with a serious look on his face.

Shaw: What do you stand for, Johnny boy? I mean, what do you really stand for?

Constantine: What kind of question is that? I want a better WZCW and I want it to have Champions that it can be proud of. I want-

Suddenly, Shaw raises his hand to silence The Power Trip as he looks down at his notes again.

Shaw: Save me the bullshit, mate. I don't want the PR machine behind John Constantine. And if you think that weak shit is enough to put Tyrone Blades away for good, then you are out of your mind!

Constantine sits aghast in his chair as he looks on the bullish and arrogant young man before him. Never before he he been so openly challenged in his life. As Constantine looked through the young man, he couldn't help but be impressed by how quickly he had sussed The Power Trip and how much respect the young man had gained from him.

Shaw: Like I said, mate, Garth Black just wanted to beat Tyrone Blades more than anything in the world. Going into that match, and I remember it well, Black was on fire. Every time he opened his mouth, the fans were on the edge of their seats wanting to know what he was going to say. Every time he got in the ring, the fans knew that he was going to give them a hell of a show because every single moment counted. Black had a purpose in the ring, something bigger than he ever could be...

Shaw raises his eyes from the paper and looks at Constantine – sending a very real shiver down the spine of the Mayhem Champion.

Shaw: Being honest with you, Johnny boy, I don't see that in you.

Constantine takes a deep breath and then lowers his eyes to the table, breaking eye contact with the young Englishman but simultaneously telling him everything that he needs to know. Sensing that he has accomplished his goal of getting Constantine's attention, Shaw moves back towards his chair and takes it. He sets the few sheets of paper back down on the table and clasps his hands again. Sticking his tongue out to wet the corner of his mouth a little, Shaw continues to stare through Constantine with a curious look in his eyes. Suddenly, he takes inhales deeply and quickly sits back in his chair.

Shaw: I know what we'll do! You ever heard of The Scrooge Schematic, mate?

Constantine looks as Shaw with disgust for a moment, trying to collect himself from the fright that he was just given. Rolling his eyes, Constantine shakes his head in denial.

Shaw: Not to worry, it's a pretty simple thing to grasp, mate. This geezer right, Scrooge, had everything that you could ever want in life. He was rich, he was successful and he thought he was happy. Each day, he went through his life thinking nothing about the bigger picture. That was until one night, right?

Constantine: I know the story of Scrooge, you idiot!

Shaw turns both of his hands over as he pleads innocence.

Shaw: All right, mate, no worries! But the real point of the story, Johnny boy, was that Scrooge had to really think about what was important to him. He had to consider the past, the present and the future. And when he did that, he was like a man renewed with purpose. For all of that time, he went through the motions without really knowing what his purpose was. But after that night, he just knew it. You catch my drift yet?

Constantine: Do you have 3 ghosts spare, kid?

Shaw forces a fake laugh as he pulls an empty notepad from one of the folders. He collects a pen from the desk and begins scribbling things down pre-emptively.

Shaw: Why don't you just start by telling me about your past and where Blades comes into all of this, mate?

Constantine: I thought it was your job to know things?

Shaw: I'd still like to hear it from your mouth, mate.

Reluctantly, Constantine leans back in his chair and looks off to the side – silently contemplating just how much to open up to this kid. Finally, he turns back to an expectant Shaw before starting.

Constantine: I've been through a lot in the world of WZCW... More than I ever went through in any elected office I ever held. Truth be told, I wasn't completely ready for what I was getting into. But I guess I took to it well enough. I remember coming into this company and immediately making an impact. I had the campaign slogan on point and the fans gravitated towards it. In those early days, I was so hungry for success. Wins and losses meant everything because I wasn't thinking about making a difference. Truth be told, I just wanted to take out some of the frustration I had about the way I was kicked out of office. Wrestling gave me the opportunity to cleanse myself of the pain and the hurt that came along with that. I guess I had a lot to give because it wasn't long before I was picking up Championships and accomplishments.

Shaw nods his head slightly as Constantine pauses. Taking down a few notes, Shaw allows Constantine some time to collect his thoughts.

Constantine: In those days, I wasn't too troubled about people like Tyrone Blades. I wasn't too troubled about anyone, truth be told. As long as I kept winning and moving towards the top of the business, I couldn't care less. I guess it was only a matter of time until our paths crossed though. I was quickly rising up the card but Blades was already there. Christ, he'd been there for a long time by this point.

Constantine's words trail off as he remembers years gone by and how rapidly things have changed until now. Shaw takes another couple of notes before lifting his head.

Shaw: You've never beat Blades have you, mate?

Constantine: Is it surprising!? Twice in 8 years has our paths crossed and it was twice in the space of about 4 weeks. This was a time, bare in mind, that Ty Burna was the golden boy of WZCW. I remember being in the back and watching this guy get all of the TV time and all of the best spots in the company. I'd be lying if I said it didn't bother me. So when it came to taking him on, there was nothing more that I wanted that for people to realise that I could have been on that level.

Shaw: But you weren't!

Constantine recoils again, disgusted at the accusation from the strategist. He narrows his eyes again as he reluctantly continues.

Constantine: I was screwed both of those times, kid. Like I told you before, Ty was the golden boy of the company. The company didn't want him to be beaten in those times. It didn't matter who he went into the ring with, he would always come out on top. Not to mention, Austin Reynolds abandoning me and leaving me to the wolves on one occasion! A score that, I will add, I have settled and more!

Constantine lets out a maniacal laugh as he thinks about the pain and misery that he put Austin Reynolds through for the final months of his WZCW career. Shaw, however, seems less than impressed with Constantine's jibes. He raises his eyes to The Power Trip once more in a scornful way, quieting Constantine down in the process.

Shaw: So what about now, mate? What's changed since then?

Constantine suddenly comes to life, thrusting himself forward in his chair and looking deep into the eyes of his strategist.

Constantine: EVERYTHING!

As the room falls silent after Constantine's outburst, Shaw waits for Constantine to continue.

Constantine: Where once Ty Burna sat on the throne of WZCW, John Constantine now warms his ass. Where Ty Burna once ruled WZCW with an iron fist, John Constantine now rules with an iron fist!

Shaw: Sounds to me like you want nothing more than to be this guy, mate?

Constantine: Be him? Rubbish! I am the exact opposite of him, Shaw! Ty Burna was the choice of the management of WZCW. Burna was given everything on a plate as I scratched and clawed for everything that I ever got. It took him less than 6 months to get to the top of the card, So little effort did it take Ty to get to the top that it was almost frightening. 5 years it took me to get my World Championship!

As Constantine feels himself getting heated, he leans back in his chair and fixes his blazer. He takes a deep breath to cool his nerves before the room falls into silence once again. Suddenly, The Power Trip explodes back into life, shooting from his chair and getting to his feet.

Constantine: And what thanks have I got for all of that effort, Shaw!? Huh? Tyrone Blades continues to run WZCW with his little band of misfits, trying to undo the momentum that I have built and trying with everything he has to pull down the kingdom that I have fucking built!

Rather intimidatingly, Constantine leans over the table, pressing both of his balled up fists onto the hard wooden surface. He stares through Shaw before continuing.

Constantine: Tyrone Blades is one of the most selfish competitors that this company has ever seen, Shaw. He thinks he can step back in and dismantle what I have built in Vis Imperium? He wants his old spot, huh? Well, he's going to have to take it over my dead body! This isn't 6 years ago and I am not the man who you so cruelly tossed to the side as you chased bigger and better prizes! The truth of it is, Shaw, that I am the standard bearer for WZCW now. Not Tyrone fucking Blades!!

Suddenly, Constantine picks up a glass of water from the desk and launches it into the white wall across the room from him. Unshaken and, perhaps, uncaring, Shaw watches Constantine put his hands on his hips and walk away from the table. Constantine paces up and down the length of the table, infrequently running his hand over his short hair and letting out deep exhalations. Shaw puts his pen down on the table and clasps his hands again; watching Constantine go through the motions in front of him.

Shaw: Tell me something, mate. In 10 years time, you and Tyrone Blades will be gone from professional wrestling. No doubt people will talk about the two of you being amongst the very best. But do you honestly think anyone would say that John Constantine was better than Tyrone Blades?

Constantine turns to Shaw suddenly, his hands planted firmly on his waist and his eyes locked, dangerously, onto those of the strategist in front of him.

Constantine: Now definitely is not the time for that shit, Shaw!

Shaw: No, seriously, mate! Think about it for a second. Don't let your emotions get in the way. Is it a yes or is it a no?

Constantine watches Shaw for a moment before huffing and turning on his heels away from him. Shaw gets to his feet and begins walking towards the crazed Power Trip, his calm body language and tone only serving to wind Constantine up more and more.

Shaw: All of this rage. All of this hate... That's exactly what you need to tap into, mate. For 8 years you have played second fiddle to someone that you feel was wholly undeserving of the position. After 8 years of striving to be the best and trying your utmost to leave your mark on this industry, you are still being compared to a scam artist. You say that things have changed but have they really? If you really think about it, will people be surprised or impressed than Blades beat you at Apocalypse?

Constantine remains oddly silent as Shaw comes to a complete stop a few metres from him.

Shaw: You have to show people that you have matured into the most merciless and worthy competitor in the entire company. Whether you like it or not, mate, Ty Burna has always been your measuring stick without you even knowing it. Hell, without his success, maybe you wouldn't even had much of your own. In a lot of ways, mate, trying to replicate and replace him was all the ambition you needed until now...

The Power Trip nods his head silently, his rage subsiding and his senses returning to him.

Shaw: But now you need to show him who is the big dog in the yard, mate. Now is the time to send the shadow of Ty Burna and Tyrone Blades away for good. His time has passed and your time is now. This is your shot at greatness, Johnny boy. Win at Apocalypse and everything you ever wanted. Everything that you ever got into WZCW for... Will be yours finally! Not even the greats can say that...

With that, Constantine allows a smile to form on his face as the scene fades to black.

* * *​

Spoiler

 

[Ty Burna]

Mr. Jones: Whoa whoa whoa homie! You know you can't be going in strapped like that.

The scene opens to the Hollow Ones' safe house. Mr. Jones stands in the corner, his arms crossed as he stares forward, a cigar hanging from his mouth as he absentmindedly puffs away, the smoke swirling all around him. He shakes his head as Tyrone turns around, a black bandanna pulled down around his neck, and a matching one tied around his forehead. A large roll of barbed wire hangs from his left arm, with a bat and a kendo stick strapped to his back. In his right hand, he grips a heavy-duty stapler, and in the other an old-style barber's razor. Tyrone takes a long drag from his cigarette that hangs from his mouth, his eyes narrowed as he stares towards Jones.

Tyrone: And why the fuck not? It's a Mayhem match, I'm going to make him feel every fucking barb of this wire while I leave him permanently concussed.

Mr. Jones: Uh huh, and what's with the stapler and razor?

A sick grin forms on Tyrone's face as he holds the stapler and razor up, his eyes darting back and forth between them.

Tyrone: I'mma cut that motherfucker open with the razor and staple the wounds shut. Ain't I just a fuckin' sweetheart Jones?

Mr. Jones: God dayum man. I was in prison for almost ten years and I've met some twisted mo'fuckas, but you, you take the cake. Is that really necessary?

Tyrone stares forward at Jones before rushing up to him, Jones, turning his head as Tyrone lifts the stapler right up to the side of Jones' head. Tyrone tilts his head sideways, an eerily familiar bloodlust in his eyes as he mocks squeezing the trigger. His voice lowers, almost to a seething whisper as he grits his teeth.

Tyrone: I have put up with that fucking leech for so many god damn years Jones. I've had to put up with his constant bitching and nagging and holier than fucking thou attitude for so long it sickens me. And now he's the one final person standing in my way before I break Banks' god damn neck! Do I think this is necessary? Oh, this is definitely necessary. This is mandatory that I bathe in his fucking blood, wear it like war paint as I march into that son of a bitch's office and break every god damn bone in his body! Let me make this very clear to you Jones. I want to maim him in every way imaginable. I am going to stain my hands with his blood.

Tyrone slowly backs off as Jones turns his head back towards him, clearly shaken up from coming up close and personal with the stapler. He takes a long drag from his cigar to try and compose himself, ashing it quickly as he turns angrily towards Tyrone once more.

Mr. Jones: You god damn psychopath, the fuck was that for?

Tyrone: You need to know what exactly I'm capable of Jones. You've been by my side while I destroy people with a bat. You've seen me be victorious just with my hands and fists. But now, now I get to use everything at my disposal. I get to make him bleed with no consequences. Like I gave a fuck about consequences anyway. No, this is the night we've been waiting for Jones. If I must go in and take a god damn shotgun blast to the chest, then so be it. Come hell or high fucking water, I'm going to leave physical and mental scars on Constantine. I'm done playing these games with him. I'm going to eradicate him from that god forsaken company for good.

Mr. Jones: Ight man damn, I get it. You hate his fuckin' guts. So what do y'all want me to do then?

Tyrone: Nothing. I need you to stay back here.

Mr. Jones looks stunned, his one good eye widening as he unfolds his arms from his chest as he rubs his head a bit.

Mr. Jones: Fucking excuse me? Man how am I supposed to get my manager's pay that night?

Tyrone: Your what now?

Mr. Jones: Yeah....see I looked it up. Standard manager's contract says I get paid $1000 per appearance at a minimum....soooo along with what you payin’ me, and what WZCW is paying me, I was thinking I could get this condo on the north side. It ain't much but it's better than sleeping he....

The razor blade suddenly comes flying past Jones' head, sticking into the wall blade first as Tyrone looks enraged at his fellow Hollow One.

Tyrone Are you out of your fucking mind Jones? You busy looking at condos when while we're at fucking war?

Mr. Jones: I mean..it's a good look for my parole officer. She ain't too thrilled with me travelling for work already as it is.

Tyrone: Jesus Christ, how much do you need Jones?

Tyrone walks over to the large wooden table, slamming the stapler down as he grabs multiple stacks of cash and holding them up.

Mr. Jones: Well I need the down payment, the deposit, the home owners’ association fees, garage rental, deposit for the electric....

Tyrone: A fucking number Jones! Just give me a god damn number!

Mr. Jones: Uh.....like twenty g's should get me started.

Tyrone: Twenty?! Are you out of your god forsaken...you know what. If it gets you out of my hair for the night fine.

Tyrone sets a couple stacks down, setting the rest back on the pile. Mr. Jones walks over, grabs the stacks, flipping through the bills as he inhales deeply.

Mr. Jones: Ahhhh hell yes. The fresh smell of a two-bedroom furnished condo.

Tyrone: We good? Get the fuck out and get your shit done. I need to prepare.

Mr. Jones: Uh Blades, could I ask one more favor.

Tyrone throws his hands up as he tries his hardest not to tear his hair out. He paces back and forth before turning back to Jones, motioning for him to spit it out.

Mr. Jones: I need a cosigner.

Tyrone: For fuck's sake! Fine let's go do this quick.

Tyrone begins walking towards the door, cracking his neck as he kicks the door open.

Mr. Jones: A'yo Tyrone!

Tyrone stops mid stride, turning his head slowly to look over his shoulder.

Mr. Jones: You mind leaving your Rambo gear here man? They may get the wrong idea with you walkin' in with barbed wire and all that. Besides, how you getting that through an airport?

Tyrone: You know what Jones, you're absolutely right. That's my bad. Let me just put these away.

Tyrone walks over to the table, shrugging off the bat and kendo stick before sliding the barbed off his arm. He then grabs three more stacks, tossing them at Jones who fumbles and drops them.

Mr. Jones: The fuck is this for?

Tyrone: Turns out I have a need for you after all Jones. Go get yourself a vehicle after we're done with this shit, we're driving to New York.

Mr. Jones: Now we talkin' homie! Hey I get to pick the trim out right?

Jones begins taking off towards the door, as Tyrone closes his eyes, his frustration at an all-time high before turning and making his way out the door as the scene fades away for a moment. It returns to Tyrone standing by himself on top of Madison Square Garden, his hood up and his bandanna covering his face. The lights are dimmed at the stadium, as the Hollow One paces back and forth, staring out at the New York skyline, and his signature bat resting on his shoulder.

Tyrone: John Constantine, I'm tired of hearing your god damn name. I'm also tired of my name coming out of your fuckin' mouth. I'm tired of you existing in WZCW. I'm tired of all of this John! I've had to deal with you following in my footsteps since you started in this fucking company. I've watched as you have done everything I've done for so fucking long. Isn't it clear by now John? You've just been dying to be me your entire career. The moment you stepped in the ring you called me out, and I put you down like a rabid dog. You mocked my gimmick, thinking it would dispel the fear that was inside your head. Time after time you've chased after my shadow, and with your own career flailing, what better way than to mimic the very man that has humbled you time after time?

Tyrone continues pacing back and forth, the moon rising high into the sky as it shines down on the Hollow One. The camera zooms in on his face, as Tyrone slowly pulls his bandanna down, revealing a look of hatred in his eyes as he stares forward.

Tyrone: Poor fucking John Constantine. Poor boy who's had to be the sidekick and the afterthought in every group he's ever attached himself to. That's been your whole M.O. since you've been here. First you latch onto Showtime's tit just hoping to get a taste of his talent. I mean hell, I partnered up with Vengeance and I ended up winning the World Title after it. Why not copy what's successful? Instead, what did that get you? Reynolds punking you out like a little bitch at Kingdom Come. I create my own group soon after, and what do you know, as soon as I disband my group, you come along with your make-believe king play set and create the Empire. But what better way to ensure you have the right people under you then to bring in one of my former Apostles? Why not take someone who I already pinned with potential and make him your own? Time after fucking time this is how it's been John. I do it first, and you fail to do it to even half the level of success that I do. You even begged and fucking pleaded with me to join the Elite. To come and save your floundering group alongside Holmes. And yet, little by little I corrupted and twisted that group until it was once again my own, as you stood off to the side pissing yourself at the mere thought of me turning my wrath towards you.

Tyrone can't help but laugh as he pulls a cigarette out, lighting it up and exhaling slowly as the tendrils of smoke swirl around him, pulling his hood back slowly as his long black hair falls around him as he continues to pace back and forth, tapping his bat back and forth on the ground as he does so.

Tyrone: You remember what happened don't you John? Your one and only time as World Heavyweight Champion. Something that had taken you five long and difficult years to finally achieve. Yet, as you celebrated your victory, do you not remember what happened before that title match? I put Tastic through living hell, beating him within an inch of his life time after time until he was softened up enough for even you to somehow not choke harder than the Falcons did. And as you carried that World Title on your shoulder, you knew what would come. I added my ace up my sleeve to The Elite, and there wasn't a peep said by you or Holmes, even as world champion you were nothing more than the beta of the group, unable to stand up to the alpha wolf. The trap had been set, and you once again stepped into it like you always do, and we destroyed you. We took away your title without even a fight on your end, bowing your head willing to the fucking guillotine coming down right across your neck. Were you truly ever World Champion John? Fuck no, you carried the belt after I did all the fucking work, yet again needing ME to lead you on the right path. And so, I grew tired of your constant leeching, your incessant fucking need to hold onto my coat tails, and I wrote you out of the fucking history book with one fluid motion of a pen. No longer world champion without even defending it.

Tyrone sits down on the edge of the stadium roof, pulling one knee up as he rests his smoking arm on top of his knee, a smirk forming on his face while continuing to smoke, setting the bat down next to him in the process.

Tyrone: Broken, left for dead, and kicked out of the group you helped started once again, you did the only thing you could possibly do John, you tried to become a dark specter, a ghost with but a bag wrapped around your head. OooOooooOoooohhh look at me, I'm a scary dark character just like Ty Burna. Child please, even Mikey Stormrage wore a mask when he was going through his identical emo stage. No one likes a fucking copycat John, and yet there it was. But, I felt you needed to get it out of your fucking system finally, so I indulged you. I let you send me away so I could go on vacation in the Bahamas while you walked around with a straw sack tied around your head. Hey, to each their own I guess homie, your call. And yet, here we fucking are again. The one thing I've done that no one else has done, and that was own this fucking company from the bottom to the top. To truly sit upon a throne that no one else could touch regardless of titles or accolades. I owned this fucking company. They all answered to me. From Showtime, to Barbosa, to even you John. My will dictated the flow of the company. It's a power you can never achieve. You could not possible even fathom the fucking planning it took to accomplish that, no, I wouldn't expect you to possibly be able to. So of course, the only way you could even get close to that is suck up to your new sugar daddy. Once more you're just a fucking lackey for someone more powerful than you John. You heed the beck and call of Mr. Banks, run when your daddy pulls your leash and you come crawling hands and knees back to him like a good little ****e. So now you get the name Destroyer, ain't that fucking cute, I had a name like that too, it was Harbinger, I was also the King of Darkness, Chaos Incarnate, you want to go on with these fancy ass nicknames John? Fact remains it's you against Tyrone Blades. No more mythical figure, no more standard bearer, no, just the motherfucker that's gonna make every nerve in your body scream out in pain.

Tyrone pushes himself up, grabbing his bat as he flicks his cigarette away, spreading his arms out wide as he yells out, what few people line the streets looking up briefly as Tyrone laughs loudly once more.

Tyrone: Mr. Banks thinks he's doing you a favor John, in fact he's given me the perfect match for me to end this fucking charade of Vis Imperium. Your boys Xander and Keaton have already been crossed out by the lone Hollow One left. You need all the help you can ever get John, while I am a warrior bred from solitude. I was made for Mayhem, I was molded, ready to do whatever was necessary to win. I stand alone on my own two feet, my sword at the ready for whatever onslaught you Vis Imperium bitches wanna bring my way, I'll cut you all down and stomp over your fucking corpses. But I know you too well John. This is your opportunity! This is your moment to finally prove yourself even worthy of being in the same sentence as me! Your words have been hollow for so long, every time you've said the name Burna, you act as if you invoke the spirit of someone greater than yourself to give you strength, only to find out there is no one there to save you. Just like at Apocalypse, there is no salvation where I'm going to string you up from tendon to tendon, gut you like the cowardly pig that you are, and take away your precious Mayhem Championship. Just another title I've taken away from you, just another title victory to me, and you'll fade away just like you always, do, claiming to be the victim when you cannot see your own weakness.

Tyrone reaches into his hoodie, producing a lone can of black spray paint. He shakes it a few times before leaning down, spraying a long straight line as he walks along the roof, finally reaching the other end as he throws it off the side of the building. With his back to the camera, he reaches up and throws his hood back up over his head, and pulling his bandanna up over his head.

Tyrone: I am your ultimate goal Constantine, you're just a god damn road block in the way of mine. Vis Imperium dies at Apocalypse, and the poison of WZCW in Kenneth A. Banks' gets eradicated soon after. I got that hollow point tip loaded, and it's aimed right between your eyes.

Tyrone turns around, his hand mocking the form of a pistol as he aims it right towards the camera.

Tyrone: You ain't escaping these cross hairs, and the last thing you're gonna hear as you're knelt down, pleading for mercy, is one final sound. Click. Clack.

The scene fades away slowly, only to a higher shot of the roof of Madison Square Garden, a large cross hairs symbol spray painted on, covering the entire roof as Tyrone stands with his arms crossed, holding a bat in each hand.

With Love,

The Hollow Ones