The night is calm on a near-abandoned plain. Only a small, house-like structure can be made out against the darkened sky. A few feet behind the house, a fire roars in a pit. Sitting on a rock beside the blaze is Hunter Kravinoff, wearing only a loin cloth, picking at the delectable carcass of a fried chicken. On his lap sits a thin manila folder. Next to him are a plate and the easel on which his trademark Sigmund Freud portrait is sitting stoically, staring sternly into the flames.
The look on Kravinoff’s face is one of depression. As he thoughtlessly rips meat from the bird in his hand and sucks it into his mouth, his eyes never seem focused. They seem to be staring into the crackling fire, but that’s clearly not where Kravinoff’s attention lies.
Voice-over: The bird was tiny yet extremely fatty. No doubt the product of a life spent in captivity. Indeed this “civilized” culture’s mass consumption and need for food to keep rolling off the production line has led to more and more animals which simply don’t stand-up to those in the wild. When I would come across free range chickens during my treks through South America, they were plump and without the fat you find on these commercial birds. And wild turkey… Wild turkey is even better.
Kravinoff leers in disgust at his meal and picks the plate off the ground before setting the remainder of the chicken down on the dish. Then, as if he just became aware of what he’s doing, he double takes in a rage and throws the plate into the fire. Much heavy-breathing and intensity ensues.
Voice-over: Look at me: Using a plate. It’s like I’m being… housebroken. A few years ago, I would never have reached for a plate. I would have set my chicken carcass down on the dirty ground like the good Lord intended. Just like that poor, sickeningly small, fatty bird, I’ve been sucked into the “civilized” man’s way of doing thing. And who’s to blame?
Kravinoff reaches into the manila envelope and pulls out a picture of him and Barbosa. In the photograph, Kravinoff is wearing a white tutu and Barbosa is wearing a black one. Kravinoff smiles warmly before shaking his head.
Voice-over: Ah, Barbosa. I’ve enjoyed his company thoroughly over the last little while. We make a great team and even better heterosexual life partners. A new Pride, if you will. With those hand-stitched tutus, we also forged a bond nobody else in WZCW can appreciate or match. We’re the perfect pair.
That said… I feel that being so close to someone has made me soft. I haven’t had a match without him since I beat Phoenix to qualify for K-FAD. While I enjoy our time together, my strategy at Kingdom Come relied on him to aid me towards an individual goal. Not only that, but in this photo I’m letting him be the black swan. Id and passion embodied isn’t me in this photo. I’ve allowed myself to be backed into the corner as the innocent white swan. While I used to roar defiantly atop the animal kingdom, Barbosa has made me purr like a small kitten. This cannot be tolerated any longer. While I enjoy his presence in my personal life, I need to distance myself from him as a competitor.
The Ugandan throws the picture into the fire. As it burns, Kravinoff reaches once more into the envelope and this time pulls out a picture of himself eating pizza with Wasabi Toyota and his trainer Rocco.
Voice-over: Ah, Wasabi. While the fat oaf could have been a worthy ally because of his girth and background, he too made me soft. I only fell prey to the attack of the Crashin Movement at Unscripted because I’d allowed myself to grow comfortable in the notion that I could trust another man to watch my back. Mistakes were made in that relationship. While he introduced me to the delicacy known as pizza, he was too soft for me to stand with for too long as an equal. His humanitarianism has led to him rotting in the tag division while I’ve skyrocketed up the card. Until he’s willing to let it all hang out in the ring like he does in the kitchen, he’s no concern of mine.
Kravinoff spits on the picture, tears it, and whips it into the flames with a look of ire on his face. More heavy breathing and intensity ensue. Just them, he notices a little bit of chicken at the bottom of the fire. His stomach growls but Kravinoff doesn’t budge.
Voice-over: No matter how soft I’ve become, I would never be stupid enough to reach into the fire and burn my hand for food. My survival instincts, what make me the most dangerous creature on the planet, they’re still there. Don’t stick your hand in fire: Wise stuff and a great example of what makes me the best hunter in WZCW. Those survival instincts may have fallen into the peripheral in recent times but they still quake deep down in the cockles of my soul. And now it’s time to put my killer instincts to the test once more. No more Barbosa. Just me and what brought me to the dance. Me and what… he taught me.
Kravinoff stares longingly at the Freud portrait and blows it a kiss. He then turns back to the fire.
Voice-over: I may not have been the man to decisively defeat Steven Kurtesy last week, but his day is coming. And in the meantime, while Kurtesy continues to grow soft in the arms of his tag team partner, “Elite” Steven Holmes, I will be taking on the best in the business by myself and proving my worth in the big dance.
The Wildman draws one last photo from the envelop: A promotional shot of Everest. Kravinoff’s eyes grow wider. He smacks his lips gleefully and even goes as far as to lather them with his tongue. His stomach growls once more as he stares at the Pinnacle Of Perfection like he’s a piece of the chicken burning to a crisp in the fire pit.
Voice-over: Everest… While Barbosa has been waiting with baited breath for this match with one of the best in the history of professional wrestling, I got the call first. Steven Kurtesy is going to rot with the filth in the tag division this week while I feast on free range gorilla meat. The best wrestler WZCW ever had versus the best it has now. If anyone thought my alliance with Barbosa had made me soft, this match will open their eyes to what a killer I still am. If my instincts have suffered any atrophy, all it will take is a few world class shots from my seasoned adversary to wake me up. Everest is going to remind me what a challenge feels like and I will show all of humankind that I still am up to it.
This is all about sending a message. While my adversary claims boastfully that this is his world, I’m the exterminator. When tenants need to be removed, Mother Nature calls me to deliver the notice of eviction from “Everest’s world.” And while he’s a Mountain Man, I’m a man who’s also trekked mountains -- but unlike him, I don’t do it to dominate mere geology. I’ve battled sheep, squirrels, rabbits, and lions on the pointiest peaks many plains have to offer. And I’ve done it with a smile on my face. I come to mountains not to climb but rather for what lives in that environment. And just as sure as Everest’s muscular frame is the flesh and blood equivalent of a mountain, I come for what operates within that frame: Kidneys. A liver. A heart. I aim not for Everest himself, but for everything that runs through his veins. I will write my message in the blood of a legend on Ascension.
Kravinoff crumples the picture and throws it into the fire with a sly smirk on his face. He then gets up and carries the Freud portrait toward the house and into the darkness as the fire fades away.
Voice-over: Sorry, Everest. But I’m proving a point at your expense this week. The locker room’s old lion is going to take a dive that will make everyone sit up and take notice. Steven Kurtesy will dread the day I come for the debt of blood he owes me. Barbosa will realize I am the black swan to his white swan. And Wasabi Toyota will see that freedom from compassion and restraint is the only way to make your mark in combat.
They’re all going to understand. I’m going to make them see.
