Unscripted: Gordito vs. Action Saxton vs. Saboteur - All or Nothing No. 1 Contender

[Phoenix]

All or Nothing No. 1 Contender's Final

WZCW Network to choose their final elimination before Unscripted airs:
Gordito, Action Saxton, Saboteur

At the beginning of this month, we saw nine people get an opportunity like no other. Once three of them had been named the challengers to the World Heavyweight Championship, it was down to the remaining six to get a second chance with a title opportunity at All or Nothing. We've seen The Internet Warrior, Chris Beckford and Black Dragon get eliminated thanks to the decision making of the WZCW Network. Now we have reached the final match lies in wait to decide the challenger. But out of the three remaining, only two of them are going to compete at Unscripted as Myles and Bateman have decided that the fans must choose their final elimination by naming the person they want out of the tournament. With Gordito, Action Saxton and Saboteur wanting to get the opportunity they desire so much, all could be lost for one of them as the last two will finish off the tournament with only man left standing. Who will be the final two and who will leave Unscripted as the Number One Contender?

Deadline is Tuesday 18th October 23:59 EST​

 

[The Doctor]

Signal Panic, Inc. Presents
Action Saxton
In
”This Dark & Twisty Road”

The Paper Gangster is not what one would call a five-star establishment. The discolored paint peels from the walls of the tiny shack, as small creatures of an unknown species scurry at intervals underfoot. The chairs are a baby’s breath away from total collapse and the tables are not much better. The toilets are best left undescribed save for saying that they’ve seen the use of thousands of poor souls suffering from alcohol poisoning, and worse.

And yet, this place feels much warmer than most of the top-rated chow halls in this godforsaken city. Maybe it’s the staff. Maybe it’s the clientele. Whatever it is, there’s just something about this place that draws its healthy supply of regulars back, week after week.

I’m one of those regulars. This place has coffee to die for. No doubt in a place like this, people have. It’s for this reason that I find myself seated in my usual spot during my usual time, drinking my usual cup of joe. As I take a sip from my mug, I check my watch. 10:29 PM. In one minute, the man I call The Black Bastard is due to come in, as he always does.

I have no idea if he’s really a bastard, but the man is definitely black. This old skull has taken too many lumps on the head to remember peoples’ names easily, so the alliteration helps a lot. For all I know, he’s a perfectly nice human being with parents happily in wedlock. But judging by this city, I doubt it. The place is painted in shades of grey, except for the red that spatters the unlucky ones. All I know about him is that he’s a fighter, similar to what I used to be before I got out of the game.

The bell on the door rings.

“Give me some of that good-ass malt liquor you have going, Marce.”

And there he is. Every day he enters this bar and every day it’s the same sentence, the same inflection, the same request. That’s how I knew that today, when I heard a small tremor in his voice, that something was wrong. The untrained ear wouldn’t have heard it, but my ear is anything but untrained. I’m a musician by trade, and have a healthy interest in psychology on the side.

My curiosity piqued, I continue to listen in as he takes his drink. Marceline, the owner of this beautiful hellhole, starts up their normal conversation as I sip my coffee.

“So, how’s it going, Sax?” she asks him, as per usual.

Sax. That’s her nickname for him. Maybe I would remember it this time.

“I’m having the time of my life, Marce,” he replies, as he always does.

The clink of glass against wood sounds as the man finishes his drink and gets a second. I can tell by Marceline’s voice that she’s smiling at him, just like she always does.

“Good to hear, Sax. Always knew you’d make it one day. Movie star, wrestler, real life hero...It’s amazing that it’s actually happening!”

Sax takes another drink. “Hell yeah it is. Like nothing else.”

He sighs, a low rumble. I hear Marceline put down the glass she’s polishing and lean on the bar.

“Sax, is something wrong?” she asks. So I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Hell naw. Nothing’s wrong, babe.”

“Sax…” her voice is disapproving. “I’ve known you for a pretty long time now. I think I can tell...”

“Dammit, Marce, I said there’s nothing wrong!” he barks at her. Every eye in the bar turns towards him, including my own. He’s standing up and glaring at Marceline, who to her credit doesn’t look scared at all. In fact, she looks…amused. She giggles, and Sax’s face softens.

“God damn, Marce, how the hell do you do that?” he chuckles, slowly sinking back onto his barstool, which creaks ominously.

“Oh, I have my ways,” she winks. “So tell me already, what’s really on that mind of yours?”

Sax sighs again, but a happier one this time. “Well Marce, you know how I have that big fight coming up?”

“For the contendership to the title.”

“Damn right, for the contendership. This has taken one hell of a tournament to get to here, and now I’m finally getting my chance.”

“And you’re worried about being beaten.”

“What?” Sax seems genuinely shocked by her assumption. “Hell, no. Everyone knows that Action Saxton has never met a fight he didn’t like, even if the feeling was not mutual. No matter who I face, I’m going to kick some ass and step up to the title shot and become the top man in WZCW. Of course, I already am, but if people think I need some fool belt to prove it then it’ll have to be mine.”

“So what’s on your mind, then?”

“Jeez, cool down sucka, I’m getting there. You can’t rush a good story. Telling a story is like making French fries. It takes time, and you need to be careful, and sometimes you make the fries too crispy or soggy and sometimes ninjas steal your fries before you get the chance to taste them so you have to make a new batch. Oh, and fries are damn good with ketchup.”

It’s Marceline’s turn to sigh, rolling her eyes in amusement.

“Damn, you made me lose my train of thought. Where was I? Oh yeah, the match.

No, Marce, what I’m worried about is not the suckas inside the match, but the suckas outside. Fans are choosing which person to eliminate from the match and I’ll find out moments before I’m scheduled to compete. I can’t lay down some major ass-whoopings if I’m not even voted into the match, can I?”

He takes another drink. So do I. Marceline looks thoughtful.

“But Sax, you’re a hero. Remember the story you told me about how you punched that evil fireman so hard they had to use his hose to tie him back together? You saved a whole village – surely they’ll vote for you! And, and you told me all about those orphans you saved, and the Jupiterians, and that bear…”

“Hey, sucka, the bear’s still a sore subject.”

“Sorry. But my point is, they’ll vote for you, right?”

“They would if they knew what was good for them.”

“See? Jupiter is a pretty big planet. I’m sure with the entire population of Jupiter on your side you’ll be sure to enter the match. And after that it’s total nonstop ass-kicking, right?”

“That’s damn right.”

I’m on my third cup of coffee now as I continue to listen intently.

“Who are you fighting?”

“One of two bad m’suckas. One of them is a fellow superhero called Saboteur.”

The name was not familiar to me.

“People are all over Saboteur because that sucka pinned the champ, but it was his opportunity that got him there. I’d have got the job done in half the time. Now he’s trying to run for president, stealing my ideas of press conferences and of being a superhero badass. Sorry sucka, there’s only one Action Saxton, and it’s me – Action Saxton! The only thing that will be sabotaged in this match is your face when my foot connects, and kicks you! In the face!”

Marceline hands him another glass of malt liquor as he hits his stride. I can tell by the glance I sneak her that she’s used to this by now. In fact, she looks to be quite enjoying it.

“And if I don’t face Saboteur, then the man who is going to enter my cavern of kickass is going to be that sucka Gordito!”

I unconsciously stiffen slightly, taking another sip of coffee.

“I have a lot of respect for Gordito, even if he’s not a badass like me and his bar is not as good as this one, though that isn’t to say it is not a fine establishment. He's a good man. However, the fact of the matter is, that sucka may be able to take a pounding but Action Saxton knows nothing if not how to pound ass! It’s what I do day after day, always pounding ass, and this will be no different!”

Sax suddenly stands, the stool he was sitting on crumpling into dust. He reaches into his wallet and throws down a few bills before turning towards Marceline.

“Marce, thanks for all of your help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a match to train for.”

Marceline smiles.

“Go get them, Sax.”

Sax stomps over to the door and throws it open. I watch as he expands his barrel-chest and yells into the night.

“Saboteur and/or Gordito!” he roars. “I’m coming for you, suckas!”

And with a slam, he’s gone.

Slowly, I stand up and limp towards the bar.

“Thanks for the coffee, Marceline," I say as I withdraw my wallet and count out how much I owe her. “How are you and B doing?”

“Oh, we’re doing really well,” she replies, sighing dreamily. “She moved in upstairs last weekend.”

“Good to hear.” I hand her the money, grinning. “See you on Thursday, then.”

“I’ll be sure to have your usual all made up for you. I know life on the road can be tough.”

“That it can be. Well, see you then, Marceline.”

She waves.

“Have a nice night, Max.”

And I step out into the city streets.​

 

[DirtyJosé]

--------------------------------The Past----------------------------------​

Gordito sits in his rented car driving through a forested highway. He'd sold his van to a local band weeks ago when he relocated from the east coast to the west; there was no way it was going to make the trip back with him. Besides, the wrestling lifestyle had left him at a point where jet setting around and renting a car made more sense than being stuck with one. He used to think he'd stick it out on the east coast to make things easier, but the way his career in WZCW has gone, he's allowed the freedom to be based out of wherever he pleases now. And that's why he's come back home, to California.

He lights a cigarette after rolling down the window. The car is silent other than the drive; no music is playing. Gordito seems a little lost in thought as he speeds through the windy roads. It's early summer; there's still a little snow left in parts of the hills and trees, but for the most part everything is green and fresh. The sun shines brightly in the sky beyond the tops of the trees. Gordito's cell phone begins ringing through the car's Bluetooth setup, snapping Gordito out of his daze as he searches for the answer button on the steering wheel and pushes it with his thumb.

Gordito: "Yo."

Voice: "Hey big guy. Just checkin' when you're gonna get out here."

"I'm maybe 20 minutes away now, baby. I was gonna stop and pick up some cheap beer first."

"Sounds good to me. Get a pizza too. Your little brother's here, too."

"Awesome."

"Yeah, so hurry up, asshole."

Gordito chuckles.

"Alright, alright. See you soon baby."

"Later"

Gordito hangs the phone up as he pulls up to a gas station and mini mart.

-----------------------------Twenty Minutes Later-------------------------​

Gordito approaches the front door of the house with two pizzas in one hand and two cases of beer wrapped in the other. With no free hand to knock or ring the door bell, he kicks the door a few times instead. As he waits, he looks around; it's been a long time since he's been here. A tiny little mountain town of houses and a few schools. Everything is green and thriving, the sun shining down happily. A very drastic change from Los Angeles and Las Vegas. The door opens, and a short white man with a blondish-brown mohawk and wearing some beat up jeans and a band shirt stands there.

"Help me with this crap, asshole."

"Is that anyway to say hello?"

"Hi Dave. Now will you help me with this crap, asshole?"

Dave laughs.

Dave: "Ha! Yeah, hang on a second."

Dave steps forward to take the beer out of Gordito's arms. He leads Gordito into the house, which looks like it's bit of a party house. The coffee table is littered with beer cans, and the walls are covered in cheap posters and graffiti. In the corner of the living room is a variety of instruments; guitars, bass guitars, some mic stands and a few mics, a couple of amps and pedals, and a pile of cords and wires. Dave continues to lead Gordito through to the kitchen, where he places the beer down on a counter and takes the pizzas from Gordito to place into the fridge. Afterwards, he leads Gordito through a door to the backyard, where another man waits. This one is about Gordito's height, but skinnier. His skin is a bit darker too, and he wears thin glasses. A few of his teeth are missing in his smile. He's in some beat up khaki pants and a cheap button up shirt, his black mohawk lazily leaning to one side. Gordito wastes little time in approaching him arms outstretched for a hug.

"Zimbo! Bro! Good to see you, man!"

Zimbo: "Gordo, you made it. Did you get the beer?"

"Like I would forget."

Dave has followed up behind Gordito with one case of beer in his hands. He offers a can to Zimbo and a can to Gordito before taking one himself. They each raise the cans in cheers to each other after opening them.

"To S.C.U.M."

"S.C.U.M."

"S.C.U.M."

They each take long swills of their brew. Afterwards, Dave pulls up some lawn chairs and each of them has a seat and light up cigarettes.

"So how's the big life going for you in the squared circle, Gordo?"

"Oh come on, man. I know you're a huge fan too. We've been watching this stuff since we were kids. Don't give me that crap like you don't watch it every week."

"I know, I know. I mean, what's going on behind the curtain? Like, how's it like on the inside? Looks like you got busted up something fierce not long ago."

"Yeah...Baez ripped me a new one. Had to take some time off."

"And instead of coming right over, I heard you split to LA and then Vegas to party it up."

"Who told you that?"

"Ruined. He ratted you out."

"Damn. Well, yeah. I needed to get my head together. Had a good time in LA. Had a crazy time in Vegas. Got ahold of Mark and Ian and had them come out. Still, it wasn't quite what I needed."

"So is that why you're here?"

"Yeah."

"Nevermind that crap, we need to get ahold of more of the boys and get this bitch going crazy go nuts!"

Dave runs back into the house, emerging a few seconds later with a cell phone in his hands. He also has turned up some loud punk music from the house. Zimbo and Gordito look up at him for a second before looking back to each other.

"Well, welcome home Juan."

"Home? We're from San Francisco, champ."

"Home is where the family is. Home is where you find peace. And we're all here, and here you are looking for peace. So, welcome home."

They hug once again as Dave yells in the background into his cell phone, trying to rile up everyone and anyone he can to come celebrate.

-------------------------------Many Hours Later---------------------------​

The house is a war zone. Music is blasting loudly, there are at least two dozen guys and girls in and out of the house, all having a good time and full of mirth. A bonfire rages in the backyard. We find Gordito and Zimbo sitting atop the house, beers all around them, cigarettes in hand, deep into conversation.

"I mean *burp*...I don't want to say I wasn't ready for it all. I knew what I was getting into, didn't I? It's not that I can't handle being popular or known now..."

"You're just worried about liking it too much."

"I guess. It's not quite like that. It's not it, or them."

"What the hell are you talking about, dude?"

"Ok, *burp*, I'll try it this way: I came up with you guys. I came up in this life. We all grew up being told we couldn't do this or we'd never be that. We did what we wanted anyway, we did it our way. I find my calling, my one thing that makes any sense. And the more I get into it, the more I change. I'm so used to being the surprise underdog, I don't know what to do when I'm the respected and popular star."

"Alright, alright. You're so used to fighting the system that you don't know what to do when you might become a part of it."

"Kinda. Like, I'd always tell myself I wouldn't lose myself into the fame and the fortune, you know? That I wouldn't let it change me. And I think I might be letting it get to me."

"Ha! How? Because you wear fancier clothes now and drive nice cars? Because you throw parties in LA and Vegas and trash hotel rooms? Is this all really some sort of quarter-life sell-out crisis? *burp* Laugh out loud, man, laugh out loud."

"Wha...?"

"You've always been a show off and an attention ****e. You love being seen, sticking out, being the center of attention. And you love to have a good time, and more than that you love to show others a good time. So you know what I think?"

"What's that?"

"I think to hell with you worries. Who gives a damn if you dress like Bono on acid? Who gives a damn about where you party and what kind of hoes you bring back with you? Who gives a damn about whether you're in your punk rock uniform or not? You know what we've always been about? Expression. Freedom. Breaking down the walls. You've found your way to do that. You should just keep on doing what comes naturally and stop worrying about what that makes you. So Dave and I decided to become backwater billy goat mountain punks. Doesn't mean that you're a sell out because you didn't want that."

Gordito is thinking this all over.

"You're...*burp*...you're right, Zimbo."

He turns to look at him.

"I thought I was supposed to be the wise one. Isn't the older brother supposed to know everything?"

Zimbo shakes his head.

"Nope. I'm the smart one. It's your job to kick ass and take names and get back to where you belong."

They open new beers and slam them together in the light of the moon. Behind them, guys and girls dance around the fire and sing along to the music. Zimbo and Gordito finish their brews and then clumsily begin the task of finding a way off the roof.

-------------------------------The Present--------------------------------​

Klamor sits at a desk in front of a big screen television. On the screen is a poster for Unscripted. In front of Klamor is a laptop computer.

Klamor: "Alright, WZCW fans, this your chance to make yourself heard. Make sure to cast your votes on WZCW.com to make Unscripted the show you want it to be. Up next, we've got the competition for the number one contender-ship to the WZCW World Title. While Ty will have to defend his belt against three men at Unscripted, one man will win the right to challenge the whoever leaves as champion at All or Nothing. We've narrowed the field down to three guys over the last few weeks."

The screen behind him changes to show three faces.

"We've got the insane assassin Saboteur. We've got the big man of Action, Mr. Saxton. And we've got that punk rock psycho Gordito. Here's how it's going down: You all will vote for who you think should be eliminated. After the winner, or loser, has been decided, the final two will have a match at Unscripted. The winner of that match becomes the new number one contender to the WZCW Championship. So make sure you make the right choice. Let's take some emails from you guys."

Klamor taps at the laptop in front of him. An image of an email appears on the screen behind him. He reads it from the laptop aloud.

"Yo, Johnny K., I'm curious who you think should be eliminated from the number one contender's tournament: Saxton, Saboteur, or Gordito?"

Klamor looks up as he answers.

"Well, Saboteur beat the champ recently, so in my eyes he's earned his shot. Saxton has made himself known over the course of a few months, and might have what it takes to shock the world and get that title. So for my money, that fat ass Gordito is the one who should be sent packing. The guy takes off for weeks after getting destroyed by Baez of all people, and now he think he can take the top prize? Ha! He's scum. Next email."

Klamor looks back to the emails. The next one pops up on the screen behind him.

"Dear Klamor, is that a dead rat on your head or just a bad hairpiece..."

Klamor stalls reading the question, but it's still visible behind him.

"What kind of crap is this? Next message."

A new message appears on the screen as he reads.

"Klamor is the blandest most humorless pile of donkey..."

Klamor slams his laptop shut, killing the display behind him. After a few seconds of being blank, the screen reverts to the Unscripted poster. Klamor looks a little heated up, but tries to maintain composure.

"You know what, let's take some phone calls instead."

He pulls a phone unit out from under the desk and picks up the handset, pushing a blinking button on the unit.

"You're on WZCW's Unscripted Preview with Johnny Klamor, what's your question."

The unmistakable voice of The Dirty One replies.

"I believe you haven't answered my question about your hairpiece, Johnny."

"You! You're not supposed to be on here! Next caller!"

Klamor kills the line and picks out another one. He's greeted again by the voice of Gordito.

"You know what Klamor, I am S.C.U.M."

"Next...what?"

"I am. Have I ever told you what S.C.U.M. means?"

Klamor looks confused.

"S.C.U.M. means I'm better than you. S.C.U.M. mean you give me all the power. Look at you, taking shots at me to the WZCW fans. And now when I've got you wrapped around my finger, you're paralyzed. You just can't look away, you can't just stop listening. Right now, I own you. It's just what I do."

Klamor reaches to hang up the phone. As he does, Gordito steps out from the side of the screen and approaches Klamor with a cell phone in his hand. He hangs up the phone as he continues.

"Saxton is the man for Action, baby. The guy is one cool cat and I know he's headed for great things here. Saboteur reminded everyone that why we watch the shows and buy the Pay Per Views is that ANYTHING CAN AND WILL HAPPEN. But me? Not to toot my own horn Klamor, but I am here to keep things interesting. I am here to keep things exciting. I am live, loud, rude, crude, electrifying and energetic. I am must see. I am The Dirty One, here to show my fans that I'm back and better than ever."

Gordito turns towards the camera as he continues. Klamor is panicking in the background, freaking out for a second before picking up the phone. As Gordito talks, we can hear Klamor behind him.

"I came back ready to do whatever you people wanted me to do..."

"Hello, I need security at studio 8 NOW!"

"And this chance came up, and you people showed me that where you wanted me was right here, chasing that title..."

"What? This IS Klamor, you idiot. I've got a superstar here hijacking my show...."

"So here I am. One step away from being one step away...so does that make me two steps away..."

"Never mind that nonsense, he's ruining my segment and I want him gone!"

"Anyway, the point is that I need you to show me that this is where you want me to be. Put me in that final match. Give me Saxton or Saboteur. I guarantee you, I'll give you one hell of a show."

"Why are you putting me on hold? I'm Johnny Klamor, damnit!"

"And I'll give that man one hell of a fight. They may have the energy of youth behind them, but I've got the experience on my side. I've been in their shoes before, and I won. And now, I'm wiser and more experienced in what it takes to deliver on the big stage."

"What do you mean they've chosen to allow him to continue? On what authority? Who allowed this?"

"I'm ready for it all, baby. I'm ready to be part of WZCW history. At Unscripted, I will be the last one standing, I will be the new number one contender to the WZCW World Championship. All I need from you guys is to believe in me."

"MYLES?! I demand you patch me through, this is bullsh...."

"Believe in me like you have before. Go out there and make your voice heard, let 'em know that Gordito is your man to be the next WZCW Champion, and that you want to see him fight for that spot at Unscripted, baby. The Dirty One needs you."

"And I swear...hello? Hello? Hello?! DID YOU HANG UP ON ME?!?!"

Gordito turns towards Klamor. Klamor hangs up the phone, stares at him for a second with a pale face before rising to his feet angrily.

"You! This is my show, damnit. You can't just barge in a ruin it with your fake emails and your phone calls and just coming in and taking it over yourself. I don't care what Myles or anyone else says, I want you out of here now!"

Klamor points towards off screen. Gordito merely shrugs.

"Whatever baby, you only had to say so."

He turns back towards the camera, winking, before leaving the area. Klamor gives him an icy stare as he leaves before readjusting his suit and his hair and getting his composure back and sitting down. He goes to open his laptop, but as he does the theme for Unscripted begins to play in the background, signifying the end of this show. Klamor is livid.

"Wait! What? This isn't the end of the show. I didn't get to end my show properly. That...that...punk took it over! I'm going to Myles and Bateman about this, this is absurd. I am a respected journalist, damnit, I don't deserve to be treated like this. DAMN YOU GORDITO!"

Klamor is still ranting as the show goes off the air.

 

[JGlass]

Saboteur is sitting in a dark room, and all the camera can see is Saboteur’s face, and his hands as he scribbles on the wall with a red marker.

There’s not much to say about the room, and there’s not much to say about the room’s sole occupant. It’s hard to read the look on Saboteur’s face as it’s covered up by his mask, but he has determined eyes to compliment his furrowed brow and his angry, quivering lips.

Saboteur: It’s not that I don’t like you guys… I do. And it’s not that I think you aren’t great wrestlers… I do. This is just too important for anyone except me. This isn’t just a title shot anymore, this is a chance to end something terrible, and I don’t think either of you realize that this may be our only chance to put our names on the single most important moment in the history of WZCW. Until you accept that this could very well be the pinnacle of your careers, you aren’t prepared to face Ty Burna. I’m prepared to face Ty Burna, and after this past week, I’ve never been surer of it. The hell he’s put me… put all of us through… it needs to end, and it needs to end soon.

As Saboteur speaks, it’s clear that he’s not in his right mind… whether or not Saboteur’s mind is ever really right is up for debate, but if it is, he certainly isn’t in his right mind. His voice is dark, angry, and especially disturbed.

Saboteur: Lately I’ve been feeling dark… angry… and especially disturbed. It’s not because of you, new friends. As I said before, I like you guys. It’s people like you that keep me sane. It’s people like Ty Burna that push me into the deep end, you know?

No… wait… it’s not people like Ty Burna, it’s ONLY Ty Burna. I’ve met plenty of sick human beings in my time, but Ty Burna might just be the king of scum, the emperor of filth, the living embodiment of a corrupt soul, and he needs to be sent where corrupt souls belong!

Saboteur is now stabbing the wall with his red marker as he begins to hyperventilate. A few moments pass as Saboteur slows his breathing and regains his composure. He continues to scribble on the wall.

Saboteur: He’s held this belt for… what… a year now? And he’s held the company and its wrestlers hostage for as long as he’s held that belt. Everything in our world revolves around that belt he carries around his waist. We kill each other for a chance to touch that belt… we kill ourselves for a chance to touch that belt. Hell, why have we been running around for the past month trying to get people to vote for us on the internet? Because of Ty Burna.

My campaign went horribly wrong. Normally I can take a few harsh words from the fans, but when you’re under the pressure of competing for a championship match with the possibility of taking that belt… that power away from Ty Burna… I snapped. I’m sure you’ve seen the news footage on TMZ, “WCZW Wrestler Saboteur punches Governor Rick Perry in the face.” Don’t get me wrong, he deserved it, but that didn’t exactly help me win over any voters in Texas or Mississippi or Tennessee, where we’ll be on Sunday night, fighting each other for that chance… that is… if I make it there.

Saboteur pulls the marker back towards him and sits perfectly still as he imagines the possibility of not having the chance to end Ty Burna’s title reign, a notion that doesn’t sit well with him one bit.

Saboteur: The idea of not being able to even get the chance to take down Ty Burna doesn’t sit well with me. I know, both of you think you deserve the shot too, but YOU DIDN’T BEAT TY BURNA! HOW CAN I TRUST YOU? HOW CAN THE FANS TRUST YOU? HOW CAN ANYONE TRUST YOU!?

Saboteur has dropped the marker and is yelling at the wall.

Saboteur: This is our best chance to end the madness that has made up Ty Burna’s title reign! And do you know what happens if you lose? Months more of Ty Burna’s reign of terror! Maybe years! Is that what you want? More years of Ty Burna calling the shots, kidnapping our friends, hurting people for the sake of hurting people?! IS IT!?!

Suddenly the door to the room opens behind Saboteur, and the sudden lighting change temporarily blinds him.

Garrett: Uh… Sab, what are you doing?

Saboteur pauses for a moment, not sure if he should answer the question honestly, lie, or threaten Garrett with death. He responds in his normal tone of voice, as if he was broken from his violent trance.

Saboteur: Cutting a promo… drawing… planning your death.

Garrett: Is that Gordito on the wall? And Action Saxton and Ty Burna?

Saboteur: Yes… no… plotting your death.

Garrett: Ooooookay. Well, I’m just gonna get going now.

Saboteur: I think that would be best.

Garrett slowly closes the door behind him, and Saboteur slowly slips back into the darkness.

Saboteur: Now where was I… oh yeah, Ty Burna…

Saboteur stares furiously at the picture of Ty Burna he has hanging on the wall to the right of picture of Action Saxton and Gordito. All three have scribbles all over them with notes about each wrestler’s weaknesses and how Saboteur plans to destroy them.

Saboteur: Gordito, Saxton, it’s nothing personal, but whichever one of you I face this week will not get out of this match unscathed. I can’t risk not facint Ty Burna at All or Nothing. I’ve proven it already, I’m the one that can beat Ty Burna, and I’m the one that will beat Ty Burna. When I’ve finally defeated him, this whole company will be a better place. There will be no more jumping through hoops, no more tournaments, no more senseless violence. But before that happens, someone needs to end Ty Burna’s title reign… and I’m just the man to do it.

Saboteur stands up, puffs out his chest, and puts his hands on his hips.

Saboteur: So my dear friends, I am sorry, but there is no room for you in this future of mine. I wander into the darkness alone, and with a little bit of luck, I will reemerge into the light with my pride, honor, and a new gold belt around my waist.

Saboteur grabs the door knob and prepares to leave, but then quickly turns around and looks at Ty Burna’s picture.

Saboteur: And with Ty Burna’s blood dripping from my katanas.

Saboteur opens the door and the closes it, leaving us in the dark room, alone.