Post Show with the Ex-Champ

[David Hunter]

We go to the back halls of the Pure Class Arena. David Hunter is seen walking forward, his destination seemingly clear, with his barbed wire baseball bat over his shoulder. He is still adorned in his dad-chic t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans with a belt.

Eventually, David is approached by Kassandra Black.

Wow. Sometimes life just has a way of flipping things on their side.

Plus she has a mic.

Like an old wild west movie or something in the same vain, I dunno, a lot of westerns are overrated, the two just kinda stare at each other.

It's a solid fifteen seconds before David says something.

David Hunter: Should I be worried that I was approached by you?

At first, Kassandra merely stares at him.

Alas, not hearing herself talk gets annoying pretty fast.

Kassandra Black: David, tonight you followed through on your word. You...destroyed catering, you trashed the locker room, flooding it and breaking a lot of people's stuff, not to mention the broken benches and dented lockers, you...I wanna say tried to have sex on the office of the PCW President...

David can't help but chuckle. He stares over Kassandra's shoulder, reminiscing on the cusp of four minutes he spent in there.

David Hunter: Yeah...that was nice. Broke the shit out of the room too.

Kassandra Black: You sure did. You also helped...probably retire Alexa Black and cost Sicko the main event. Now with all that in mind...

Kassandra takes a few moments to falsely ponder on her next question.

Kassandra Black:...what the fuck is wrong with you?

David looks down at Kassandra, meeting her eyes. The two share a small pout and intense glare respectively.

David Hunter: Rude. But to answer your question, my biological parents died when I was like...three or something, my adopted mom died when I was 10 and I feel guilty because I helped cause it, my adopted father is a piece of shit who abandons his children and wife regularly for wrestling and a new life-long career, and my step-mom is kind of a goth icon that almost got married to a guy probably quadruple her age in a black and white striped suit who's technically dead and can transform into this really fucked up snake.

Kassandra is confused, taken aback by the legitimate answer. Her arm also falls a smidge. David takes the moment of silence to readjust her arm, allowing the mic to come back towards his mouth.

David Hunter: As for tonight, I think I made it perfectly clear at the start of the show. Sicko runs around and destroys people for the sake of wanting a title shot. What repercussion does he get? Not a goddamn thing. So I figure I'd play his game, step into his clown shoes and see how it's like from the view of an evil, psychotic clown. On that aspect, I'll admit, I failed. But the running around and fucking stuff up part, that...that I definitely did.

Kassandra takes the mic back, having regained herself.

Kassandra Black: So all of this was just to get back to Sicko? Why the hell would you want to do that?

David doesn't even bother with the mic. In fact, he takes it from Kassandra's hands and throw it against a nearby wall. He wraps his left arm Kassandra's shoulders. This, obviously, causes her to bunch-up and freeze. David drags her down the halls, closer to the back entrance of the building.

David Hunter: Walk with me Kassandra. You see, in my six months here I've learned that the King of the Underground Title is the ultimate proving ground that somebody deserves...more, let's say. I've held that belt more than anybody, and sure, the timeline is muddled, but for the most part, I ended up with the title at the end of the month. I figure...why the hell should I give up my crown--something I've consistently proven to have earned--when I can continue up the card, still proving why I'm the toughest guy here? Don't get me wrong, you got guys like Kyle Shane or Dominator or Grimm or...I don't know, Rick Majors, I guess, poor bastard, who've shown they deserve the main event spots, I guess, but the problem with that is, they weren't the main event. I was. As the King of the Underground.

The two reach a doorway. It says "PARKING" on it in big red letters.

David Hunter: So as far as I can see, I've already proven that I deserve more. I've already proven that I'm a legitimate main eventer. Tonight I proved that you can run rampant all over the damn place and you'll get what you want. I'm in the Icemann Invitational! In my first year! That's awesome! I'd ask you to clap for me but by this point that'd be under duress.

Kassandra simply nods her head quickly.

David Hunter: Right. So...what else is there to prove? Quite simply: that I am better than everybody else. It's a hard goal, and one I will not take lightly, but after losing to Sicko, I realized that...there's no reason for kiddy gloves anymore. There's no Muscles Malone to shock the world with an upset. There's sure as hell no Tyler Scott to get a screwy win. And Holden and I...we're square. All my Underground chums have grown up and gone on to bigger and better things. Or left. Or retired. So who the hell would I be if I didn't do the same thing?

David leads Kassandra through the door to the parking lot.

David Hunter: In the meantime...I'll be enjoying things as they are, looking forward to what's on ahead. Tonight was merely a test, and one that I'd say I passed with flying colors. Pretty sure I pissed off the locker room though--in some ways literally...

Kassandra scrunches up her face.

David Hunter:...pretty sure Loki's gonna flip when he sees his office and finds what was left there, come what may...

More face scrunching, because obviously.

David Hunter:...and as for the rest of the backstage crew...

They turn the corner, the camera revealing a bunch of vehicles--with windows smashed out. The glass is seen all around them, littering the area near the doors.

But the cornerstone is a black stretch limo, missing the majority of it's windows and covered in dents. There's a big PCW logo on the side. Kassandra's jaw drops as she observes the damage.

Kassandra Black: Is that...?

David Hunter: Yep. Pretty sure that's a least a hefty fine. If I had any spray paint or any modicum of automobile knowledge I'd've fucked with the breaks or something, but I think the message was sent. Oh...and before I forget, I got you a present.

David reaches into his jeans pocket with his free hand. He pulls out a keychain with a fob that has a Mustang logo. He tosses it to Kassandra, who barely catches it.

David Hunter: Consider it an apology or a bribe not to sue me. Whatever floats your boat. In the meantime, I'm gettin my ass outta here before the pitchforks and torches start coming out.

Kassandra looks down at her set of keys. Her eyes widen and a smile slowly starts to form.

Giggling with excitement, she presses the unlock button. The lights on a nearby Mustang blink a couple times. It's a sleek black and looks like it came fresh out of the factory.

Her giggles stop and her face remains a smile, although the mirth in it is fading by the seconds.

The windows on this vehicle--front included--her smashed to pieces.

David pops in over her left shoulder.

David Hunter: For the record, I didn't know specifically which car I got. It was a...white elephant kinda thing and this is what I was left with. It's a nice car. Not paying for the damage yet so maybe wait to get it fixed. See ya babe!

David kisses Kassandra on the cheek before making his exit for good.

The camera remains on her stoically frozen smile, the grip on the key fob getting tighter and tighter. We then fade to black.

[Sicko]

The setting desert sun brings a low level of light, purplish hue across the horizon, and a slit of the light washes across the face of the monolith sitting behind the seat of a large box truck. He sits, waiting patiently, listening for the voice of his other, but his mammoth head peeks down next to him. The two seats in the cab of the ice cream truck are occupied. In the next seat over, as primly cushioned and in position as a person, is the Underground championship, in it's belt form. The purple twilight makes the gold trophy, glinting subtly, stand out in the darkness, but as the chill of the night is setting in, the giant has taken the time to sit out here and consider. He'll be back to his hunt for Jason Twisted and the reason of the failing in his connection to his dark passenger in due time. For now, there's something he's been ruminating on the past few days.

He had slept it off after Trauma. Two days of silence, recuperation, and the blissful sleep that being disconnected could give. Maybe, perhaps, if Jason's plans weren't so malevolent in their own right, he would have been thankful for the silence.

But there was no such continued silence, not for his chosen work. Oh, no, never could be.

Not when the David Hunters of the world had their say.

So the first few moments after he had switched the handheld cam on from it's setting in the dashboard were just him sitting there, behind the wheel, his chin in his hand, as the sun went down and visibilty dropped. Finally, he sat there, a figure outlined by shadow, and he began to find the words.

"David..."

"How pathetic are you?"

He taps his thumb idly on the steering wheel, his voice grave. He hasn't begun throwing out childish insults, but his tone, rather is a touch concerned over the mental well-being of the skinny little boy who sought to get his notice.

"I'm asking you this because all of your antics, which I'd have to estimate accrued 60 percent of the screen time of Trauma so we got more than a tolerable amount almost everyone typically likes to see of you; your little rampage through the backstage area, your destruction of property... all of it was juvenile and sophmoric on a level even our illustrious Game Boy Kyle Shane never has quite reached. You lose your championship to me and your response is to, what, cherry bomb toilets, flood people's gym bags with water, go to catering and knock some tables over? What you did not do, until the closing moments, David... was attack ME, and try to pay me back. No, almost everything you did were the actions of a little child having a snit."

The big man, harboring a deep sense of irony, points a thumb back into the recesses of the old ice cream truck, his tone growing sardonic and cold.

"It was about the level of an eight year old who's been denied dessert because he didn't finish his veggies, aww little buddy, I have some fudgesicles here, actually."

Returning to a serious disposition, he looks off into the distance out the side window.

"But you did this, David, equating what you had done to the same things I had been doing in my run up to claiming the Underground title the way I said I was going to. You said you were gaining attention the way I did... but they're not the same. What I did in the weeks and months before Mass Destruction and Trauma 249, David Hunter, were not spilling water or taking some slut to bang on President Loki's paperwork in a frenzied little boy snit of attention grabbing. My methods were acts of violence and malice that sent an intended message AND cleared the deadwood of a failing division. "There's no Muscles Malone to shock the world with an upset" because I put him on the shelf. Are you that incapable of giving any single other person credit besides you that you cannot see that I did what you could never do, when you were splitting wins with a bunch of jokes and failures? As I said. My message always stayed consistent. Yours continues to bounce all the way around. One minute you're too good for the Underground title. You say "Why should I give it up when I can continue to move up the card" - David, that makes no sense because you did not abdicate the Underground title, you did not step aside, I ripped it from you.

He holds a hand up in the understood "one moment" gesture.

"And I am fully aware of your position, of how you claim to be better than me having beaten me once at Mass Destruction and - in your mind, having gotten one over on me mentally only for me to slip by with a fluke. But what you cannot allow yourself to say in your ever present interview segments with Kassandra or Dodge is that you failed just as much. Think about it, David... You fucking failed! You failed! You failed! Own it. Fucking admit it, just once, stop coming out with all of these justifications and bullshit doublespeak and just once say the words I failed and maybe, just maybe the entire world would have a modicum of respect for you. Because you absolutely and abjectly DID fail, David. You thought you had broken and defanged the monster Sicko, had completely shattered my mystique and gotten through the aura I had built up over a month of continued beatings and clearing the deadwood branches from the Underground underbrush. You continually said that men like me, equated to the Tyler Scotts and Muscles Malones were measly peasants and nobody was worth your time. You thought you were moving past me and moving on. And all the way down the line you failed. Just fucking acknowledge that, even once. Acknowledge that and then realize that you are objectively incapable of breaking me. And I've failed before too, David. I've lost everything. But I rose again. Even when I lost. Even when I took all you had to give, five of your finishers in a row. Even when the voice in my head that was driving me was cut off. Even when the world thought I was done, I came roaring back, on four wheel drive, through the gates of hell themselves. My entire CAREER people have underestimated me, thought me weak and gave me no second chance and yet I STILL rose up, and I again when I took your damn title - and I'll do it again, now, after your little tizzy is done and you stand around with ANOTHER FUCKING INTERVIEWER and pat yourself so arrogantly on the back about what you did that night. You didn't put the monster down, David. You didn't at Mass Destruction. You didn't at Trauma 249. At Trauma 251, the monster you continue to think as so beneath you is going to rise once again."

He reaches over, out of view of the camera on the dash, adjusting the title belt's strap in the passenger seat.

"But you won't believe that."

He gives a sad, bitter huff, and as the camera records the silhouetted lines of his face, the big man has a twist to his mouth that speaks to how he feels about the situation: resigned to other people's bullshit.

"You pride yourself so much on these accomplishments and you think they're SO unique! Special David, needs to be patted on the back! "I'm in the Icemann Invitational Kassandra! In my first year! That's awesome! Please clap for me! Please love me!" Every single year, David, the field of TIIT is open to newcomers, hell 2017's tournament had a newcomer make it to the finals. You've been here since October and we're supposed to think it's special that you're in the opening round of the same tournament as Darren Hughes? But you've proven yourself, YOU ARE AN ESTABLISHED MAIN EVENTER. David. I'm going to ask you this right now. How many times have you main evented Trauma? Three? I can count the "main event" of you versus Razor Blade, but why would I do that? David... I have main evented Trauma myself three times now since 2017. Does that stick a needle in this inflating balloon of you thinking you're commanding some special privilege? Nothing you have done under the sun is new. But you want to name drop all of a sudden. Oh boy."

He laughs, unable to even process the audacity it takes to say with no tongue in sight of cheek.

"Guys like Kyle Shane or Dominator or Grimm have shown they deserve the main event spots, but they aren't the main event. Oh, little boy. I'd actually love to see you try them. Go on, walk up to Grimm or Dominator and say the same thing, walk up to Kyle Shane who's fresh from losing the World Title - an achievement you're actually missing there superstar - after 450 days and actually MAIN EVENTING PAY PER VIEWS, and tell him, "uhh ya I think you're good enough to be a main eventer but piddly little me who's main evented like, three Traumas against Muscles Malone and Arsen Goodstone really is the present and future this company is built around", they'd probably rupture their diaphragm laughing you out of the building, David."

His laughter, low and amused, continues for a few beats, and then he gets quiet, and serious. He sighs wearily.

"David... Shut the fuck up."

"You want so badly to be seen as so much more special than you are. You took up so much real estate on Trauma to try and keep your name in the conversation when actually, I can't see it as anything except you needing to step on my moment and take away from the fact you aren't champion anymore. You got so overblown and into this fantasy of yourself as King of the Underground that you may as well have walked around with a scepter and armor, but your paperthin confidence won't allow you to take the slight that you actually were never really a centerpiece of the division. You held the belt MORE than anybody, because you LOST it more than anybody. Every single time you thought you were on your way you lost it, once again two weeks later. You may have had title defenses and even beaten me at a pay per view, but you never fully established yourself as the face of it. And you never got to, and most likely never will now that I'm around."

The smiling face of the clown comes out in the darkness.

"So! You can continue with these shenanigans to draw attention to yourself, spray paint lockers, inconvenience Loki by leaving bags of shit in his office, throw things at little kids, it's all so cute and amusing! But it is not and never will get you taken seriously, nor will it be seen as anything except the frantic grasps for people to look at you that you think they are. And for what it's worth, for hitting me in the head and costing me the main event, I forgive you. I know you were just doing it because you were upset, and it was past your bed time, little boy."

And then, he reaches in and snatches the cam off the dash, bringing it in for a disturbing close up.

"But make no mistake, I won't forget it, and as cute as your little antics are I won't abide them, and I won't let the division I now call MY home fall into ruin, while I come out there every week on Trauma and hit on some skanky announcer. You should have kept your mouth shut and moved on David, because I'm going to be doing more than petty property damage come Trauma 251. Mark my words."

He gives a little titter, just to sign it off with the Sicko brand. And he switches the camera off.

The clown sits behind the seat of his ice cream truck, thick forearm rested on the wheel, staring pensively off into the now fully descended desert night. He glances across the seat at the title belt, hoping maybe it would speak, or listening for Moloch. When nothing comes, he grits his teeth, starts the rusty engine with a noisy crank, and puts it in drive, turning off the desert floor towards the road. He has things to do.