Post Show with the Best Tag Team In PCW

[David Hunter]

The camera goes backstage, the remnants of the PCW show still being heard from inside the arena. David and Holden stumble down a corridor, a cameraman already waiting for his latest interview.

As David and Holden approach, the former shakes his head, holding his right shoulder.

The latter is a bit more obvious. He starts kicking containers and throwing random trash around the hall. He even punches the wall, shouting in what is very evident anger.

David Hunter: And then there's this asshole!

Holden takes one look at the cameraman before shaking his head. He turns around, pacing back and forth to try and control his anger. David lets off a humorless chuckle before beginning to speak.

David Hunter: Once again, David Hunter shines through in the main event of a Trauma. Did I win? No! Did we win? No! But do you know what the thing about it is?

He takes a few moments to let out a groan, holding his right shoulder closer. Holden's loud breathing also helps fill the void.

David Hunter: We might've lost this week, but that shit is old news. Yeah, we would've loved a victory, but I guess all the words in the world won't make a difference when some assholes decide it's their night. You know what? Fair is fair. Sicko and Dominator, one and only time as a tag team, and they won. Congratulations! Don't celebrate yet, though, because we're not through with you by a long shot.

David tries to stretch out his hurt shoulder, but merely groans in pain.

David Hunter: Sicko, I'm gonna put you on the back burner, because next week, Holde and I are in the Icemann. And I have no doubt that we're gonna be meeting in the semi-finals. Dominator, you might've pinned Holden tonight, but boy, you better believe that Holden...is a lot tougher...when he's holdin a grudge. Rick Majors, you can taunt and beat up that cult reject all you want, but it won't be nearly as easy to keep me down. And yeah, when Holden and I are in the semi-finals, we'll kick each other's ass up and down this arena to see who the better man is. But when that's said and done, we'll go right on back to business. I'm comin back for my crown, and this bastard's comin back for whomever he sees as a target.

David shakes his head, regaining his breath a bit. He lets out a few coughs, all while Holden continues to shake his head and pace behind him.

David Hunter: Sicko, I've already proven I don't need Holden to beat you. And the next time we battle in this war...between all the broken bodies, all the carnage, and all the rubble...all your strength, all your height, and all your power won't make a damn difference...when my foot...is on your throat...and I'm standin above you with my crown back...still...the once...and future...KING!

David hustles off camera, shouldering the cameraman along the way. Once he resets, he turns back. Holden turns around. He piefaces the camera as he walks by it. This sends both the camera and the cameraman to the floor. The feed cuts off right there.

[Sicko]

There's a gorgon guarding the bottom of the stairwell.

Red exit lights illuminate the stairs leading to some third level, sub-basement, boiler room, or maintenance area. It's murky with shadow except the faint neon splashes of red light. Heavy breathing filters from the bottom of the stairs. As the camera cautiously comes in closer, it feels furtive, fight-or-flight, like the shaking cam footage is descending down somewhere it shouldn't be going. David Hunter continues to espouse this metaphor of a kingdom, despite it's faults. Well, down here we're entering the lair of the dragon that laid seige to that pathetic postage stamp, broke down the buttresses, and immolated the pikes. Down here is where something, decidedly angrier than "just a bald man" is breathing, and decompressing, and sitting by with it's conquered hoard of gold. As it happens, it does have that gold with it, down here in the recesses of the cave.

The camera takes a ginger, silent step, swaying in time, and coming closer to the breathing.

He's outlined in the red of the stairwell, seated on a step, head down. In the light of the exit sign hanging overhead, sweat glistens off his bald pate. And he just breathes, slowing down from the wheezing engine, and craning his head skyward, as if looking up into the red light, squinting just a little bit, ear tilted, as if listening. When nothing happens he smiles, ruefully, then wipes off the back of his head. His makeup is still streaked on in places. And his teeth come out in the red light.

"I really did touch a nerve, didn't I."

Not so much a question as an ironically posed observation.

"David Hunter, the man who thinks of Sicko as so beneath his notice, and thinks of him as so much beneath his level that, when Sicko offered a single criticism of him as a person, David Hunter had to refute it not one, but three times. David Hunter is growing addicted to these interstitials, these backstage segments, going to find Shane Dodge or, gosh, please bring Kassandra Black, I gifted you a car, girl what else do you want. David Hunter is all over the TV as a habit, now that he doesn't have the shiny gold security blanket that says he's a special boy anymore. But even more so than David's continued and baffling love affair with pointless interviews that all say the same thing, is David Hunter's need to correct Sicko, David Hunter's need to Set The Record Straight. And so. When Sicko responded to Yet Another Same Ol' Same Ol' Interview With An Annoucer Starring David Hunter a week or so ago, David Hunter was so affronted, and so piqued... that he had to respond... Three. Fucking. Times. I'm curious, David. If my opinion matters so little, as you backtrack and say every other paragraph, then why make so much of it?"

Sicko sighs, and looks down at his side. He's still not facing the camera, but the heavy shadows and the red light overhead give him a patina, a sheen on the pale skin that is illuminated.

"You go back to dredging up what I said to you, going into Mass Destruction, about how boring I find you, and needing to turn that back around and say that it's a double standard because if you do things that everyone has seen before, it's passe, but what I've done is fresher. Well first, David, I never claimed to be an innovator of originality or a bringer of such high brow, thought provoking entertainment as the man who flooded the locker room with toilet water. Oh no. Far be it from me. But if you'll permit me, what I said about your lack of charisma going into Mass Destruction was more like a calculated dig that I knew someone with an ego composed of spun glass was going to snap at it. But what I'm finding boring, actually, other than your love affair with announcers, is hearing you come out here and find reasons to say the same things over and over again. That is what I'm finding boring in this moment, and I'm sorry, but as long as you continue to espouse yourself as the Best? The Best the the fucking Company? - I am going to take issue with it. Neither one of us is getting boring because we've done something others may have seen before, but offered our own twist, you're wearing thin because you continue to say these outlandish things about your status in this company that you haven't put one iota worth of effort into proving. And you know you haven't."

He lifts a hand, waving it aside.

"Hate to harp on it, but since you doubled down yet again, let's talk about it. Kyle Shane, Grimm, Dominator, names that roll off your tongue - because WHENEVER THEY AREN'T AROUND, you are the main event. But they're always around, David, and it's time you fucking learned that your place on the card does not dictate you being "the main event". Grimm could open Trauma with a match against Razor Blade in a pudding filled kiddie pool, and he would still be considered an actual main eventer, you close the show three times defending the Underground title, and you think you're elite. But you're not. Not even close. Your skin is too thin to bear the stress of the main event, and you have more than a little flake, "this is too hard, screw it" in you, you'll give up when it gets even slightly too hard. It isn't about your place on the fucking card. It's how you earn it. Now, please, for the last time, shut the fuck up about being the main event. Let's see you put your money where your mouth is, do something in the Icemann Tournament, and earn it. But I'm betting that you choke, David. Because you're already trying to keep a rematch with me for the Underground title in your back pocket."

He sighs, and that massive head shakes in utter annoyance.

"Not exactly mister confident, you don't think much of your chances to move on to the next round since you're trying to keep the war of words with little old me going. I thought you were going to move on, which you said you were going to, except that you don't see a reason to move on because nobody can ever take the title from you, which you said five minutes before losing it. The problem with you filming THREE FUCKING INTERVIEW SEGMENTS WITH INTERVIEWERS BACKSTAGE is, you talk so much shit that by segment three you can't even remember what asinine thing you said in segment one. You just spout a bunch of narcisstic, egotistical, strung together shit calling yourself the best and hope it all lines up. But it doesn't, does it, David."

He reaches down, picking up the Underground title, thrusting it in the air; still with his back turned to the camera.

"I'm not worthy of this, I was never worthy of it, I beat nobody to get a title shot, and I didn't have to earn it like you did in your victories over Tyler Scott, Holden Ross, Muscles Malone. You held that division down, and I did absolutely nothing, came out of nowhere to get a title shot."

"EXCEPT THE FACT THAT I FUCKING BEAT MUSCLES MALONE. I BEAT TYRONE SMITH. PINNED THEM. IN A RING. ONE, TWO, THREE. RAZOR BLADE. TYLER SCOTT. KICKED THEIR ASSES. PUT THEM IN THE HOSPITAL. YOU STUPID, ARROGANT LITTLE SNOT. EXACTLY HOW MANY OF THESE LITTLE MEN DID I HAVE TO PIN TO EARN THIS."

He is, in every way except a literally physical sense, snorting fire as he stands at the bottom of the stairwell, and he paces in a circle, still swathed in shadow and accented in neon red.

"Because that's just a justification, that's just another pointless, stupid arrogant thing you want to say that makes no fucking sense, that validates your claim that you are the best thing since sliced bread in the Underground division. Is that what you want, David? Here you go."

He flings the Underground title the length of the stairwell. It hits the wall with a clunk, and falls, crookedly down.

"You deserve this and only you, you are the future! You are the future for which this entire federation lives, breathes and works for, every main event is yours and all of your contenders must now reach up and grab approximately fifteen brass rings before they can even look your way! You are the Best In The World and Kassandra Black is going to be by to suck your cock and look up with you with adoration after each and every match, every commercial break, hell every edition of Trauma is just going to be Kassandra Black, in another interview with David Hunter, where she answers his questions and she tells us that he is the greatest thing alive! Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you deserve?"

He points down at the Underground title.

"I earned that, because I destroyed everyone in my path over a month. I was your contender, because I fought you it. And YOU BEAT ME, DAVID. CLAP FOR YOU. YOU BEAT ME. But I did not, as you so illogically put it, go backstage after Mass Destruction and go on another tantrum. In fact, unlike you David I actually had a little bit of dignity and manhood, the next week on Trauma I simply - beat Rick Majors in a wrestling match. Yeah. That was my "tantrum". While you were running around being a little child, I was simply handling business, and maybe that's why I was "gifted" with another Underground title shot. Maybe Pure Class Wrestling saw me, simply taking care of business and owning my failure, and then they see you, little fucking child that you are and thought maybe something should be done. Or maybe I got a title shot because there was no contenders left after ahem - I BEAT THEM ALL. Either way, maybe it doesn't matter why I got it, what matters is I did."

He places his hands on the railings leading up the stairs. He's turned towards the camera now, but his head is stil bowed so that it's in shadow, only the eyes peeking out from the silhouette burn with hate. He's getting so tired of this. Of having to explain these stupid, arbitrary, elementary things to a chattering little twit who just needs someone to love him. It's draining.

"So if I'm not good enough, was never good enough to be your contender, wasn't good enough to lace your boots, and have no special skills aside from strength and size, then how are you feeling now, still after another Trauma has passed and I still hold your Underground title? Because -

CONGRATULATIONS SHITBIRD -

You're devaluing every bit of your own skill and worth by continuing to talk me down as a nonthreat, a nothing, a pretender. That says; a pretender took five of my finishers at Mass Destruction and still got back up. A pretender rose again, two shows later, and pinned my fucking shoulders to the mat. A pretender stood toe to toe with me in the ring, with my tag team partner and had me beaten tonight, and a pretender and his partner are now victorious while I'm sauntering back to find Kassandra Black and tell her what a winner I still am and how much of a loser Sicko is. If I'm nothing, and I should never have been given an Underground title shot, and lack every single attribute you have as regards to skill, then the simple fact that you lost to me at all is an embarrassment you honestly have no way to come back from. You have no excuse. You're worse than the scum you scrape off your own shoe, by your own words. Good going."

Disgust, absolute disgust radiates from the giant shadow, and he ducks down, scooping up the title belt.

"I said what I said about you, and got three responses, each more irritating than the last. I called you a daddy's boy looking for attention, because, if you'll recall the promo you did exactly a week and a half ago it was you that needed to bring that into the equation. I don't know if it's your need to overshare or if you telling your backstory to Kassandra makes you think it'll unlock a crack at her minge but it was YOU, that said, and I quote, "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,... yadda yadda yadda, we all stopped caring."

"This, off the heels of your "Epic" little meltdown in the backstage area, obviously leads to the implications of why you are doing what you're doing. Doesn't take an armchair psychiatrist David, just someone with elementary school knowledge to see you are acting out, like a little. Fucking. Child. Because that is all that you are. All of your parental figures want nothing to do with you, so you search for them in every pair of interviewer tits and every scrap of attention you can find. It really isn't that difficult to work out."

He sighs.

"And now you're actually going to think you've won because your continued insistence on insulting me and calling me old - provokes a response? Yes, it does make me want to punch down your throat and into your voice box, but the simple fact that you're so fucking annoying shouldn't really be considered a win. But you do think you're winning don't you."

"In the same way as a bird will think it's winning if you challenge it to a game of chess and it just clumsily knocks chess pieces over with it's wings and shits on the board, yes."

"I'm OLD, David? And that's the magnum bullet in your gun, that's your ultimate killshot, I'm fucking older than you? Ooh, young stud. Please, say more blase obvious things. I'm... tired, David. And believe you me, it's not a need for some Centrum Silver and a nap that fatigues me. But I am done. Shredding your multitudes of little narcissistic peccadilloes has, in the long run, gotten me nothing but headache. You think I should have grabbed some brass rings. You think you're the best. You think you're the main event. Check. Got it. You keep thinking that, and then you try your luck in the TIIT and try and put your money where your mouth is, maybe actually back some of this up and get past the round where there aren't going to be any shocking eliminations at all, and then come back and speak to me. Or, maybe, step up to a big stage against actual main eventers, try your skill and then you tell me how you did. This lowly outsider who has usurped your Kingdom, Milord, will be waiting, and I'll have your crown and your scepter and your cape all folded neatly for you. I'm going to shove them up your ass."

He looks up into the red exit light, his face growing grim, and disappointed.

"By the way, the Best Tag Team in the World? The one that you portrayed you and your beard Holden Ross as, despite you never teaming together before tonight? Oh yeah. Great match. It is a true shame that the Best Tag Team in the World starts it's run off as zero-one, but..."

He turns, and begins going around the staircase, further down towards the sub-level.

"I have wasted entirely too much of my time on this, and I now wish I hadn't. But everything I said, needed to be said, and honestly, David, if you continue this, it's on you. You're going to think you're the Best, even though your brittle ego is due to take another breaking next time you face tough competition. Just hope after you lose again you don't take it out on our poor coats or damage the plumbing, oh, God forbid. Regardless... I'm SURE I'll be hearing from you as soon as you find another interviewer, so... until next time... "King."

The camera catches the simple shine of red light off the bald head, and a shadowy hulk, stomping down the stairwell, going further into darkness. And that's all.