Hello once again ladies and gentlemen! Steve Sayors here, and I am once again accompanied by none other than Smoke Man! Thanks for agreeing to this interview Smoke.

The camera, which was previously focused on Steve, slowly pans out and turns right to see Smoke. We can now see a clear shot of the room, which is outside Smoke's apartment building. He is wearing bath robes and is staring daggers into Steve. Steve has turned to Smoke and is looking at him expecting him to say something along the lines of: 'Oh it was no problem', or No worries, Steve. My pleasure!' Instead there is simply silence, and the interviewer decides to press on.

This time last week I was interviewing you in the interest of your then up and coming War Games match, and a couple of days after that as well. How time flies, right?

Steve points the mic to Smoke. Still no reaction.

Ahem. Right. So anyway, I'm here on the subject of this Saturday's Night of Sacrifice, which will contain a tournament that you will be a part of. Have anything to say on that matter?

Once again Steve pivots the mic toward his other. After a couple of seconds, Smoke slowly grips over the upper end and yanks the mic from Steve's hand.

What the hell do you think I have to say you four-eyed tomato face? I woke up about 2 minutes ago and you come banging on my goddamn door for a fucking interview! IT'S FIVE IN THE MORNING! I don't get up for another hour!

Steve is gesturing as if he doesn't know what to say. Smoke pushes him out of the camera shot as the focus turns instead to him.

I'll tell you what though. Last night I rang up the insurance company. They talked a load of bullshit before banging on about all kinds of deals and crap I don't care about. And in the end they disappoint me and don't give me the answer I was looking for, so I hang up the phone. You know why? Because they said they wouldn't cover me from being thrown into a bed of barbed wire by a twisted freak of a man! I know I know, it's my own stupid fault for signing up, but let's put this in perspective real quick, shall we?

I sign up for a tournament at next Saturday's Shove-It, and they go ahead and throw me in a goddamn Barbed Pentagram Match, while some other guys eat Mexican food next to a Mariachi band, get high while listening to some other high asshole, eat some parm or even smack each other about with fucking PORNO MAGAZINES!

Smoke Man chuckles to himself a little.

A goddamn Barbed Pentagram Match. The point being, of course, to throw your opponent into a bed full of barbed wire shaped like a pentagram. Like the shape matters at all. Well, maybe it'll mean something to Baalberith. Maybe it'll enrage him or some shit I dunno. I know I'm going to be winning that match because I ain't shelling out to pay for the removal of those barbs, lemme tell you!

Smoke takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

So I was still on the phone to the company after that, and I was reading the card for that night, seeing as how I was on my computer and I got emailed it or whatever, and I was looking at what my next match was when I beat Baalberith, and of course, if you look at it now, you can expect a bad reaction on my part.

Unfortunately, however, the insurance company will not insure me if I get my ass kicked by Nova. I mean, let's forget about the Rancor in the pit for a second and realise the real fucking danger of that match. I could be fighting over 50 feet in the air, above the ground, whatever, against a time-traveling, immortal guy who was alive to witness the beheading of fucking Anne Boleyn!

And then of course there's the danger of being thrown off by him into a pit containing a Rancor, as well as a mother fucking Moloch. Meanwhile, Radio or Archie will fight Sean Falcon with some baseball bats, while me and Nova tight rope above two of the biggest and hungriest beasts to ever be conjured in the minds of tired and twisted individuals.

BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK NOT, IT'S SHOVE-IT REMEMBER!?

Smoke is visibly pissed. Maybe it was that he was rudely awoken by the ungodly sight of Steve Sayors, or... no it was definitely that. Because now he was looking off shot with a monstrous glare on his face. The camera zooms out and moves slightly to show Steve in the shot also, standing there as if his tail was between his legs, on the other side of the pissed Brit's stare. Smoke raises the mic to his lips once more, his mood not twitching.

Yesterday was a long day, and I am in no shape to talk to you of all people. I haven't gotten even three hours of goddamn sleep yet, and when some scrawny little bastard comes a-knocking on your door, you know you're not going to have a good day.

Smoke slowly walks toward Steve, who is slowly backing away. He soon realises he's about to step in the road, so he stops. Smoke continues walking forward until he is merely centimetres away. His mood lightens a touch.

You know I love you Steve. I understand what it's like to be a grovelling, snide, little weasel. I mean, look at Ion. But don't pull this shit on me again, or I may be tempted to take you to A Night of Sacrifice, and throw you in the pit as a starter for the Rancor. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?

Steve is sniveling, and shaking. He slowly shakes his head, left and right, never taking his eyes off of Smoke. The once monstrous and foreboding Smoke suddenly becomes chirpy, holding the microphone up to himself as Steve had done not five minutes earlier. Turning to the camera he says:

Sorry for my behaviour boys, but rough nights, you know how they are! I'm going to be heading off to bed now to try and rest a little bit more. So you have this...

He politely and calmly hands the mic back to Steve and turns once again to the camera.

I'll be off then.

And with a spring in his step, he leaves. The camera redirects to Steve, who, still shaken, murmurs.

T-th-that was Smoke... Man ladies and gentlemen.

The camera quickly fades out.