"Thith ith fuckin' dum," I mutter to myself, the nylon mask pulled tightly around my head muffling the sound as it leaves my lips.

"What did you say?" asks Jeremy, barely paying attention to me as he stares at the door with frustration and awaits our third party.

I sigh and reach up to begin pulling at the laces, but Jeremy snaps out of his daze and slaps at my hands. I pull away and glare at him angrily.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks me.

"I SAID THIS IS FUCKING DUMB!" I scream through the fabric, "Fuck! This is stupid! This whole fucking thing is stupid! I can't breathe! It's as hot as Satans taint in here! I honestly can't even fucking see, so tell me again what we're doing here?!"

Jeremy stares for a long time, but his eyes soften as the seconds pass. His full name is Jeremy Silver, and he's been my agent for a long time. He's an asshole sometimes but he gets me more than most of the other suits, and he lets me do things my way unless it absolutely has to be done another way. Unfortunately, this is one of those times.

"We talked about this, Nathan, you know why you're wearing that thing."

"That's another thing," I groan through the mask, "You told them my name was Nathan Lucas? Are you shitting me? I get why we're doing this, I do, but Nathan fucking Lucas?"

"What's wrong with Nathan Lucas?" he asks innocently, "The real one thinks it's a great name."

I throw my hands up in the air, ready to explode on him as he bites down on the corner of his lip to stifle a smile. At that exact moment the door in the corner of the room flies open and a large, heavyset man enters with a clipboard in hand.

"Hello. Welcome to the XWF. My name is Chad, and I apologize for my tardiness," he practically shouts as he strolls across the carpet covered concrete floor to meet us. He's got to be pushing three bills, but his voice sounds like he just got back from huffing a half tank of helium in a broom closet somewhere.

He and Jeremy shake hands, but as I extend mine he turns to his clipboard and looks through my forms. Jeremy cant see my mouth open through the mask, but he senses it and rifles an elbow into my ribs. My lip nearly bleeds from biting it so hard, but I manage to.

"Why do your intake forms say your name is Mister Jea-" he begins, but Jeremy is hear to earn his cut today.

"We asked the same thing, but your receptionist said it was a clerical error. This is Nathan Lucas, he's recently signed to your Saturday brand. I must say it's a bit unorthodox to ask a new signee to come in for a physical after he's already put pen to paper, and been booked in a match at that... but to mess up his paperwork? It's borderline insulting. It's like you don't even know who we are."

Chets eyes open wide, clearly taken aback by the confrontation. He quickly clams up and begins to mumble an apology about "Mr. Lane said..." and "The Kings are supposed to...", but I'm too busy breathing a sigh of relief that he seems to have abandoned his line of questioning.

"If you're really sorry, why don't you hurry this whole process along? We have other meetings in the building today, we can't be here all day."

Chet clearly doesn't love the idea, but I bounce my pecks a few times and roll my neck. Jeremy shoots me a sideways glance, then looks silently back to Chet.

"I can fake some notes for the physical exam, sure. It looks like he's in good shape. But..." his voice trails off slightly, "When we do intake for new XWF superstars, we have to get something on camera... a promo or something. The higher ups like to have a feel for who they're bringing in."

He looks at me and opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates. Jeremy steps towards him.

"Is there a problem?"

"It's- It's just... does he speak english?"

"Are you calling me or something?"

His eyes are as wide as dinner plates now, and he recoils in fear of being struck. Jeremy works overtime to keep a straight face, but luckily my mask hides the glimmer of glee in my eyes from Chet as he begins to shake.

"NO! NO! OF COURSE NOT! IT JUST SAYS YOU'RE MEXICAN! I didn't know if this guy was your mouthpiece or something, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. Please don't hit me..."

Jeremy puts a hand on my shoulder, easing me off as Chet looks ready to roll a tear. He's right. There are more important things to worry about.

"I speak English. Roll your camera, let's do this."

"Are you sure? I didn't mean any offense."

"It's fine. Just tell me what you want me to say."

Chet looks at Jeremy, and whispers softly.

"Are you sure he's Mexican? He sounds Canadian."

I roll my eyes behind the mask. Jesus Christ this guy's fucking dumb, I'm standing four feet away from him. Does he think I'm deaf? Luckily Jeremy doesn't answer him, and Chet gets back to the task at hand. He pulls his iPhone from his pocket and clumsily aims the camera at me. I watch as he thumbs the record button, giving me absolutely no lead in. He's a pro. Luckily again for Jeremy, who jumps in and feeds me a cue.

"Brian Harris. Go."

"Brian Harris? Moonlighting as a product merchandiser at 'Hot Topic', Brian Harris? Paid the '300' makeup crew to hook him up with those painted on abs, Brian Harris? Couldn't get a callback for his 'Sons of Anarchy' audition but still never broke character, Brian Harris? Tribal tattoos on a guy names Brian, Brian Harris? Last name Crane but felt the need to wrestle under the bad ass name Harris Brian Harris? Are we talking about the same Brian Harris?"
"Yeah man, how do you feel about that guy?"

"How do I feel about him? How does Michael Jordan feel about the special Olympic torchboy. I feel fucking bad for him. He's dog shit. Everyone knows he's dog shit. The general managers tried to throw him a bone and give him the jobber of the week, and hope I get lost on my way to the arena, but they just fed him to the greatest name to walk through your doors since Steve fucking Jason."

"Those are big words."

"You're damn skippy, mommies, and ones that I can back up because unlike the rest of these chromosome missing shlong slurpers I actually know who Steve Jason is. How many of the current roster members know about Shuriken? Who else remembers Evan Waw and The New Wave? None of you false flag waving fuckwits know a damn thing about the men that built the company that you pretend to ride or die for. You piss on its legacy and cash its checks, earning them as EASILY as possible I might add..."

"Elaborate?"

"What the fuck is there to elaborate on? It was plain as day. I hadn't even signed a contract before Dick Tickler and Michael Graves were calling my name like I was some sort of paid vacation, and the second I gave them the verbal bitch slap they deserved they backed down and licked their wounds and went looking for easier prey. Is Vinny Lane paying attention? He wants to talk about ratings and revenue? I haven't stepped foot in a ring yet and I'm already more popular than half your champions and all four of the fucking Kings."

"The Kings? Anything for them?"

"Fuck them. I know what they're thinking, that I'm another rookie with a mouth who's years from being on their radar. Wrong. Watch your backs. You don't have years, you don't have months. You have weeks. Soon you'll have hours. Listen for my footsteps creeping up in the halls. Listen for whispers of my voice when you think you're alone. Jerk off on whatever legacy you think you're building in this place one last time, because soon it'll all be over. Laugh me off. Threaten me. But soon the echoing footsteps and fading whispers will be the bottom of my foot across your jaw and the dull ringing of a bell while you all stare up at the arena rafters, wondering who the fuck just snatched your precious rug out from underneath you."

"Anything else for Brian Harris?"

"Stay home. Ice your pride and your ego. Don't spend the next month icing your wounds too. Oh, and suck a dick. You need anything else from me camera man?"

"Um, no... I think that'll print."

"Let's go see Lane. He and I have things to discuss."

FADE TO BLACK