Scottish cities, posh or poor, all are filled with filth.
The streets, flats/apartments, the people.
All of it is dirty and decrepit, even the popular pubs and clubs are often coated with a thick layer of crime, stabbings and meth-heads.
But its got a charm.
The spaced out homeless junkies, the wee neds in tracksuits, its all got a charm to it.
Well, unless you're Dean Rose.
To Dean the filth is unbearable, the coat of filth is reflective of the people inside, the alleyways are dark and empty voids occupied by rapists and rape victims, the tenement flats are filled with old and battered people or Tories who think that their shit doesn't stink.
Dean is on top of a shipping container, there's lots of them on the outskirts of the city, overlooking the motorway and some buildings.

"Sometimes i miss it here, when i'm in America touring.
I don't particularly miss the people, in fact i hate them.
They're all below, below the rich, below the politicians, below ME.
And that isnt a problem.
You need the bottom of the pyramid to support the top.
You need scaffolding to build.
You need heads to step on."

Dean grins.
He has the Internet championship around his arm.

"So, at March Madness i will step on some heads.
I will be at the top of the mountain, the king of the goddamn hill.
I've never liked people with complexes, people that think that they're above the level that they are at.
So when people say i have a complex, im delusional, it angers me.
It angers me cause i back up everything i say.
I command every ring i step foot in, every arena, every person, the fans, I COMMAND THEM.
When i ask John Cena for a follow, he does it.
When i piss of Freddie Prinze, he responds.
If i told him to jump he'd ask me how high.
Yeah i talk the talk, i brag.
But you can be damn sure i walk the walk also.
You want evidence, huh?
I won my first ever match here.
I have 2 goddamn matches at a pay-per-view after around a month in.
Internet Champion after 3 matches.
Hottest superstar.
Quote of the moment.
Winner.
Yeah, WINNER."

Dean looks straight into the camera, eyes like a viper.

"Mickey Kinkade you cocky piece of shit, Your petty and meaningless little theater project doesn't mean shit to me.
Sure, Mickey, the mic is like a machine gun in your hands, but can you and your pretty boy persona outlast the rest of us?
Simple answer is no, you wont survive."

"When i win this battle royal, see that as a spit in the face to all of you.
The doubters, the Mickeys, the old senile men.
Fuck you all."