Jack Cain stands, stock still, in a woodland clearing. Nailed to a nearby tree is a picture of Brock Lesnar.



Cain stands around 6 feet away from the target, and levels the Mossberg 500 shotgun he holds in his hands.

It's not about what you carry with you.

Cain fires, and sends a spread of lead shot across the back, burning holes into the paper, through the picture of Lesnar and distorting his image.

It's about having the will to use it.

Cain pumps the barrel and fires again, further ruining the poster.

It's about being the person who'll do what no one else does.



I do what you can't "Brock". I live a life. I'm a man who does what I want to do, not what I'm told to do by Godzilla's fan club.

I haven't got a little code written into my DNA that makes me a think I'm someone else. I might look like someone famous, but I'm not him.

You really believe you're a former UFC Champion. A former WWF Champion. A former pro footballer.

But you ain't.

You're none of those things.

Like I said before - a fake - a sham - a Goddamned travesty that if research laws were tighter, you'd be sitting in a cage waiting for someone to put a bolt in your head and see if make-up burns your skin. Vivisection would be to fuckin' good for ya, because you don't deserve any good to come from your pathetic friggin' life.

You deserve nothin'.

Cain chambers another round, and blasts away, shredding the poster.



He drops the shotgun and walks over to a tree stump. Taking a long swig of water from the plastic bottle resting on top of it, he puts on a pair of weightlifting gloves, before snapping a pair of brass knuckles over the top. He strides over to a thick, ancient Oak, and starts to hammer on it with punches that devastate the bark.

One

Two

Three

Chipping away at the exterior protection of the tree, gouging large marks into the surface.

Y'see "Brock", shooting your mouth off and attacking people from behind is exactly what I'd expect from someone like you. Someone who doesn;t have the guts to accept the turth about themselves, neevr mind what they mean to the rest of us.

Ya know what I see when I look at the faces of the people in the arena when you're out there?

Boredom. Rank boredom. These people look at you and see a pathetic, shadow of a man, a genetic accident created by reptile idiots who were looking for a way to exact revenge on the man who humiliated their champion.

I beat Thomas Nixon, and they sent you. They sent a lump of reconstituted meat to do their job that their champion couldn't even do. So if he was the best they had to offer, what the Hell makes you think that you're gonna do any better.

Cain continues to batter the tree, carving deep grooves into the bark where the metal from the knuckledusters' impacts.

I'm not scared of you "Brock". I'm not even a little worried. I know you're going to bring all the pain that you think you can rain down on me, and it'll be enough to push me past my limits, and I'll be left waiting for that referee to count to ten while you stand over me watching, and laughing, but the truth - and that's a word ou should really think about - is that you don't have the heart.

You don't have the guts.

Hell, you don't even have the genes.

Imitations, duplicates, clones, they're not a patch on the original.

So if the real Brock Lesnar was out there at King of the Ring, waiting for me, I'd be scared.

If the real Brock Lesnar was who I was facing, I'd be taking things much more serious than I am now.

This?

This is just a light warm up, for a shadow, a pale tracing of a real threat.

A great big piece of nothing who isn;t even the best at what he does.

You'll try to beat me.

You'll try and hurt me.

You'll try and keep me down for ten.

You'll fail.

You'll come up short.

Because it's in your nature.

Second best.

And when it's all send and done, you're entire pitiful existence is gonna go up in smoke - like a spent round.

Boom.