It's late evening on yet another night in Paris. The street we see is almost deserted, but well lit. Where is that street? Well, that's simple. It's just outside the Parc des princes football stadium in the French capital. The noise tells us that there's a match in progress and the home team seem to be winning judging by the roar eminating from the crowd inside.

One man however, doesn't seem to be celebrating as he stands in the orange glow of the street light, just finishing a cigarette. Who is that man? It's David Stone, dressed in his usual black jeans, black T-shirt and leather jacket. As usual he has a pair of motorbike boots on his feet, his Ray ban sunglasses purched on his noes and his long dark hair is tied back. Stone crushes the now dead cigarette under his foot and then begins to speak.

"Bienvenue à Paris. J’adore la France, mais je déteste Paris. La ville romantique? Vraiment? Je m’en fiche. Ce que je veut dire, c’est quoi qui rend Paris
romantique? Leur équipe de foot c’est la merde, la ville entière c’est la merde, et le pire c'est que les Parisiens me font semblant d'être un homme aimable."

Stone then spits on the ground. The look on his face is one of utter disgust at that very thought. He then continues to speak.

"You see though, the thing is I ain't likeable. I ain't into all that hug it out lovey dovey shit. What I'm into is crushing insignificant little pissants that get in my way. I bet you're all wondering who I mean aren't you? Well sit back, strap in and relax because someone actually worth listening to is about to give you an education."

Stone now smirks, the disgusted look on his face changing to a cocky grin. He seems to be relaxing into his work as he continues to speak.

"The people I'm going to crush come Wednesday warfare are the broken necked wannabe that is Kirt Angle and some hespanic little shit that is so far beneath my notice that I can't even remember his name."

He pauses here and clicks his fingers. A look of realisation then passes over his face.

"Ah yes, now I remember. His name is Benito Angelo. Not like it's going to make any difference really though. Ronnie and I are still going to win. We're going to win because we are the best of the best. I'm not just bragging when I say that either. It's the absolute fucking truth and neither of you insignificant little fuckwhits can do a fucking thing about it. I mean, really? Am I supposed to be intimmedated by Kirt fucking Angle? Seriously? Because let me let you into a little secret. I'm about as intimedated by him as I am by the cheese omlet I had for breakfast this morning."

A snort of laughter escapes Stone now as he reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a can of Pepsi. Popping the top, he takes a swig and then continues on in a calm, yet confident voice.

"You see Mr. Angle, I've dealt with jumped up little freestyle wrestling champions before. I've taken them down and taught them who's the boss and who's the bitch when they step between those ropes. So what makes you think you're going to be any different? Do you think that just because you won an Olympic gold medal 20 fucking years ago that I really give a shit about you in the slightest? Well if you do then you're sadly deluded on that score. I didn't give a shit 20 years ago when I was starting my professional career and I sure as hell don't give a shit now. So what if you won that medal with a broken neck? Just proves to me that you're both stubborn and stupid. You see, someone with the intelligence you claim is at your disposal would know to not have wrestled in that Olympic final. A final which, need I remind you that you were damn fucking lucky to win? Face it Kirt, 2 neck fusions and you're still trying to prove that you actually have some tallent? Sorry to disappoint you sunshine, but you have about as much tallent as the shit I took not long after eating that omlet this morning. So do us a favour right now. Do us all a huge favour and go home. Go home and save yourself from the embarrassment and humiliation of stepping in the ring with Bad attitude. You see, we don't play nice, Ronnie and I. And I don't think you'll find the experience pleasant. I know if I were in your shoes, and perish the thought I would ever have that missfortune, but if I were then I wouldn't want to face us. What we do to people like you is hurt them. We hurt them so much they can't fucking walk for a month. And then when we've done that Kirt, then and only then will we either pin your shoulders to the mat 1 2 3 or make you tap like the little bitch you are."

Stone takes another long swig of what should, by now, be obviously his favourite beverage. He then smiles and continues to speak.

"and as for you senor Angelo. Don't for one second think I've forgotten about you. Because I haven't forgotten about you. Oh no, not in the slightest. You're just beneath my notice. You know what I see when I type the name Benito Angelo into google? I'll tell you what I see. I see a big, fat nothing. Because mi amigo, that's exactly what you are. Nothing. You're going to be easily crushed beneath my boot and I won't think twice about it. Let's just take a second for you to absorb that. You're nothing. You're insignificant and you will never be anything but insignificant in the XWF or anywhere else."

Stone then removes his sunglasses and places them in the left breast pocket of his jacket. The intense stare in his dark eyes is directed straight at the camera.

"Donc bonne chances monsieurs. Good luck indeed. because the personification of perfection is coming. And I'm coming for you, bitch!"

With that, Stone steps away down the street, taking another sip of his Pepsi. The camera then focuses in on the crushed cigarette butt under the glow of the light where Stone stood on it earlier.

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