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CM Punk · **06-11-2013, 04:28 PM**

A dart hit’s a dartboard like a fierce punch connects with the jaw of a boxer from the ruthless strikes of another boxer, determined and willing to do whatever it takes to win. The dart follows a curved path, starting higher up but trailing down and landing directly in the center for a bulls-eye.

“Nice shot babe!” Taylor, the gorgeous red-head as aforementioned, cheers for Phill. She had recently noticed a darker side of him, but didn’t want to say much. She was trying to block it out and have fun with him, like she had before at the diner and at the park.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He ignores the compliment and refuses to comment with much in return. She sighs as the phone begins to ring, and Phill offers to get it. “Sure, I’m gonna go take a bath.” She enters an adjacent room to draw the bath. She lives in a suitable one bedroom one bath apartment, big enough for her and him.

He answers the phone, delightful and as cheery as ever. “Hello?”

It’s Julia. “Hi. It’s a friend of Taylor’s. Who’s this?” She asks, as cautious as ever.”

“Also a friend of Taylor’s.” Julia drops the phone in her household, and quickly picks it back up. “Sorry, gotta run!” She begins to dial 911.

“Who was that, Phill?” Taylor yells from the bathroom.
“No clue..but they didn’t finish the conversation. I’m going out for a while.” Phill yells back, visibly depressed by recent actions and events.

“Hurry back!” Taylor yells again, to no answer.

While Phill was out, Taylor began snooping. She went through his bag, to find a pre-written promo. She found a promo concerning a match he had coming up titled “You make about as much sense as imaginary titles, kid” and began to read it. It went a little something like this:

“Hi, my name is CM Punk, and today, I’m here to tell you about Chris Legend. He’s a brain dead try hard who’s insults and successes hold about as much weight as what I drop in the toilet on a daily basis. This kid’s only claim to fame is the fact he ‘has an unofficial title that somehow holds weight’. Reading his bio, he claims to be an egotistical asshole, but his mouth doesn’t support that fact because the only thing coming out of it is half-baked, third grade level insults that sound like nursery rhymes if we’re being honest. He dresses like a pretty boy and says he has lots of money, but he can’t even buy a victory, so I’m starting to doubt that too…Chris Legend, why are you so full of shit?”

The writing doesn’t end there, it just has a page turn. She turns the page, and continues to read:

“You said I’m scared and I talk shit to assure myself I’m winning, but it’s only the contrary. I talk shit to appear like I’m breaking you down, when in reality, you’re breaking yourself down. Inside, you’re questioning whether or not you are on my level. I’m the European champion and you aren’t shit, you’ve been here for a mere matter of days and your mind is running through the fact that you probably will lose to me every time you see my name. Add me to the payroll so I can envy you? Kid, I make more money per match than you do per year, and I’ll be happy to give you a share because I really don’t need it. We’re all here because we love wrestling? We’re all here because those brass rings are coming down and I’m teaching the top tier guys and the low tier guys these titles aren’t what makes them, what’s inside is what makes them. Something you don’t understand and Dean doesn’t understand cause he clutches onto his title like a girl clutching onto a school book on the way to class. See you Saturday.”

There’s a knock on the door as Taylor stops reading.

She opens the door, and two officers are standing there. “Have you seen a Phill Brooks?” One of them says. He’s a black muscular man, and his badge says John.
“No, why?” Taylor is extremely curious.
“He’s wanted for murdering Chris Legend’s parents.” John says.

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