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Centurion · (06-16-2020)

(It's just a Thursday night. Just like every other Thursday night.

For James Briar, the world around him has not changed. Coronavirus? No one near him got sick, so it must be a hoax. Black Lives Matter? All he sees is another group of troublemakers causing property damage.

Though for him, that's a good thing. Briar got into corporate law about six years ago. And he's damn good at it, too. From borough councils to environmental groups, Briar has stared down some big names, and has walked away with multi million dollar settlements. And now that the world has gone to hell? That's just another opportunity for Briar to sue the pants off some activist looking to make a name for themselves.

We open up inside the Law Office of Briar, Munley, and Lukaszavitz. The building has four offices in them - three incredible large, well stocked offices with a refrigerator, television, meeting table, and other amenities. Outside of those offices is a large room with many cramped cubicles, where law clerks and paralegals usually sit.

In one of the large offices sits James Briar, a man in his late 30's or early 40's. He is finishing up writing something on a legal pad. He still has his suit jacket on - he wouldn't DARE be unprofessional enough to take it off. Behind him are four picture frames - in two of them, he has his law degrees. Underneath each degree is a framed picture - one of him and President Donald Trump, and one of him with inventor and businessman Elon Musk. As he keeps writing, one of the paralegals, a young redheaded woman who can't be more than 24, walks by his office.)

Paralegal: Good night, Mr. Briar.

Briar: Hey Margaret.

(Margaret stops and stands in the doorway between the front lobby and Briar's office.)

Briar: What time is it?

Margaret: It's 7:57.

Briar: Hmm. And did I hire you to work noon to 7:57, or did I hire you to work noon to 8?

Margaret: Ugh...

Briar: I can bring out your contract if you'd like.

Margaret: I'm sorry, Mr. Briar.

Briar: You can go, but I expect you to be in 3 minutes early tomorrow. And don't let this happen again.

Margaret: Thank you. Sorry Mr. Briar. (Under her breath) prick.

(Margaret turns and walks away, turning the lights out in the front lobby on her way. Briar finishes writing what he was writing before placing his pen down on the legal pad. He turns to his computer and begins typing away at something. A few minutes go by before the sound of the front door opening is heard.)

Briar: What did you forget this time, Margaret?

(Briar peeps over his computer, but it is not the redheaded paralegal he spots - instead, it is a young woman dressed head to toe in black, with a black mask and hood to completely conceal her identity.)

[Image: FnTwlvF.png]

Briar: Who the hell are you?!

(Before the woman says anything, grabs the monitor of the computer and pulls it off the desk, causing the monitor and computer to crash to the floor. A second masked figure, this time a man, walks in to the office behind the woman.)

Briar: I'm calling the cops! Get the hell out of here!

(Briar reaches for his phone on his desk, but as he does, the masked man grabs the phone and yanks it off the desk, causing it to go flying across the room. Briar stands up from his desk and reaches into a drawer. He pulls out a pistol, but before he can aim it anywhere near the masked figures, they both reach across the desk, grabbing Briar by his shirt collar and dragging him over the top of the desk.)

Woman: That was a dumb move.

(The woman speaks with some kind of voice changer, causing her voice to be corrupted. They pick Briar up from the floor and slam him back first onto the desk. The reality of the situation begins to hit him as he goes from defiant to scared.)

Briar: What do you want? Money? Revenge for some court case gone wrong?

(The woman continues to hold Briar down as the man walks to the other side of the desk and looks at the framed pictures. He rubs his hand over the picture of Briar and Trump before turning back to face him.)

Man: (also with distorted voice) You will advise your client George Lattimore to burn the photos he has and to quit attempting to blackmail the Cortinovis family.

Briar: I don't know what you're talking about.

(Instantly, the man punches Briar directly in the face, causing the lawyer's nose to instantly shatter. The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, which is hold against Briar's face.)

Man: This ring a bell?

(The look of concern turns into one of recognition, and eventually rage as he looks at the note - the letter that George Lattimore sent to Centurion.)

Briar: ...Andy? Oh, you're gonna fry for this.

(The man punches Briar again before slamming him onto the floor of the office. He crumbles up the note and tosses it behind him.)

Man: You tell Lattimore that he can't hide behind his lawyers, cops, and politicians anymore. You tell him that, as easily as he got into that ivory tower, he can easily be removed from it. And you tell him, if he keeps trying to fuck with people, a lot worse will come to him and his entire cabal of supporters.

(Briar sits up and wipes the blood from his nose as he looks angrily at the two masked figures.)

Briar: You’re not getting away with this, you know what? You can come in here with your masks and your hoods, but you will eventually be found out, and you will have WISHED you stayed hidden in that cabin in the woods.

Man: Look around you, Jimmy. Society doesn’t give a damn about the walls you built to protect yourself and your criminal clients. You think you’re so tough and so important, but all I see is a kid bleeding onto his father’s sports coat, trying his best to build up all the money and power he can so he can flash it for all those little blond girls at the local Young Republicans meeting. I also see something in your eyes, Jim – fear. Fear that, for the first time in your life, all your money and all your powerful friends may not be able to save you. Fear that a political and societal storm that is forming is so strong that it may send you out to sea.

(Briar looks to say something in response, but before he can, a third hooded, masked figure - another woman - walks into the main lobby holding some kind of crate. The sound of glass bottles clang around in the crate as she steps towards the rest of the group.)

Man: You might want to run.

(As the new figure gets closer, we can see that the bottles are, in fact, unlit Molotov cocktails. Briar's eyes grow wide as he scrambles to his feet and immediately takes off toward the door. He runs out of the room as the third figure sets the crate down on the desk.)

Third: Shouldn't we stop him? Isn't he just going to call the police?

(The man opens up the drawer under where Briar usually sits and pulls out a cellphone.)

Man: I think we have some time.

(The man and the woman both pick up a bottle as the third picks up the crate, and the three walk out into the main lobby of the office. The stand, looking into Briar's office while holding the bottles.)

Woman: You sure about this?

(The man looks at his bottle for a second before holding it over toward the third.)

Man: Light it.

(The third light both the man's and the woman's moltov. They look at each other.)

Man: No going back now.

(With that, the two of them toss their moltovs into Briar's office, the glass shattering against the back wall and a line of fire immediately bursting out.)

-------He's An Assman------

"You're going to get torched this week."

That's what someone close to me told me when I was announced that I would be facing Hired Gun on Warfare. This wasn't someone who hates me, either - this was someone rather close to me, telling me that I wouldn't be able to match wits against someone as funny and as insulting as Hired Gun.

I admit, I am not known for my colorful personality. Everyone talks about it every week. Can't say I really give a fuck, either. I've been here for 20 years before I don't need to do stupid shit to get over. And yet, everytime I'm in the ring against someone known for their ability to talk, people suddenly start discrediting me.

Yes, Hired Gun had been known to talk a lot of shit. He's filthy, at times disgusting, and all around unusual. He freaks people out, and people don't know how to approach him after seeing his shenanigans for a full two weeks. So now, he is standing across the ring from "the most boring superstar of all time", and he has the chance to come out of the gate firing and getting people jazzed up to see this match, and what does he do?

...he channels Mastermind.

Seriously, of all fucking people, he decided it was Mastermind that he wanted to copy this week. Yeah, that will sell some tickets.

Jab.

What else would you call that was excuse of a promo Hired Gun decided to plaster the airwaves with? He couldn't let his own words do the talking for him. Instead, he needed to show footage from some of my old promos and air them before responding with some generic attack against me.

First of all, thank you for the extra views. It's amazing how often my own opponents hype up my shit. I expect this kind of stuff from newbies – after all, they don’t know any better. But you, Gunner? Someone who has been in the business for as long as you have? You should know how dumb that is. You think your highlighting my stupidity, but what you’re actually doing is telling everyone “I don’t have anything to say. Why don’t you watch this instead?”

That’s when I realized…I may have hyped up Hired Gun’s ability to talk just a little too much. Sure, when he is across the ring from some real dingbats like Jimmy Havoc, Gun looks like an absolute superstar. He can verbally tear down every single loser that hangs out at the bottom of the card without a problem. But when he’s in the ring against someone who can at least match wits with him?

Then he just becomes another guy. Just another wrestler in the long line of wrestlers who come through here, say some shit, and win a couple of matches. Hell, he even admitted as much. He said, in his own words, that I was putting him on a pedestal because he beat some crap wrestlers. So, allow me to say, from the bottom of my heart…

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever considered Hired Gun to be a threat to my Hart Title. I’m sorry I ever gave him props in one of my promos. I’m sorry I ever complimented the bastard in any way. Clearly I was wrong, and that was my fault.

Perhaps I wasn’t paying attention, or perhaps I was manifesting something that wasn’t there. See, I wanted Hired Gun to be that bad ass from back in the day. I wanted to be able to prove myself in the ring against someone I see as a worthy opponent. I wanted the ACTUAL OG Hired Gun. THIS Hired Gun is someone else. He’s just a dude cosplaying as The Hired Gun. Another person in a long line of folks that

hired, made them put on the mask, and called them Hired Gun.

And if that’s the case, then he’s fucked, because “some guy” isn’t going to beat me.

Jab.

You say a lot about what’s going to happen when I lose, but what’s going to happen when I win? Do you have that in your crystal ball? You can talk all you want about piecing my career back together like I’m the Six Million Dollar Man, but you don’t say anything about what’s going to happen when I walk out of Warfare as the Hart Champion. Oh, of course you haven’t – that’s not even a possibility in your mind.

You claim the problem my opponents have is that they think they have me beat before they even step into the ring, but how are you not falling into that same trap? Is it only because you’re “different”? Yes, everyone ELSE can guarantee a victory over me and everyone ELSE can call me boring and everyone ELSE will say they’re going to destroy me, but that’s THEM and you’re YOU, so it’s different, right?

Jab.

Do you get nervous, Gun? Anyone else in your position would be nervous. Main event, against a living legend, for a singles title, defending the honor of the very person who hired you – that’s a hell of a situation to be in. I mean, I’ve talked a lot about the situation I’m in, but I haven’t said anything about what this match means to you. This is a jumpstart for my career, but for you, this could be your crowning achievement. You want something to put on a resume that will have you on that pedestal for the rest of your career? “Ended the historic title reign of the legendary Centurion” would be a hell of a way to do it.

But I get the sinking suspicion you’re not thinking about that. In fact, I don’t think you’re even thinking about the Hart Title. I doubt it means anything to you. You don’t seem like someone who cares about titles or, hell, even victories. You want to send messages. You have your own goals that you look to achieve.

But me? Oh, the gold is one hell of a motivator for me. I know a lot of people in this business like that say “titles don’t mean anything to me.” Those folks are losers – wrestlers who never experienced the glory of tossing a title over their shoulder. They can’t miss what they never felt. But with you, Gun? I absolutely believe these belts mean nothing to you, mostly because praise and adoration makes you cringe. Though I do wonder, Gun…do you still have this?

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I kind of hope you still do. I hope you have the relic of a long dead federation still hanging somewhere, and you look at it every once and a while, just to remind yourself that you were Papa

’s favorite. It would be good to know I’m not the only relic of a long dead federation still floating around somewhere.

Oh, one final thing.

Quote:Yet these morons still think that out talking him is all they have to do then they step inside of the ring all cocky until Centurion jabs their fucking heads off. How am I going to avoid the same fate?

You won’t.

Jab.

You’ve already fallen into your own trap. You listened to too many people gassing you up that you started forgetting everything you said. This Chicken Wire Cage match – this isn’t going to be a bloodbath. This isn’t going to be us hitting each other with gimmicks all night long. This is a match that will rely on skills and fundamentals, which you already admitted you can’t match me on. You’re going to step into that ring, and you’re going to look to beat me within an inch of my life in an effort to rebuild me as Shane

’s perfect creation, and what are you going to be met with?

Jab.
Jab.
Jab mother fucker.

Difference between you and all those other losers is you already know it’s coming. You called it out. Hell, you can probably script the entire match. Problem is, you have no counter. Sure, you’re going to hit me with moves. You’ll probably find a way to bring in a weapon. And you may even do some death defying stunt that wows the audience and is absolutely devastating. Then I’ll stand back up, and what will happen.

Jab.
Jab.
Jab.

All fucking night. And you have nothing in your arsenal that can keep me down. And I may leave this match beat up, broken, and bruised…but I will still be leaving as champion.

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