After being condemned to Earth for an unspecified amount of time, Kinwrathi learned of his new earthly identity. A wealthy man by the name of Derrick Montenegro. His story, and how he came to wealth? Completely in the hands of the Chieftain.

The sun shines bright through the curtains of the hotel room. The rays catch Mr. Montenegro right in the eyes, forcing them open. Reluctantly, he pulls himself out of bed and pulls the blind open even more, causing the woman he brought to the room with him to stir. She wasn't a whore, just a whore if that made any sense. It quite honestly didn't to Derrick, but he was glad to not have to pay for a night with a tramp who likely had more STDs than she could count.

"What the fuck? It's only 9:00 AM..."

"Yeah? Get out of here Princess, I have things to do."

The woman rolls around a bit more, and falls back asleep.

"Get the fuck out right now!"

Startled, the woman jumps out of the bed and rushes to gather her clothes and put them on. She runs out of the door, slamming it shut while the Chieftain laughs.

Gets 'em everytime!

Derrick walks from the bedroom of the hotel room into the bathroom that's nicer than most homes in downtown Detroit. Looking himself over in the mirror, he notices that somehow there isn't a hair out of place.

Fuck that shit!

He turns on the sink and places his hand under the nozzle. Feeling the cool liquid wet his hand, he brushes his hand against the top of his head. Looking back in the mirror, he sees that there isn't a hair in place this time.

Better!

He steps out and sees his clothes spread across the floor. Walking over to them, he crouches and carefully puts on each article of clothing. Straightening the tie, he looks into the mirror one more time, from the doorway.

Now, time to face the day...

Grabbing the key, he walks out of the room and down the hall. The advantages of being in a room on the first floor, being close to the lobby, not much else. Stepping into the lobby, Derrick spots the front desk with ease. Speaking of spotting, he sees the woman behind the desk. Dark hair, fairly pale skin, her eyes fixated on his...

8/10, not bad. I've seen better...

Up to the front desk he goes, the woman's eyes slowly darting up until they meet his.

Front Desk Lady: "How may I help you?"

"Ah yes, I'd like to check out."

"Just let me have your key and your payment and-"

"I paid in cash last night, ma'am."

"Forgive me, my manager told me of someone like that. I just didn't suspect it was you..."

"Well, it was."

"Well, that's it. Thank you for staying with us!"

"Whatever."

Appalled, the woman glares at Derrick, who's already walking out of the hotel. As he walks into the sunlight, he sees out of the corner of his eye a new opportunity. This one by the name of Jim's Used Cars.

Who needs teleporting when you have style?

The car lot is a maze of a bunch of cars whose only distinguishing feature is the color it's painted. Walking up and down a row of Camaros, he stops at one painted a nice shade of black. Seeing this, one of the three people patrolling the lot rushes over to him.

Salesman: "Good morning! Are you looking at this one?"

The man points over to the car Derrick's looking right at.

"What gave it away?"

"Very funny. Are you interested or not?"

"No shit, Sherlock. Yes I'm interested. Do you think I just stand here with a thumb up my ass because I like to look like a fucking cunt?"

The salesman's face begins to turn beet red from a mixture of the sun and his rising anger levels.

The ol' douchebag customer shtick works on any salesman, huh?

"Well, as you can see on the sticker, it's $12,000. If you come with me, we can negotiate."

"I'll take it! All in cash, if that's alright with you."

"Of course! Come with me and we'll fill in the paperwork!"

Derrick follows the salesman into the building, and after a long while of things he didn't listen to, he's out on the road in his "new" car.

Now to get out of this fucking shithole.



"Another day, another shithead. That seems to be the thing recently. I admit, I was out of my element last time I was in a match, I'm not used to dealing with someone who's actually on my level. However, just when I think I might be getting something to do that isn't kicking the shit out of a new group of fuckwits, I'm thrust into this shit.

Chester Brock and Mr. Natural.

Fuck it, let's start with the idiot I have a history with. You see, if you weren't watching, or are just a fucking schlep whose memory is bleaker than the lives of the whores I fuck, I was involved in a match with Mr. Natural last Shove it. Now, do I remember if I was the one who eliminated him?

No.

Do I care if I eliminated him?

Not at all.

You see, caring about that means that I feel it would give me some sort of momentum. When will you fucking learn that I need no damn momentum! I could come in here missing all of my limbs, and I'd still kick the ass of half of this roster! How does that make you feel, said half of the roster?

Does it get you mad?

Anyway, Mr. Natural. Need I say more? He's so bland and uniteresting, that I really couldn't be bothered to speak of him further. Like, at all.

Chester Brock, so weak he even managed to forget everything about himself. That's taking schleppiness to a whole 'nother level! Let me fill you in, Chester.

Your mom was a crack whore who didn't want you, so she left you with your dad. Your dad was on the registered sex offender list for raping his younger sister, what do you think he did to you? You managed to make due until age thirteen when you beat a kid into unconsciousness with a baseball bat for looking at you funny. Years later, the same kid found you, and beat you like you did him. Left you for dead in the middle of the damn Mojave. There, settled?

Now that you know exactly who you are, are you pissed? Do you wanna kill me? Am I a fucking douchebag? Do I need to be taught a lesson, or some other fucking cliché bullshit phrase.

C'mon, get pissed.

Bring your anger!

I love it."