The camera rolls and slowly pans to the right.

It pauses briefly on the oversized black cowboy hat of Good Ol’ JR and the crowd screams, their overwhelming elation piercing through the concrete walls surrounding the locker room.

The camera continues to lilt over…

And finally stops on Mark ‘F***ing’ Flynn. Smiling, shoulder resting on the blue locker behind him.

The crowd goes from hot to electric. Screaming for the big return. For Mark Flynn to finally speak again on XWF television.

Ross looks into the camera holding the microphone to his face. “Folks, tonight I have th’ opper-tune-ity to talk to the self-proclaimed ‘Future of Hall of Famer’, ‘King of the Mid-Carders’ Mark Flynn.”

Flynn raises an eyebrow as the fans continue to scream with absolute delight.

“I think there are a lotta questions that need ta be answered, I think you deserve an answer, the fans at home deserve an answer. Flynn, the world is watching. The world wants to know. Why’d you leave and what made you come back?”

The crowd howls with thunderous jubilation as the microphone slowly shifts into Flynn’s face.

Flynn taps the side of the microphone… before slowly sliding the tool out of Ross’ hand.

Ross stands firm, eager to maintain control when this egomaniac stops talking, as said egomaniac snickers quietly to himself.

“What they deserve?”

Flynn smiles at the unamused legend of the wrestling world.

“Is that what you think, Jimmy? These people deserve answers? These people deserve the truth, Jimbo? Is that how you want to start this interview? Talking about what these people deserve?”

“The vermin in the arena who paid for their nosebleed $25 tickets, $4 beers and snuck in their printed-off-the-internet program sheets deserve to know what on Earth is going on between Mark Flynn’s ears?”

“The wastrels watching at home for free, who stream the Pay-Per-View off the internet because they’re too cheap to support the industry they shi(AMEFULLY REFUSE TO SPEND MONEY) on?”

“I was ‘gone for good’ two months ago, the most hated man in the XWF, finally sent into the depths of Hell where every man, woman and child has wanted me to spend my days. And now those seals bark and clap like they’re trained whenever old meat gets dragged back onto the stage, to rot and gather more flies to feed, to suck more juices off the drying bone.”

“That applause you’re hearing, Jimmy? That’s not for me. That’s not for the man that spent every day of the last eight months working his ass off as the company’s number one top superstar, only for every man, woman and child watching this program to be INSTRUCTED to hate by the upper management that puts this tripe together.”

“That crowd’s roar, that elation…”

“Is for the line of prisoners that have been lined up for my Guillotine…”

“Whether they know it or not…”

Flynn finally turns away from the camera and back to JR…

“If these people want to know what crimes these men are being executed for, what punishment I have returned from the afterlife to deliver. Then, I will give it to them.”

The crowd screams with excitement, Ross shifts in closer, as if decreasing the number of microseconds it will take for the answer to penetrate his ears…

Flynn shakes his head…

"When the time comes."

A low boo breaks out.

“But deserve… Oh… Believe me, James. These people will get what they deserve at the end of my presentation.”

“Not what they want.”

“Not what the idiots running this voluntary prison tell them to cheer for, to scream with their every vocal chord in prayer for...”

“But what they deserve.”

Flynn tries to push the microphone back into Ross’ chest… But Ross keeps it to his mouth. As Flynn steps away, Ross moves a step and a half quicker.

“Powerful words. D’ya feel any of the three participants in this match have a chance of mufflin’ that message you want to get out?”

Flynn clicks his tongue… Grinning…

He slowly turns back to Ross.

“You’re right, Jimbob. Here I am about to leave and I haven’t addressed any of the one line jokes I'm working into my first set back on the big stage."

Flynn turns back to the camera.

"Shawn Hero."

"Do you think I'm impressed? Do you think on any level I'm compelled by the single statement you offered intended to trash me?"

"You think you're better than me? You think you're better than me at professional wrestling?"

"...You're right."

"We have very different skill sets, Shawn."

"You're great at being a professional wrestler."

"I'm great at hurting people professionally."

"Do you get the difference?"

"You're great at moving t-shirts."

"I'm great at moving shoulder sockets out of place so that the only thing more painful than the process of yanking it out is the surgical procedure that sinks your arm back where God intended it start."

"You're great at catchphrases.”

“I’m great at catching kicks and twisting the accompanying ankle into a position that can conservatively be described as a career-ending injury and creatively described as origami.”

“You’re great at pulling off moves on weaker people that don’t fight professionally.”

“I’m great at physically decimating people who assault normal people and pretend that makes them impressive.”

“You may be better than me at professional wrestling. Congratulations on that.”

“But I still feel pretty confident in my skills at ‘physically dissecting professional wrestlers’.”

“And as sure as I am that that Superkick of yours has been great at taking down the rest of the kids in the after school club Warfare has become and from what I’ve seen in your promo, people who occupy parks trying to play ball games.”

“I’ve taken out three different people who use the same move. Three people who the XWF saw fit to sign to lucrative contracts.”

“And the funny thing is… I’ve done it the same exact way every time.”

Flynn strokes his chin for a moment in a mixture of consideration and nostalgia.

“Catch the foot. Force the ankle into the air, dropping the opponent face first to the ground. Wrap right bicep around heel and grab foot with left hand.”

Flynn inhales as twisted grin spreads across his face. His eyes close, fully disappearing into the fantasy.

“Turn ankle counter-clockwise then clockwise in 17 degree shifts from center.”

“A man with an average pain tolerance can handle this behavior for two and a half seconds before the pain overwhelms him.”

“Beyond that, on any opponent, it takes six seconds to inflict permanent injury to this ankle, reducing mobility, speed and preventing the victim from every getting beyond a mild jog...”

Flynn’s eyes open, glazed over in absolute ecstasy.

“For you, Hero.”

Flynn bites his lip…

“I’m holding for twenty. Anything beyond that, you just go into shock. But if I could hold it for longer, I would.”

Flynn clicks his tongue.

“Then, Bane Williams…”

Flynn shrugs.

“Tell you the truth, Mr. Hero inspired me more with his uninspiring work. He showed up to the game with insulting poor tripe and it makes me crave tearing into his flesh.”

“Bane?”

Flynn scratches the back of his head.

“I've seen nothing. I feel nothing. I’m going to tear through him like a wet napkin or a squeaking chew toy.”

“What am I supposed to feel? Regret? A twinge of concern for the family that he seems to put above all else and the pain they’ll feel, the tears they’ll shed as their hero is reduced into a crying, blubbering mass of agony?”

“Don’t blame me. He signed away his soul when he put his name on the dotted line. Someone should profit from him killing himself and if it’s his family, fine. Sure. All right.”

“But no one should blame the Devil when the man who sold his soul burns in hellfire…”

“Good husband? I don’t give a sh(OTS OF WHISKEY, ANY TIME FROM SPECS).”

“Sweet father? Calls his brother to tell his family that he loves them? F(RENCH) you square in the face.”

“I’m going to hurt you and I’m going to enjoy hurting you, Bane. Plain and simple.”

“And the thing that should scare you is that as big as you are. As tough as you are.”

“There is literally nothing you are capable of doing.”

“That could stop me.”

Flynn taps the side of his head.

“Finally, Neonero.”

Flynn giggles a moment.

“We sure have had some times, haven’t we, Cyn?”

“I beat you. By myself. One-on-One.”

“Then you beat me… With the help of Michael James and a double-dealing official who was out to screw me from the start.”

“And since then, I ended one’s career and the other was publicly shamed as the worst GM to ever hold the position.”

Flynn smiles, then stops a moment, looking to the right corner of his eye.

“Except for that war criminal from North Korean. Don’t recall his name.”

Flynn returns to focus.

“Point being.”

“That in the spirit of giving everyone I plan on sending a message to… Not what they want… But what they deserve…”

Flynn licks his lips.

“Allow me… instead of wasting verbiage responding to your claims against me… The thing you want... An opportunity before the match to counter my counter...”

“To save our encounter for Warfare itself…”

“And believe me…”

“I’ve been saving a little something for half a year getting ready for this… mmm hmmm… opportunity…”

Flynn presses the mike away into Ross’ chest..

“Well, thank ya, Mark. If ya have any last th-“

Ross turns back.

Flynn’s already gone.

Mark Flynn’s big return.

Next.