The trickling of fire can be heard, even before the camera fades in to view the scene. A scene which, by most accounts, would not be considered particularly 'pretty'. There is trash, junk, rubbish, whatever... everywhere. They are all absolutely everywhere. From the all-but empty junkyard that the camera is focused on, to the surrounding hills, streets, and buildings. A calm fire circles around the place, in no general direction really, making its way from hollowed canister to hollow canister along a thin stream of gasoline, which has been burning through the night. The sun is now slowly peaking over the horizon, causing the sky to become a blood-red. Not a sight you would imagine just days before Christmas, but I doubt mother nature cares very much about petty human festivities.

Amid the rubble is a notable fire, one of a different kind. Yes, it's a hellish orange like the others, and it's burning just the same. However, it's considerably larger than the small snake of flame that navigates itself through and between the discarded boxes and metals. It's instead in a large, hollowed barrel, which is metal and has a little red stripe around its otherwise metallic exterior. Said barrel has a fire sputtering out of it, which has various signs indicating it was put together by someone, rather than something.

The most obvious of these signs is the fact that there is actually someone lying next to it. On a large, wooden box that was probably used to carry an animal or something. Whoever it is is holding out a stick, watching the end light up in the centre of the fire, and then blowing it away, as if bored or impatiently waiting an appointment of some kind. The person is wearing a hoody and jeans, so it's quite obvious that it's probably Smoke, even though his hood is up. Mainly because he was at this scene not so many hours ago in the night, as the sole cause of the previous mayhem, which is apparent by how there is an empty flare case in the heart of the roaring flame.

Discarding the stick to one side, Smoke turns his whole body around so that he is lying on his back, looking up at the stars, which are slowly fading behind the red sky. His face is the look of admiration. Or that of being stunned. Either way, it's not long before he begins to speak.

I remember an old saying I used to know as a kid. I'm not sure if it was used here in America particularly, but I suppose it doesn't really matter that much:

Red sky at night; shepherds delight,
Red sky in the morning; shepherds warning

Smoke shrugs from where he is. It is an awkward and weary shrug, one that must envoke some fatigued desire in him, because he proceeds to stretch and wrench his mouth open with a loud and tiresome yawn.

It's pretty obvious why I would come to think of this phrase, with the whole red sky and all that. But it's not just that.

Kicking his legs off of the box, Smoke stretches them, enough to tip over the canister of flame if he so much as curled his toes. Putting his soles back onto the wet mud with a squelch, he sits hunched, but keeps his look onto the fire, with enough intent to make you believe that doing so yourself with somehow make fire warmer that it already is. And despite how the flames crackle, spit, and hiss at Smoke, he still sits, with elbows on knees and hands clenched together.

I've had a lot of time to think over the night. To formulate an answer and probably some kind of follow up to what had occurred earlier in the night. And then, in these few hours I receive a little message. A message from my opponent, the United States Champion: John Austin.

This message bears a certain... aspect that I was waiting for. Yes, I was looking forward to something that John Austin spurted out of his mouth, I know, what's wrong with me, right? So between now and Friday, I must prepare for what is sure to be a grueling Ladder Match against Mystica and Austin.

Smoke begins to clap loudly, smiling, but keeping his gaze on the flame.

Well done, Austin! You actually made a decision which wasn't entirely half-witted! I can't believe how much progress you're making! ...But of course that means I must chokeslam you from the top of a 20ft ladder at some point.

Smoke stops clapping and has a stressed sigh.

I have a feeling that you really didn't think this through, now did you?

Speaking of not thinking things through, I believe you also claimed that this will be the last time main eventing on your show... Why would that be the case? Don't you think I'll be main eventing more because, oh I don't know, I'd be the US Champion?

Oh wait... you were... planning on keeping the title, right? ...My bad... and sorry in advance.

Smoke shrugs.

Or not, I guess, since I'm planning on throwing you off a ladder regardless.

Putting his hands on his knees, Smoke pushes himself up and begins to waltz around the burning barrel, with a finger rimming the top edge of the metal cylinder with a definite 'ssshhhhh' sound. He stares almost longingly down at the overlapping fire, contemplating his thoughts and piecing them together, almost as if he just turned on the cameras to start filming, regardless of if he had pulled together his thoughts entirely. He shakes his heads as his thoughts form words on his tongue.

Of course, in the match I am focused - primarily - on one goal: that United States Title that is dangling above the ring, waiting for someone to rip it down. But at the back of my mind I can't help these... urges. Some way to get some form of poetic justice.

Over the last couple of months in the Lethal Lottery, I have been eliminated, put back in, and eliminated again after that. The first time I was eliminated my partner was the current champion: John Austin. We were eliminated because John wouldn't pull his own weight.

Suddenly the film cuts to said event:

Quote:Austin is down but not for long as NAZI rips him from the canvas just to execute - The Iron Cross!

NAZI covers Austin for the pin!

1

2

Three!

The whole reason the both of us were eliminated was because he couldn't be bothered to try. I worked my ass off but I'm placed with a partner who couldn't get off his ass for two seconds and actually work to win. And now that I'm his opponent? He says it's my fault.

Static appears over the shot, with a red note at the bottom, reading: From a promo for last week's match. The film quickly cuts to an excerpt of a John Austin promo.

John Austin Said:

You like to tell people I couldn't hold my own but yet as I go back and watch that match, you got your ass handed to you by a girl and I had to battle it out with Nazi. If anything, you couldn't hold up your end of the bargain and now you are complaining and try to place the blame on anyone who seems fit.

The film cuts back to Smoke sitting with his face buried in his palms, probably breathing heavily, since his hunched back is slowly rising and falling. Through the thin gap between palms, he muffles out some words.

That doesn't even make any sense, John.

He quickly stands again and looks at the camera.

For one, how does that make a difference? NAZI decided to go after you instead of me? So what!? Big-fucking-whoop! You feel better, now? Do ya? I mean sure, I can agree that he is certainly the bigger foe compared to his partner, but Jesus. Plus I like to think NAZI as a smart guy. I mean, he's Black Circle scum, but I think he definitely has the right idea to actually go after the weaker of two opponents so he could get the match over and done with faster, leaving me with Kimmy who, trust me, you should not underestimate.

And what did you think this 'epic battle' against NAZI reward you with? Knowledge? Strength? That big ol' gift o' courage? Nope. None of them. What you got was an ass whooping. Which resulted in you lying on the mat for three seconds too long costing both you and me the match, and the tournament. Nice going there, Rocky. Real smooth. I think that every now and again you should just sit back and re-watch some of your own matches, and I think you'll be surprised that some of the bullshit you claim, things like your strength and your said courage, are just that: bullshit.

Smoke breathes a massive sigh, needing to get air in his lungs after that novel of complaints. Or rather a short story of complaints. Still though...

In that Lethal Lottery encounter, you were the one to give up. You were the one who chose not to continue fighting. And I guess that's the name of the game, the whole random partner thing and, hey, I did get over your damn rookie mistakes. For a while. That was until you started digging it up and twisting it so you didn't sound like a fool... Which you ended up doing anyway. And now you are wondering where I am? It's only been a few hours, man, give me some damn space!

Our United States Champion, ladies and gentlemen! I'm fucking English and I could probably be a better US Champion than you'll ever be! How does that make you feel!?

Smoke wearily rubs his eyes from his long night of staying awake and 'thinking' as he called it. He sighs once more as he sits back down onto the box, looking at the fire once again in the same way he had before. A gust of wind sends the fumes from the open fire right into Smoke's face, but he's able to close his eyes before they water up. He opens them after the wind has traveled past him. He chuckles.

And I think that brings us to our next point... Mystica. That's right, we're not done yet. Not even close.

On a personal level, I don't have a problem with Mystica. Really, I don't. He's earned his shot in the match and I think he'll really bring it on Friday. ...Except he won't win. I don't know if you hadn't gathered yet but I generally think that I am the one to win this match. Got it? Good. That means I don't need to repeat it every time, even though it should probably be clear by now.

I'm going to go ahead and backtrack a little. Back to before I ripped up John Austin, and back to the Lethal Lottery. When I was put back into the lottery, I had won a battle royal with a number of other wrestlers, and I was put right back into the action in the very next match, immediately being my chance to get back into the Lottery, which obviously I was very keen on.

Who was my partner? None other than Mystica, and herein lies the problem. As I said earlier, I was eliminated once again after being put back in. This was that match... And I think you might know where this is headed.

Once again, the film abruptly cuts to these events:

Quote:Mystica steps into the ring, and runs at Zero, who gets a knee up and then hits him with the Zero Sum!

...1

...2

THREE!!!!!

The shot cuts back to Smoke, who is now standing once more, up and down more than the hydraulics on a car in the 90s. He doesn't seem annoyed by appearance, but his following tone seems as if that assumption can be mistaken, as his voice sounds croaky, and somewhat stressed and annoyed.

Mystica, like John Austin, was the one to cost me my chance at the Lethal Lottery. All because the both of them couldn't step up to the plate. And now you think that they are worthy US Champions!? Are you half-witted, or just mentally deficient?

I mean, sure, Mystica could be worthy. Maybe the example I'm using is a poor one. Maybe it was just an off day. Maybe. Or maybe not. Personally, he's not very high on my agenda to worry about... no offence... Maybe.

But Austin? What as he done? Sure, he won the Thunderbowl back in August, but between then and the Lottery, can you honestly say he's done enough to truly stay as the United States Champion, even on only his first title defense? Austin keeps saying how I am just sprouting my head out of the dirt known as the XWF lower-card, and that he will trample it back down into the ground, because I'm just an obstacle that's coming and going off in the distance, while he's having the high of his life, drinking champagne and fucking his girlfriend all week long.

But here's the thing, Austin... I think you've got your shit backwards. You tell me yourself, what have you actually done of merit between the Thunderbowl and the Lottery? I'm pretty sure half the time I forgot who you were. You tell me something that I can definitely call 'noteworthy', and I'll eat my own words.

Promise.

But I'm one-hundred... no... one-hundred-thousand percent sure you couldn't think of anything, now could you? You are the forgetful soul who will be banished to the bottom of the food chain as soon as you lose that piece of gold, to me or Mystica. You will be the one stuck at the bottom of the card, fighting people like Marshall Cage and Nicolas Martinez and trying to scrap yourself out of the bottomless pit, but only sliding down the walls, and remaining as a relic of what you could've been, but never was.

Everyone has their fifteen minutes of fame, John. And I think your's was the Thunderbowl, don't you?

And lets just leave it at that.

Smoke rubs his eyes with his index finger and his thumb, allowing his mouth to relieve a sigh of relief... pain... anger? You can decide. He looks up at the camera with a defeated smile and shrugs.

Even when trying to talk about Mystica I end up tearing into Austin. Both of you can see that as a good or bad thing... Whatever keeps you up at night.

With Mystica, I have to say that I agree with his promo earlier. That whole shtick about the explosion of change that I did and everything? I think instead of throwing shit in Mystica's general direction, it would be better, and quite frankly more civil of me to explain what I meant last time out.

Smoke turns around and goes to the flaming barrel. Putting the fire out, he grabs the empty flare case and holds it in his hands, examining it.

The whole thing about change being gradual... I get that, trust me, I do. Change cannot happen immediately. Because that is not change, that is just blowing your enemies up and hoping things work.

The catalyst you refer to-

Smoke takes a second to point at the flare casing.

Can, and most likely will cause an effect. You never really know this effect, it could be big... it could be small. If my guess is correct, winning this title should create a fairly large effect.

Smoke spreads his arms wide, signalling the debris around him.

Which has been largely overstated by my example earlier.

The explosion was a metaphor, Mystica. The catalyst was the flare. The catalyst, which triggered the fire, which lead to the eruption, created the change in the explosion. ...Did it happen a little too quickly for you to notice or were you a little tired? Just like in our Lethal Lottery match?

And don't you start poking holes in me, man, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. If I wanted to I could've called you a half-brained psycho asshole but I didn't. Why I didn't I'm still getting a grasp of myself.

Here's an example to compare. If that explosion that happened earlier is what results if I win Friday's match, here's what will happen in about a few months time:

The scene suddenly cuts to a nuclear explosion.


The scene, once again cuts back to Smoke discarding the empty flare back into the cylinder, before turning and walking past the box, around it, and to a much, much larger crate. At this, he kneels down, slowly unscrewing the bolts with shaking hands in the morning cold.

What I think of you, Mystica. Whether I see you as a threat or not, and whether I probably should, that doesn't really matter.

Smoke gets all the screws off and takes the one side of the crate away. The camera can't quite see what's inside. However, Smoke reaches his arm in, and grunts as he tries to tug something out, something that appears to be pretty heavy by the way he is pulling it.

You do realise that I am going to get that belt, right? It doesn't matter what you think of me, either. Change is going to happen, whether it be the change I desire or the change you seek. And if John somehow scraps a victory? The change for him will be several broken ribs, you can be sure of that.

Smoke finishes pulling the object out, which we can see is a tall, silver ladder, similar to those found in the XWF. He smiles at it, keeping his gaze at it as he continues to speak.

I respect you, Mystica. But that doesn't mean I'm just going to lay down and let you take what is mine. If I have to, I will hurt you. If I have to, I will break your bones. If I have to, I'll grab you by the neck, lift you up, and throw you tumbling down to the canvas below, or even the concrete... if I have to.

He looks up at the camera, still smiling yet.

Y'know, fair warning.

Smoke props the ladder up, beginning to set it up leisurely. It's almost as if he's cockily practicing how to do it in front of the camera, but the apparent bitter weather - as well as the cold wind that is beginning to become more harsh, is definitely making it harder, coupled with how rain has started to spit down. Heaving the ladder, so that it is upright on the unusually flat ground, and then testing its balance, he begins to climb up.

A warning that, whether you fellas like it or not, I'm walking out of that arena the United States Champion.

He sits himself atop the ladder, towering over all else in the lot. He has to look down in order to face the camera, which makes raindrops pitter-patter on the camera's lens.

The cataclysm is at hand, and on Friday, when I climb that ladder and rip down that belt, throwing it above my head with a cry of victory, it will be time for you to realise that the rebellion has begun.

Mystica is right. Time is ticking. Ticking away for Austin. Him. And the Black Circle.

A crack of thunder is heard, and the orange clouds above Smoke glow as the lighting travels through. He smiles, as if welcoming the coming storm. He leans forward, reaching out his hand, as if it's to those watching.

The revolution is coming.

Would you care to join me?

Another roar of thunder is heard, and Smoke looks up at the cloudy sky, as the rain cascades onto him. The storm is reaching a violent point, raining heavily and shooting out lighting everywhere. The camera shot fades on Smoke looking up. And a song begins to play, while the cracks and the pattering can still be heard.