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John Samuels · **03-26-2013, 12:28 PM**

“NO!”

“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!”

The sound from the outburst is barely contained by the large white door that opens the scene. Fairchild is waiting outside, anxiously biting her lip while loosely grasping the handle to the door. A loud slam against the door cues Fairchild to enter. She cautiously hurries to the end of the room, dodging random office equipment whizzing past her head. Ducking under a small television, Fairchild quickly reaches her seat and lets out a long, audible sigh which prompts Samuels to stop and stare at her.

“EXCUSE ME!? I’M SORRY. DID YOU JUST RECEIVE NOTICE OF A RADICAL INJUSTICE!? BECAUSE I DID.”

“Well, I did just dodge the entire Aisle 7 of Staples...”

“WELL BOOOO-HOO. YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME!?”

Samuels takes a large deep breath and collapses back into his chair. His mouth opens but he cannot find the proper words to explain himself. He takes another large gulp of air and leans back, moving his chair slowly left-to-right before slamming his hands down on the table and lets out a sarcastic grin.

“The XWF sent out a message on the Twitter, and apparently I’ll be defending my title in a battle royal! It’s an outrage, and I will not stand for it. Sure, it might have been easy to steal this title away from that two-bit hack, Cyren, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it!”

“Very true, sir. You are a dominant, and respectable champion. Possibly the greatest in the industry today. You certainly--”

“Oh don’t patronize me! I’m not in the mood for you to kiss my behind. Do I look like I need a suck up right now?”

Fairchild begins to open her mouth to answer but is cut off by Samuels leaning in over the desk, his face devil-red.

“NO.”

The senator begins pacing about unintentionally, but uncaringly, knocking over vases and potted plants adorning his large office.

“No. What I need is an answer! Why on Earth would these corrupt, evil powers that be make this match? You know what, I know why. It’s because they hate America. They hate America and everything that true patriots like stand for... “

While staring down at her tablet, Fairchild quickly looks up and interrupts Samuels.

“Sir, it says that you’re also scheduled in the gauntlet main event.”

“The what now?”

“It’s a gauntlet match, sir, everyone who is fighting on the card will participate. You have to beat whoever you’re in the ring with, and opponents keep coming one-by-one until there is nobody left. Now if you come in in the later parts of the--”

A large crash is heard as Samuels begins parading around the room, smashing everything within arms length. He kicks around at the random debris, stomping whatever he deems to be not broken enough. Samuels plops down on a loveseat at the far side of the room, exhausted.

“Do you see this travesty? This is a personal attack on me. One of, if not the, greatest champions in this company. It’s not fair. I spend my invaluable time here attempting to save the people of this great nation, and I get this? I have to defend my title against how many people? 30?40? And then a gauntlet match against another 20 or so opponents? I could very well have to take on over one hundred opponents at Gauntlet City!”

“Sir, there’s not that many people on the roster.”

“Well you get my point! I’m a champion. This belt means something. It means that I am someone to be respected, someone to be revered. But no, all it appears to be is an open invitation for management to screw me and silence my message of progress! Well I’m not gonna stand for it... no, I’m gonna do something about this. I’m going to go make sure that they regret this injustice! Let’s go!”

Samuels pops up and storms toward the door. Fairchild stands and rushes to his side, tripping and stumbling on her way to the door. The two storm down the hallway, brushing by numerous staffers crowding the corridors. Samuels has his head on a swivel, checking the name on each of the doors until the pair reaches their destination: the door of Paul Heyman. Samuels knocks three times, impatiently. Without allowing time for a response, Samuels pounds on the door again numerous times, each time growing louder and louder until the door flies open, revealing the enraged face of Paul Heyman.

“WHO THE HE-- Oh, it’s you.”

Paul’s face goes from a look of disgust to one of feign interest.

“Can I help you? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“I demand to know what the meaning is behind this battle royal. You, of all people, realize just how important it is that I’m here, with an open platform to address the people. Do you really think it’s smart to put their champion up against such ridiculous odds? I don’t. Quite frankly, I show be given the night off for the sheer amount of work I’ve put in since I’ve arrived. It’s not easing spreading the word of patriotism, it’s taxing... Much like running a fantastic television program like Monday Night Madness.”

Heyman nods, giving him a slight smile while his hands motion for him to hurry along with his speech.

“Of course, of course... A great American like yourself doesn’t need to be fawned over. You’re quite aware of what a great job you’re doing. But back to my original point... Mr. Heyman, I think that we’re on level ground here, and from one great man to another: How about a free pass for Gauntlet City? I could use the night off, and I’m sure you can make that happen. What do you say?”

Heyman grins and nods his head, rubbing his hands together.

“You know Samuels, a day off does sound nice. But you don’t want that, do you?”

A puzzled look by Samuels prompts Heyman to continue. As he prepares to speak he stares off into the distance, Samuels’ glance follows. Heyman lifts his arms to spell it out for him.

“Think about it. When our founding fathers were oppressed by the British, what did they do? They fought against the tyrants and they formed this great nation. When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, did America just take the day off? No, they dropped two massive nuclear weapons. When terrorists attacked our towers, where were we? We were getting ready to strike back at anyone over there with an accent and a beard. So you want the day off? Well I’m not going to give it to you, because America fights back when it’s put into a corner, and damnit, that’s what you’re going to do.”

Heyman looks down and nods at Samuels, who is still staring off into space. Heyman shakes his head as a single tear rolls down the cheek of Samuels.

“America.”

“Yes, yes. America. Are we done now?”

Still staring off, Samuels attempts to pat Heyman on the back but gets mostly nose and forehead. Heyman scoffs and ducks back into his office, slamming the door. With head held high, Samuels marches proudly through the hallway, muttering “America” to himself. Steve Sayors approaches, microphone in hand.

“Mr. Samuels, can I get a word?”

Without hesitation, Samuels shoves Sayors to the side, right into the ladies room. High pitched screams fill the air as Samuels walk out of frame with a smile on his face.

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