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John Samuels · **03-26-2013, 08:37 PM**

Thwack.

A quiet clap opens the scene. The camera shows the sprawling, green grass of the exclusive golf course. The senator steps up to the tee, a large cigar hanging out of his mouth.

“And that, gentlemen, is how we win this election. It’s as simple as splitting up the electoral college. Making it work in our favor. We basically throw out the votes of all those welfare dependent, city dwellers. Those bottom feeders have no business telling me how much I should pay in taxes anyway.”

The small crowd of cigar puffing golfers begin laughing and nodding their heads in agreement. Samuels leans over and places his ball on the tee. He takes a few steps back and gets into position to swing. He eyes up his shot, paying close attention.

“So what day are you leaving for Gauntlet City?

“Oh yeah, where is that being held at? Hopefully not some liberal garbage heap like New York.”

Samuels and the crowd all laugh again. Samuels raises his club, ready to swing.

“Actually, it’s in London.”

Gasps are heard from the crowd. The camera shows Samuels’ driver flying through the air toward several golf carts nearby, sending several onlookers running for safety.

“It’s WHERE!?”

“London, England. What’s wrong with that? I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year.”

Not bothering to dignify a response, Samuels storms off towards the golf carts, Fairchild following behind him barely able to carry the weight of the clubs. Fairchild somehow manages to heave the clubs into the cart and climb in seconds before Samuels slams on the accelerator.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“LONDON!? Are you kidding me? Let me get this straight, I am being forced by management to defend my title in a battle royal-- unfair odds to say the absolute least- And then later on that very same night I also have to compete in this gauntlet match to be crowned the ‘King of XWF,’ which quite frankly I know nothing about. And now you’re telling me I have to do so in a foreign country? A country that’s absolutely full of cowards and liberals?”

“It could be worse, sir. At least it’s not New Jersey.”

“True. How have we not kicked that trash heap out of the union?”

“That remains a mystery sir, we should rename it the Garbage State.”

“Enough with the jokes.I’M the funny one, remember?”

“Of course sir. Speaking of Jersey, I believe that’s where one of the competitors in your battle royal hails from, Ronnie Wilkins.”

“Oh yeah? What’s this guy all about?”

“Well, apparently he is a former Border Patrol officer. Seems to be well versed in martial arts and appears to be a decent family man”

“An honest man, doing a respectable man’s job. An important job.”

The Senator nods his head in affirmation, before stopping and turning to Fairchild with a slack-jawed look on his face.

“But... who needs to patrol the borders of New Jersey? Honestly, who do they have to worry about getting in? They let New York’s garbage take up the whole state, and they have those pottymouthed shore kids making their pointless tv show. Quite frankly, I’d think that any semblance of a border patrol would be there to stop the people of New Jersey from going to a place that doesn’t smell like the rear end of Oscar the grouch. “

The golf cart comes to a halt at the top of hill overlooking the entire golf course. Samuels steps out and places a cigar in his mouth. Fairchild quickly rushes over to light it for him, eliciting a barely audible grunt in place of a ‘thank you.’

“In all seriousness, I know this guy’s type. Hell, I just beat one of this guy’s type last night. He’s a man that can’t focus on the big picture. Sure, he may say he wants to step into a ring with me and want to be the best and all this nonsense, but look at him away from the cameras. You know what you’ll see? You’ll see a man that’s worried about a mortgage payment, a man who isn’t quiet sure if his car payments are gonna make it on time. Hell, let’s not even mention what kind of enemies you could make in the immigration industry. But most importantly, he’s the kind of man who can think about nothing other than winning, because he knows all too well that losing is what he’s really good at. Think about it. If by some act of God, yours truly doesn’t retain my belt at Gauntlet City, do you think it’s going to affect me? No. I have a message, I have a plan, and I have a voice and those things are going to serve me just well. I’ll continue on, rebuilding America’s greatness with my own two hands. Ronnie Wilkins? When he loses at Gauntlet City, when he gets home to his family with that look of dejection and frustration, do you know what he becomes? He becomes just some guy. Some guy that nobody cares about, because he had his moment to shine and he broke. “

Samuels puffs away at his cigar and leans up against the golf cart, a smile adorns his face as he seemingly lightens his tone.

“You almost have to feel sorry for the guy. Under other circumstances could he win a title at Gauntlet City? You bet. He just picked the wrong title to go for. Trying to step in the way of a man’s destiny is... well, it’s foolish. But hey, he’s a Jersey boy and he’ll bounce back. I’m sure the department of sanitation can’t get enough new garbagemen in that pit anyway.”

“Another opponent has added his name to the match, just now.”

Fairchild hands over her tablet to Samuels. Putting on his glasses, Samuels mutters a few words while fumbling with his cigar, finally opting to toss it to the ground. Smoke rises from beneath the Senator’s shoe as the volume is turned up and the voice of Michael Hall is heard. The Senator watches the screen for a few moments, mouth agape, before handing the tablet back over to Fairchild.

“What is this?”

“That was Michael Hall declaring his intent to enter the battle royal and take your title.”

“That was Gilbert Grape’s little brother trying to recite Shakespeare! My God, the XWF’s special olympics recruiting team is working overtime. First JC Styles and now this guy? He thinks he’s going to take my belt? I think he’d be hard pressed to spell the world title. And since when have I told people how to dress?”

The camera pans over to Fairchild, who is looking down at her white t-shirt reading ‘Vote for America’ with a large picture of a smiling Samuels in the center.

“That’s different, you work for me. Is he from Philadelphia? He sounds like he’d be from Philadelphia. He looks like it too. You can practically smell the greasy breath and cologne-masked body odor through the screen. Disgusting. This is what Philadelphia has to offer? It appears that the Liberty Bell isn’t the only thing around there that’s cracked. Why couldn’t I have a one-on-one match with this guy? It wouldn’t take much more than grade school arithmetic to stop in his tracks. I hope Michael Hall is the Rainman of professional wrestling, because otherwise he’s going to be seriously hurt. Couldn’t he find a nice home at some remedial wrestling organization?”

Samuels shakes his head as Fairchild nods in agreement. He pulls another cigar from his pocket, lighting this one himself, while motioning to Fairchild to get back into the golf cart.

“I guess I should be thankful, huh? Here I go thinking that I’m going to be tested and that my championship belt would be in jeopardy of leaving with someone else... And I’m stuck with border patrol and Forrest Gump. This is gonna be the easiest night of my life.”

“You still have the gauntlet, sir.”

The golf cart comes screeching to a halt.

“You know, I never did figure out what the King of XWF meant. Seems so out-of-touch, the whole monarchy thing. When I win the gauntlet match, I refuse to be disrespected with a title of second-rate country’s royalty. No, I will show respect to the democractic republic which i hold so dearly. I shall be called... The XWF’s Commander-In-Chief!”

“That’s all? That’s the most creative name you could come up with?”

“That Gilbert Grape joke took a lot out of me.”

Fairchild nods along as the scene ends with the pair driving off in the golf cart, smoke pouring out of the smiling Samuels’ mouth.

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