"Ya want me ta do what?"

The Real Estate Agent's office was an elaborately decorated mess. Confederate memorabilia hung from beige walls, his desk cluttered with knickknacks and souvenirs from all across the globe. Surely he was a well-traveled, well-educated man. Or at least he wanted you to believe he was. Ellis wondered how long it took him to take down his wall decorations when someone not quite as sympathetic to the Rebel cause was to step inside. He figured the man sitting across from him was quite experienced in that regard.

"Did I stutter?" the agent shot back, cursing under his breath and curling his fingers tightly around the wooden edge of his desk.

"It's just--"

"Just what? Don't act so coy, Ellis. I know what you're capable of. Burning shit down, getting into fights, none of this should be too far out of your comfort zone."

"They had it comin'."

"And I assure you, these people have it comin', too."

Ellis scoffed. The man sitting across from him smiled, flashing his pearly white teeth with as much warmth as an icicle. Every single movement of his was calculated, Ellis observed. Nothing the man did was genuine when he put on that charming, plastic smile.

"Ya must be a helluva salesman."

The man chuckled. "I do my best."

"Ya know, ya almost had me goin' fer a second there," Ellis said, putting his hands behind his head and lounging back in his chair. "Puttin' on yer fake smiles like everythin's gonna be just fine."

"Everything is going to be fine."

"Fer you maybe, and that's a big maybe, considerin' what ya want me ta do. So many things can go wrong with this here operation."

"Figures the career criminal would see that."

The man shot a glare at his guest.

"Ya know, I thought all ya salesmen were con artists, but ya gotta be, no doubt about it the dumbest one I eva might in my whole life."

"And yet, you haven't walked out."

"Say what?"

The man pushed his chair out and stood. "You know, when people think a plan is so stupid, they usually refuse and leave. Yet, here you are. Not moving a muscle. Why is that?"

"Because, while that may be tha norm in whatever big bustlin' city you grew up in, down here we have tha common courtesy ta hear a man out. So start talkin'."

Ellis was hardly intimidated by the agent standing over him. He figured that if worst came to worst, he could take the man in a fight, despite the fact the man probably had thirty pounds on him. His eyes met the agent's and a sudden chill ran down his spine. There was nothing in his eyes. Not a thing at all.

"Poe said the eyes are the windows for the soul Ellis. You ever read Poe?" The man knelt in front of Ellis, causing him to straighten back up in his seat. "Of course not, don't think I've ever met a hick that was much of a reader. Poe did marry his cousin, though. That's something you're familiar with, isn't it?"

"Ya gonna keep on belittlin' tha man ya want ta help ya?"

"Depends, are you going to sit there and take it?"

A few hours later, Ellis sat in the driver's seat of his truck, staring out through his dirty windshield into the night. Can't believe I'm doing this shit, he thought, his hands closing around his good old Louisville Slugger. A black balaclava covered his face, and along with his black wifebeater and pants helped him blend into the darkness around him. He took a deep breath and sighed before grabbing the door handle and shakily pushing the door open. Stepping out of the car, bat in hand, he made his way towards a small white house a few feet ahead.

He stood on the porch, and rapped on the door with end of the bat.

A gruff voice from inside the house called out: "Who is it?"

"Special delivery," Ellis responded.

He heard a groan in response. Then the sound of feet stomping on hardwood, getting louder with each step. The door swung open and a large balding man stood in the doorway. One look at the mask on Ellis' face and the man's face flushed.

"He wants his money, Frank."

"I'll get it, dammit!"

"I'm sure ya will."

Ellis took the bat and swung. The bat collided with Frank's knee, causing a loud cracking noise. Frank collapsed to the floor immediately, howling in pain. Ellis stood over him and raised the bat.

"Come on, please man!"

"Ya gonna pay?"

"Yeah!"

Ellis lowered the bat and slowly reached for the mask. "How ya plannin' on payin' him?"

---

Whatd'we got here? A man by tha name 'a Robbie Bourbon runnin' his mouth about me, talkin' 'bout what I am. This is gettin' ta be a runnin' theme here, people lookin' at all tha wrong shit when it comes ta me. Why yes, I ain't no bigshot, I am just an average man from Kentucky. Not even from Louisville or Frankfort or Lexington, nah. I'm just a man from Whitley County. Nothin' more, nothin' less. See, there's tha big difference between myself and most of these punks in the XWF. I have no delusions about tha type 'a man I am. I don't gotta go 'round, puffin' out my chest, actin' like I'm bigger than I am. Like I'm some kinda unstoppable force. Because I ain't.

I ain't an unstoppable force. Look at me, I'm 6'2 and weigh 210 pounds. That ain't no giant. Yes, Robbie is a much bigger man than me, but here's tha thing 'bout giants. They fall, and they fall hard. There ain't no Goliath who don't got his David, and I could sit here and say that's me. But, Robbie's already got one 'a them. A masked man by tha name 'a Hastur. Tha man who ensured that Robbie's gotta talk about how he's unpinned and unsubmitted and can't just say he's undefeated.

Because he ain't.

I am.

And here's tha thing. He's already been knocked off his peak. He ain't even a Goliath anymore. He's just a big, sad sack 'a shit desperately tryin' ta hold onta whatever pride he's got left.

I got a question fer ya, Robbie. If ya are this big bad force 'a nature, why was it ya couldn't get tha job done against Hastur? Huh? Because, I got an answer fer ya and I know this might not be what ya wanna hear, but frankly I couldn't give a fuck less what ya wanna hear. It's because ya ain't.

Ya just ain't.

Are ya listenin' ta me, Robbie? Do ya hear the words comin' outta my mouth? Because here's another thing about all the shit ya said about me. It's all fuckin' irrelevant. All yer waxin' 'bout tha type 'a man I am. 'Bout what I stand fer. 'Bout nothin' that's important to tha world 'a rasslin'. I get it, how can ya insult tha ability of a man who ain't been beat?

'Specially considerin' ya ain't tha man ya claim ya are.

Ya can keep on keepin' on, say what ya want about how yer tha rassler America deserves. Hype up how yer unpinned, how yer unsubmitted.

Well, 'til tonight anyway.

Because I'm comin' and I'm gonna take away one 'a them. And without one, tha other just doesn't have tha same ring to it, don't it?

So keep yer pride. Keep yer words. Save it for tha ring, man.

It ain't gonna matter much when yer pickin' yer teeth up off tha mat when it's all said 'n done.

Which brings me to tha stipulation. How are ya gonna bleed, ya ask?

If I was less of a man than I am, I could easily stack this whole situation in my favor. I could say ya have to have your hands tied behind yer back, that I can do whatever I want but ya can't, any 'a those situations.

But I ain't. Rules, well rules don't sit too well with men like us, eh?

So who needs 'em?