The shot opens with Charlie leaning against a nondescript concrete wall, framed only from the waist up. His taped up hands look bruised and calloused. The slight furrow of his brow betrays his relatively neutral expression.

Charlie: Back in the day words used to mean something. Language had power. When a mean son of a bitch walked down to the ring and was announced as “the butcher”, you knew you were going to see some bloody carnage. When a greasy bastard walked down to the ring with a wriggling bag and was announced as “the snake”, you knew you were going to see a damn cobra! The words themselves had an effect on the crowd. Once that sound wave hit their eardrum the serotonin blasted through their brain and the vivid images ran through their imaginations. But now?

Language has lost that power. It seems that our words are describing less and less of our reality. Our experiences are going unsaid, unstated, uncomprehended, because our language is losing the potency it once had. When I tell Connie I love her, well, she just doesn’t get it anymore.

What’s happening to our language? I think I know.

Charlie licks his lips as he pauses. The specifics of his theory hang in the air for a moment as he brings his right thumb up to his lips to wipe away the excess saliva.

Charlie: Our language is being abused, folks. It’s true. When you take a word and brutalize it’s meaning over and over through misuse, you strike a blow against the potency of language itself. Take that squad of suited up jobbers running around calling themselves misfits, for example. Misfits? My god, that couldn’t be further from the truth. What exactly do they not fit into?

In my 23 as a professional wrestler I have walked through the doors of dozens of federations. Every single one of them had at least three generic European heels, two rambunctious lesbians, and a handful of guys in suits that think they’re the next coming of Jim Cornette or Bobby Heenan with a mic in their hand. You could take their little sideshow act and find a cookie cutter copy in damn near half the companies in this industry. This little gimmick, it’s been mainstream for fifteen years. The fans go for it at first, those gutless bastards crave the familiar. The corporate executives eat it up because they know it’ll sell merchandise and get over, at least for a little bit. Until the fans see through it.

I mean, how the hell is Kris Von Bonn a misfit? How long are you expecting the crowd to buy that one? He’s a child of wealth, born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Are we really supposed to care that the spoon has a little anarchy symbol on the handle? He’s got the headshot of a model, or a hollywood star! You’re expecting us to believe that man has trouble fitting in?

Charlie shakes his head from side to side as a fire rises in his eyes. He speaks again, but with a quicker pace and a harsher tone.

Charlie: If I looked like that, I bet you Connie would still love me. Nice jawline, symmetrical face. Got all of his teeth still. Fifteen years of hard drinking hasn’t given him his beer gut yet. Looking like some dainty male model who just walked off the pages of a magazine. His smooth, shaved chest hasn’t been cut open again and again with barbed wire. Is that what you want in a man, Connie?! You looking for some limp wristed European douche to sweep you off your feet and carry you to his mansion overseas? Well after I’m through with Kris, Connie, he won’t be looking like the man of your dreams anymore!

Charlie calms down as he giggles a few times. His mind races with thoughts of all the delightful ways he could put an end to Connie’s theoretical fantasies. His agitation seems to pass as his voice returns to it’s normal inflection.

Charlie: Nothing about you doesn’t fit, Kris. Even your move set is generic. Played out, mainstream. A pedigree finish. Like we haven’t seen that a thousand times before. Let me guess, you do it better than the Trips himself? Keep telling yourself that, kid.

You’re just a European knock off of your favorite childhood star. You even got your own little hammer, kid-sized. And a slick talking older manager! Congrats, Kris, you did it: you lived out your childhood dream. You’re a wrestler now, just like Trips. Just. Like. Trips.

You’re not a misfit. You are many things. You’re a knockoff. You’re a charlatan. You’re a heart throb. You’re a wealthy man and you’re a liar! But you are damned sure not a ‘misfit’! Is it hard being such a handsome little man? Is it hard to be so wealthy? Tell me Kris, what exactly doesn’t fit?

From over here it all looks to fit perfectly fine! You could drop the outcast gimmick tomorrow, start over in a new federation and instantly fit in with the other European cast-offs and cheap imitations that infest this industry.

You know, back in the day words used to mean something. When you said a word, your intent was crystal clear. You meant it. But now, language has lost its meaning. You see, when I tell my children I love them, well, sometimes I just get the feeling that they don’t believe me. But this is why. Language has lost all meaning now. When rich snobs can run around parading themselves as a ‘misfit’, well, no wonder my children doubt the truth of words!

How can you even parade yourself as a misfit while taking marching orders from a washed up jobber? Now I just can’t wrap my head around that. You’re not a misfit, Kris, you’re a glorified yes man. Your whole purpose in this company is to make Mastermind feel cool, help him feel in control even as the losses pile up. Mastermind says jump, you ask “how high?”. Mastermind tells you to drop trow, you ask “panties too?”. Mastermind demands you take half a year off of wrestling to service him and you are happy to obey like the little lap dog you are.

You’re just an obedient little lap dog, Kris. You don’t have any aspirations of your own, no drive to be great. You just do what you’re told, happy to be commanded at will so long as some table scraps are thrown your way every now and again. You just follow Antony around, doing whatever he says while Mastermind comes in and out of your life like a neglectful parent. And while you might bark and bark and bark for attention, at the end of the day you’re just a harmless little doggie that no one takes seriously.

You’re not your own man, Kris. Never have been. Your owners have just changed, and now you find yourself on a leash held by Antony, or Mastermind, when he’s willing to tolerate your presence. But I can see why he can’t stand being around you for weeks at a time: you’re an unrepentant kiss-ass. I bet it’s in your genes. A family owned trucking business doesn’t become worth millions of dollars without some serious ass kissing. Your father’s not getting those big industrial contracts without pecking a few cheeks and sending his whore wife into a few offices to swallow some corporate loads. But I’m sure even he knew when to stop. With you, it’s every fucking segment. It’s always “Yes sir, Mastermind”, or “Right away, sir”, or “Please sir, another”. The constant groveling would drive even the most needy attention whores mad.

Maybe if your daddy wasn’t such a weak little bitch he’d be here today to kick your ass. Maybe if he knew how to stand up for himself and his family he could have taught you how to stand up for yourself. But instead your rich daddy got his brains blasted out and you’re here on warfare working as hard as you can every Wednesday and doing your best to earn even the slightest approval from your masters. But I got bad news for you bud: your best just isn’t going to cut it against me.

You’re a fake, a poser, a cheap imitation. Even your name is fake. Kris Von Bonn? Now, I haven’t studied German since my 7th grade language class, but even I know that ‘Von’ means ‘from’. You’re expecting me to believe your family name is ‘From Bonn’? Not Wagner? Not Meyer? Not Schmidt? Von Bonn. Give me a break.

But if what you say IS true, your family lineage may well be historic. Significant. One of a kind. Your family may be the only family in all of human history that was so fucking stupid and inbred that it forget it’s own family name, and in a huff of desperation renamed itself after the fucking city that it lived in. And if that’s the case, Kris, then as the only member of your family stupid enough to step in between those ropes with me, you may well be one of a kind yourself. A historic man. A significant man. A man that historians will write about for ages.

Charlie makes a grandiose gesture with his hands.

Charlie: The most man of all time.

But I’m going to do you one better Kris. I’m going to help your historical legacy birth itself into our dying world. I will be a side character in your story. I will be the man who dropped you on your head so many times that your brain turned to mush inside your battered skull. And then you will be truly legendary.

Charlie makes another grandiose gesture

Charlie: The most primate of all time.

Charlie chuckles to himself a few times, his immature jokes apparently landing with the only audience that matters.

Charlie: But seriously, the people of Bonn have a rich history. Beethoven was born in Bonn, you know. A legendary composer, wrote music that will last for ages. But he went deaf. He couldn’t do what he loved most. He could never listen to music again.

How tragic. To train for years, so hard, to do what they love the most at the highest level, only to have it be ripped away from them in the end by their own bodily failures. Must be a Bonn tradition. And who am I to stand in the way of your city’s proud tradition?

I love a good legacy. And your city’s tragic legacy will continue on Warfare. I’ll put you in the history books, Kris. Right alongside Beethoven. The wrestler, who AT THE YOUNG AGE OF 24, LOST IT ALL WHEN HIS SPINE SNAPPED AND HE WAS PARALYZED, NEVER TO WRESTLE AGAIN! WHAT HE LOVED MOST, RIPPED AWAY BY HIS OWN BODILY FAILURES! YOUR CITY’S PROUD TRADITION CONTINUES, KRIS!

But you know Kris there is still that voice in the back of my mind screaming at me, saying “CHARLIE! CHARLIE! HE’S ONLY 24 YEARS OLD. HE’S GOT HIS WHOLE LIFE TO LIVE. IT DOESN’T NEED TO END LIKE THIS!”. But Kris, I’m working hard everyday to make that little voice in the back of my head go away. Each day, for 23 years, that voice has gotten fainter and fainter. Grown smaller and smaller, but it’s still there. And it’s still telling me to spare you. To take it easy on you. To let you walk out of that ring on your own two feet.

But that little voice in the back of my head can’t save you, JACK! That voice will protest, cry out, scream for me to stop as I tear your body limb from limb! But it can’t stop me. It has tried for 23 years to hold me back! Year by year, it grew weaker. Now it is only a shell of itself, a shell of a conscience that once was.

I don’t care that you have your whole life ahead of you. I don’t care that your youthful naivete has led you to the insidious influence of a fading star. I will snuff you out like a newborn in a crib. When I hit that Steubenville Screwdriver your head will bounce off the mat so hard that you lose ten years of functioning brain activity.

See Jack what you don’t understand is that I’ve been perfecting this move for as long as you’ve been alive. Before you had even said your first words I had put thousands of hours in between those ropes, mastering my craft and honing my skills. While you were sitting in your shit-filled diapers I was winning matches and electrifying the crowd. While you were sucking on your binky I was powerslamming world champions onto thumbtacks. You don’t have a shot in hell of defeating me, jack.

You’re not going to be ready for our match. There is nothing you can do to prepare. See, Jack, I have been in the ring with hundreds of men just like you. Young European pricks, the snobbish and douchey type, who’s daddy’s fat wallet put them through wrestling school. They’re gifted a few wins against jobbers and get lucky a time or two so they think they’re hot shit. Each time their dainty little bodies fold in half when I slam their skull against the mat. Each time they tap out and beg for mercy when I lock in my elbow wrench. And each time I keep the hold on, just to hear the satisfying pop of an elbow dislocating.

But you’ve never been in the ring with someone like me, Jack. Someone with 23 years of experience in this industry. Someone willing to go the extra mile, to travel to hell and back just to pin your shoulders to the mat for three seconds. I don’t think you understand Jack. There is no length I won’t go to. There is no step that is too far, no boundary that I won’t push. If you try to make my life hard, Jack, I won’t hesitate to try and end yours.

See I’m a family man, Jack. Everything I do is for my family. So when you’re fighting me, Jack, when you’re trying to stop me, you’re fighting my family. Every single time you kick out of a pin or grab the ropes during a submission, you’re trying to take food out of my family’s mouth. And I won’t stand for that. See, I won’t hesitate to grab your pussy manager by the throat and choke him until his face turns blue just to teach you a lesson about stealing from my children. And if that doesn’t do the trick, I’LL GOUGE THE BASTARDS EYES OUT WITH MY THUMBS. I would do it to you, Jack, but my children need to eat. I can’t afford to be disqualified. But your manager….well, he’s fair game.

Antony the Jerk.

Charlie’s facial features tighten, as if he just smelled something nasty.

Charlie: How’d that get through creative? Even Tyler and Emily think that one’s a bit on the nose. You know, for someone trying to make a name off of his linguistic ability I would have expected better branding from you Antony. Because at the end of the day that’s all you are, right? A brand? The whole little misfits theme. Just branding, just a fresh coat of paint on your beat-up gimmick.

Your client even said so herself. See, I am always watching. Always listening. Charlie always has his ear to the streets and his eyes to the shadows. Your whole shtick...it’s all a branding gimmick. Little Melanie admitted it herself in her little promotional video for that match she’s going to lose on Savage.

And for someone as obsessed with branding as Antony, well, let’s just say I wouldn’t expect them to settle for the first ring name they thought of when they were five years old.

But I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything more than the absolute bottom of the barrel from your brand. This whole little misfits team can’t seem to buy a win. You have four clients, and not a single belt between them. Not even a single winning streak. You sure know how to pick em’, Antony. Your prized pony was humiliated two shows in a row. What a horrible July for you and Mastermind. To be absolutely embarrassed by a fading champion in their last successful title defense, only to then go onto a pay per view card and get beaten into submission on the world’s biggest stage! Is that how you planned it, Mastermind? Just another one of your clever schemes?

Charlie chuckles to himself for a few moments before regaining his composure.

Charlie: Antony...what kind of name is that anyways? Never heard a name like that before. First time I read the card I thought your name was Anthony. But you’re missing the h. Now for the last few days I’ve been wondering where that h went, but I think I’ve figured it out. See, that h went into Charlie. Because that h stands for heart, and I have more of it than all of your misfits combined! I eat, sleep, and breathe professional wrestling. Wrestling has dominated my life every day for the last 23 years. Training, traveling, fighting, strategizing. I don’t take days off. I am in that ring week in and week out, putting everything on the line to be the greatest there ever was.

But your clients, Antony? They’re not up to snuff. They’re warm bodies, nothing more. No heart, no passion, no drive to be the greatest of all time. Because you won’t let them be. You could never let them be. Their entire purpose, the only reason you keep them on the payroll, is to make Mastermind look good. They can never outshine him. They would never be allowed to. So why would they try? Why would they bust their ass in that gym everyday, knowing that as soon as they become a threat to their Master they’ll be cast out into the street? And that lackluster effort, that low energy style you’ve drilled into your clients, it won’t get the job done against someone like me.

If Antony’s all-star client can’t even go out there and get the big wins, then his B-team has no chance in hell. Is it really any surprise that “The Hammer” came up short in the MVP battle royal? The poor bastard was never going to make it past Lynx, let alone Robbie Bourbon!

And now “The Hammer” wants another crack at the MVP shield? That’s not going to happen, Antony. So you better have that white towel handy, because I’m going to lock in an elbow wrench on your boy that’s so nasty his ligament will scream out in pain for years to come! If you want to save that investment of yours at all, you better throw that white towel before I get too excited and just SNAP....CRACKLE AND POP that elbow right out of it's socket!

And I'm not like you, Misfits. When I say something I mean it. Don't take these words as empty, JACK!

Charlie suddenly headbutts the camera, cracking the lens as the camera falls to the ground. His crimson essence coats the screen as the signal fades out.