[4:00pm. Thursday 24th The day of Warfare]


*The camera sits on the dashboard. The footage fades into the scene as we see Gator and Todd sat in the Camaro. The pair is silent as they drive; Gator is concentrating on the road sipping from a bottle of water in his hand. Todd looks tired like he hasn't slept for days. Todd has a pissed off expression on his face as he looks at Gator, he turns down the volume and throws himself back into his seat looking out the window, shaking his head and muttering under his breath*

“The fuck is your problem now?”

T: “You are! You’re my fucking problem! You take me on this ‘Gator and Todd Get the Munchies’ road trip and then you just toss all the shit into the trash! Why?”

“Because we’re done with this part of the story, I threw away the drugs because we don’t need them anymore. By the way it’s not ‘Gator and Todd Get the Munchies.’ If anything it’s ‘Fear and Loathing in New Orleans,’ that was a far greater movie and based on an amazing book, I don’t think Harold and Kumar go to White Castle was a number one bestseller. They didn't mention it in the New York Times at le-”

T: “Okay enough of all this funny bullshit! Where the hell is the Molly!?”

“Firstly Todd, never interrupt me again. I’m already bottling up the blood boiling anger I have for you right now after turning down my music. Secondly, I flushed the MD. Some plumber is going to be in for a good night.”

T: “I can’t fucking believe you. Shit! How can you be so calm? You took some of the MDMA too, as well as a bunch of other shit.”

“That’s because I don’t need that shit to function, I just do it to let some steam off.”

T: “Okay that explains the drugs but what about you. How can you be all angry the week leading up to Warfare and calm on the day it happens?”

“It’s just the way I do shit. I get everything off my chest leading up to something and when I have to go do it I've got nothing left to say, so my mind is clear and I can focus on whatever’s in front of me. It’s like the quiet moment after a disaster and then the aftermath destroys everything.”

T: "That's how you do shit? Whatever man. So you're not going to say anything more about Griffin MacAlister?"

"Nah, I'm done talking about him. I couldn't care less what he says at this point."

*Todd sits in his seat tapping the dashboard and rocking quickly back and forth*

T: Arrgh! I can’t focus without that shit. You said you’re a storyteller right? Tell me a fucking story; help me get my mind off things.”

*Gator takes his attention off the road to look at Todd for a few seconds. He looks back to the road chuckling to himself*

“Okay you want a story? I’ll tell you a fucking story. Once upon a time in the make believe land of Japan, there was an organisation based in the forbidden kingdom of Osaka called J-Pro and in this organisation was a group of dastardly villains who wanted to rule J-Pro and twist it to the dark side but they were foiled by a rag tag team of valiant knights, these men fought hard to restore order and make the organisation legendary and proud, but none of the knights were as brave and handsome as their leader, Sir Gator! Until one day, not unlike today, the village drunk dared to challenge Sir Gator to a duel. The brave knight refused his challenge again and again, so he would not tarnish his honor by doing battle with a lowly peasant, but the fool persisted and so Sir Gator had to-”

T: “Okay enough with the fairy tale crap just tell it to me straight.”

“STOP FUCKING INTERUPTING ME! ... You want it straight? Fine I’ll tell the fucking story straight then. There was this guy in J-Pro called Artyom Chakzov. That was his real name; the Japanese had a better name for him. Vodka Drunkintski. Haha yeah, those boys love there stereotypes in wrestling.”

T: “You’re shitting me?”

“God honest truth. Anyway Artyom, like his character, was a fucking alcoholic, made him sloppy at everything. The heads at the time really liked this guy though, fucking huge barrel chest dude, almost 7 foot, arms like fucking tanks. He didn't come into Japan a newbie either, rumor was back in mother Russia he fought live bears under the name ‘The Red Curtain’ when he walked into J-Pro people were taken back by what he looked like. Like I said he was a big dude, but by the time he came into the fed he was hitting fifty and that muscle was turning into fat, a man of his former self has never been truer.”

“He was given chance after chance but he kept fucking it up, the only reason he wasn't fired sooner was because of his chops to the chest. He would slap your skin so hard it’d leave it bloody for a week and when he did one of those chops the entire audience reacted, they fucking loved seeing old Drunkintski slap some poor dude in the corner. Do you know how quiet a Japanese audience can be? They only really start making some noise when they think the match is going to finish and when they pop they fucking pop loud. Artyom could get them like that in two seconds with his chops.”

T: “Okay so he did some nice sounding chops. So did Ric Flair, and I’m sure he did them better considering people have actually heard of Ric Flair.”

“Yeah the Nature Boy was great at slapping chests but Chakzov made fucking art. He didn’t just chop and then chop again; he made music out of those poor bastards. You know that song Wipeout by Surfaris? You know how incredible the drumming is that song? Yeah, that’s what Artyom did, he fucking played Wipeout on his opponent’s chest.”

*Gator throws the now empty bottle of water out the window and sticks a cigarette into where his mouth is, he lights it up and fills his lungs letting out a pillar of smoke*

“So Vodka Drunkintski quickly became a fucking mess, mixing painkillers with his daily dose of liquor didn't help. His name went from the top of the marquee to obscurity in a matter of months, he was a train wreck. He went from epic brawls for the Undisputed belt with guys like Tiger Makasaki, Ashin Liang and my dad to three minute matches in the death spot with jokes like Harris Harlem. It was sad really. Then one day, about a week or two after I won the JPWF World Championship, he comes up to me reeking of booze. He grabs me by the shoulder with one of his giant hands and slurs out some bad English, ‘Helu Gatir. Yoo know hoo I am, yoo and ay have big match for belt. Gud for both us. Yis?’ I told him to fuck off, that I’m not risking my reputation to try and get some washed up prick over; but he keeps fucking bugging me about it week after week, until I finally say fine, you want a fucking match I’ll drag your sorry ass through a fucking match! And that match happened two weeks later. I saw him before our match for the belt, he was crying into his bottle saying thank you to me over and over again, I ignore him and get ready for this poor excuse of a match. When it’s showtime I come out wearing that gold around my waist, the crowd cheering me as I enter the ring and wait for Vodka Drunkintski. His music hits, some royalty free Russian sounding shit, and he stumbles out behind the curtain waving a Russian flag, the crowd doesn't even care about him enough to boo. He walks four steps, four fucking steps! And the fucking addict falls off the stage and breaks his arm, Gator wins by default. Me and the crowd were pissed and for a good reason, I gave him another chance and he fucks it up in a spectacular way pulling me and my reputation down with him. Fucking joke.”

T: “What happened after the show?”

”The owner and his team tore him a new one. Said tonight was the final straw and booted him out of the company. He tried to look for work elsewhere but no one wanted him, he drank more and eat painkillers like they were M&Ms. He was depressed, jobless, homeless, no friends or family to help him out and he went the same way all addicts end up. Lying face down in the gutter, not breathing and no one caring.”

*The Camaro comes to a halt. Gator pushes down the handbrake as Todd stares at him in disbelief*

T: “Fuck man. That was a wake up call when I needed one.”

“It wasn't just for you.”

*Gator exhales a final puff of smoke and flicks the cigarette butt out of the car window. Todd looks out of the window with a puzzled expression*

T: “St. Bernard Center for addictive disorders. Why the fuck are we here?”

“You’re going to rehab Todd.”

*Gator takes an overnight bag and chucks it on Todd’s lap*

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, doesn't take that long to cure an addiction right?”

T: “But.. I-I What?”

“Relax you’ll be fine. Now hurry up and get out of the care, I need to train for tonight.”

*Gator reaches over the passenger’s seat and opens the door. Todd hesitantly steps out of the car clutching his camera and the bag in his hands*

T: “Mr. Gator, please man, I’m not sure about this.”

“Quit your fucking crying Todd. You sound like a fucking pussy. C’mon close the door; these smiling middle class people walking by are giving me the creeps.”

*Todd slowly closes the car door, as Gator pulls up on the handbrake*

“If you see Lindsay Lohan, punch her in the gut for me. Cheers.”

*A smile is seen under Gator’s mask as he speeds away leaving Todd at the front of the large white building. The camera follows the car and fades to black*