As the sun rises over the small village of Lorraine, France we descend upon a small coffee shop just across the serene Meuse River. Simon Rockwell is sitting at a small black table just outside the quaint establishment. His tan, crisply pressed suit seems to shimmer in the dreary daybreak. Steam of recently brewed Kopi Luwak clashes against the brisk morning air. Simon Rockwell pulls the silver rimmed mug towards his nose and methodically draws in the familiar scent, reassuring him of the dawn of a new day. He gradually sips the brew, allowing the sounds of eastern France to enchant his senses and transcend his subconscious. The echo of footsteps along Rue Du Moulin patter through his mind as he releases the mental baggage from his cognizance. For Mr. Rockwell, euphoria is as easy to attain as the coffee in his hand. He takes one last inhale of the morning dew before opening his eyes to the camera before him.

Last week I issued an open challenge to any and all who wanted a shot against the Franchise Player, Mr. Rockwell. A challenge that remained unanswered. Not one member of this XWF locker room had the bravado to stand up to the Intellectual Icon! Not Sweet Cheapshots. Not Slick Rick Jones. Not even the current United States Champion Sebastian Dope! None of them had the intestinal fortitude to come forward and face me in a match this Wednesday. So...our senior Warfare General Manager had to schedule me against that melodramatic cream-puff, Man Preaching Nonsense.

Mr. Rockwell takes one last sip before placing his elixir aside.

Preach, nothing sickens me more than an inconsistent existentialist. People like you meander jobless through life claiming to be some sort of philosopher or profit as if you have mastered the art of stoicism. The validity of the matter is you hypocrites are the most materialistic, uncultivated cheats. While a polished intellect spends his days creating such literary masterpieces as "Thus Spake Zarathustra", you spend your state unemployment on a thanksgiving meal from Wendy's. A polished prodigy such as myself contemplates the work of Albert Camus and Jean Baudrillard, while you fumble through your dictionary in an attempt to comprehend what I said three sentences ago.

An enlightened smile draws upon his face, as if radiating confidence to the external world but briefly focusing on only you.

Albeit, your personality flaws are irrelevant once the bell rings. Surely your loss last week has left even your hapless soul yearning for a victory. If not, I suggest you lay on your back and save your superior some time. So, as you spend the next twenty four hours pondering the absurdity of life and questioning the confrontation between the human call and the unreasonable silence of the world, I leave you with some food for thought...Humans get into the habit of living before acquiring the habit of thinking...I break the habit.

Simon Rockwell, slides the chair from under him before rising to his feet. He savors a final taste from his cup and reaches into his breast pocket. He pulls out a roll of money and tosses nine francs carelessly to the table. The magic of the small French cafe is lost with the bright beaming of an early morning sun.

End scene.