It's 7:40, Eastern Standard. The plane's just touched down from New York, Trent is grabbing his bags, looking for the driver when his phone vibrates.

It's his agent. He'd rather not, but the complimentary cocktails in business class were enough to lessen his initial impulse to ignore those kinds of texts. The catch.

You're all set TB, registration just went through. Welcome to XWF.

He types back, "thanks."

Another buzz.

BTW, did you see they're already taking polls about whether or not you want some jabroni's sausage?

Trent clicks his phone off and finds the driver. The chauffeur is short, bearded, and looks like Santa Claus if he quit this whole Christmas charade and took up a job as a part time limo driver. His beard dye is patchy, at best.

"Hey, pal... yeah we're headed to XWF Monday Night. Rear entrance of the arena, please."

"You got it."

Street lights flicker by, Trent compulsively checks his phone. It's been ten years since he's strapped up. Hell, it's been ten years since he's had a physical. New York has been good, it's home. It's where he thought he belonged. Except the itch.

Itch always gets you, don't it?

After a ten minute ride we arrive at the arena. The chauffeur does his best to beat me to my bag, but I tell him "no problem" and tip him anyway.

Truth is, Trent hunted down the XWF for one reason. His body isn't up to it. But the pull of prospect... the spectre of potential.
... if I were a glass-half-full kind of guy.

ID is checked at security, Trent finds a a dressing room with his name on it. Nice touch.

Once inside I find none other than Damien Tyrus Rayne waiting for me. He's aged like shit and stinks like bourbon. He's poured me one and motions for me to sit down and join him.

"Trent."

I can help but smile down at him.

"DT."

"Well, you look like you just rolled out of that stinking borough... Bronx?"

"Brooklyn."

"Ah, right right. Yankees didn't do so go-"

"Let's not."

"Well, I suppose I oughta cut to the chase then."

"What are you doing here, Damien?" I'm more exasperated as a result of his presence than exhausted from my flight. Grabbing my glass, we toast to nothing in particular.

"You really shouldn't be doing this, Trent."

"Oh, look whose grown empathetic in their old age!"

"I'm saying Ryan Hunter isn't going to turn up."

"Well, what if I'm not here for Ryan Hunter?"

Damien scoffs, mockingly. He sips his bourbon and places it down.

"I'm saying, Trent... walk away before you get hurt."

The door busts open and a press intern comes bumbling through.

Trent slugs back the rest of the bourbon. "Thanks for the drink, D. Say hi to the missus."

"Don't go there, Bristor."

"Catch your flight guy. I'm at work."

Damien gives Trent one last look up and down before whisping out the door and into the night. The press intern, a camera man and interviewer now are left alone with Trent. Sweating liquor, on a quixotic mission for nothing and everything. Maybe a belt. Maybe a catharsis not yet envisioned. Whatever it is, it'll be fun to swing a steel chair or two in the process.

"Mr. Bristor, welcome to the XWF. My colleague here is going to mic you up, we're going to do a quick soundbite for promo. Do you have any questions?"

"How old are you?"

"20, sir."

Trent laughs and briefly remembers years past and has his first real moment of panic.

"Mic's up?"

"And 3...2..."

The camera man motions his fingers towards Trent to signal that they're rolling.

"Well, hello XWF. Allow me to introduce myself..."[/font]

40 Squirrels run up.

Mayoslapper. Your bright blue jeans and charismatic chocolate milkshakes don't displayapplesause any zenith hammer down room giraffe. Halo5 lanyards your uncle hasn't played tennis in decades. I don't smell anything down here anymore if we all Jimmy Dean sausage your ass into next pancake Sunday's waffles. No syrup. Nope. Wag tails and salute.

The 40 squirrels all wag their tails and salute. They then scramble into the park, looking for nuts.