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John Samuels · (04-22-2013)

MINE!

MINE!

The scene opens with a frantic Samuels walking down the XWF hallways, red in the face and visibly angry. He approaches a man who is eating a hamburger. Samuels grabs the hamburger from the man and takes a large bite out of it.

Samuels: MY BURGER!

Samuels screams in the man’s face, chomping wildly at the bite of burger. He spits the burger out on the ground and throws the rest of it in the man’s face, sending lettuce, tomato and burger flying in every direction. Samuels storms down the hallway and bumps into a woman drinking a soda. He snatches the soda from her and takes a big, loud slurp out of the straw.

Samuels: THIS IS MINE TOO!

Samuels spits the soda out, opens the lid and dumps the rest of the soda over the head of the shocked woman. He crumbles the cup up and tosses it at the woman before walking away grunting. Samuels reaches an office much smaller than his, with a picture of Fairchild on the door. He kicks the door in and storms into the room, causing Fairchild to screech in terror. He walks over to her and shoves her out of her chair, sending her flying. He takes a seat in the chair and puffs his chest out.

Samuels: THIS IS MY CHAIR!

Fairchild: What in the hell is this about!?

Samuels: Ask Cobra! Apparently if you say something’s yours, it makes it true, right!? Did you see this idiot earlier? Claiming the European title is his. Do you see it on his waist? No. Is he the one wiping off the orange chicken stains that that disgusting Neonero left on it? No. The title is mine. I won it. I’m the champion, nobody else. Me. Me. Me.

Fairchild: Okay, okay I get it. You’re angry. But why does it matter? Everyone knows Crimson Cobra isn’t winning the title tonight.

Samuels: Or ever. Not as long as I have anything to say about it. He wouldn’t even have a title shot if I were around when he became number one contender. He’d be fighting all the other rookies in the battle royal, Hell, he probably wouldn’t win that either.

Fairchild: I wouldn’t take it personally sir. You can’t expect him to roll over. You’re the champion now, you’re under the magnifying glass now.

Samuels: Who the hell needs a magnifying glass? I’m 6’7”--

Fairchild: 6’5”

Samuels: 6’6”. 275 pounds of pure muscle. You don’t need a magnifying glass for that. If you don’t see that coming at you, you have eyes like Nero’s. Is Cobra asian?

Fairchild: I don’t think so.

Samuels: Not that it matters. That little pissant is annoying me and I think it’s time to teach him a lesson in respect. Becoming a champion isn’t something that you do by accident. I’ve earned this damn title, unlike Cobra who only had to beat up a buddy of his. And yet somehow in that reptilian brain of his, he thinks that he can beat me. He thinks that he’s got some advantage over me, despite already getting his ass kicked twice. And worst of all, he already thinks he’s the champion. Tomorrow night, I’m going to set the record straight. He thinks he’s got some kind of physical edge? Congratulations, he can run a marathon. But is this the Olympics? No. This is wrestling. Size and strength are what get you to the top. Jumping jacks like him may get the crowds on their feet and are good for a few thrills, but at the end of the day, they all come crashing down. Now me? Sure, I may enjoy a good glass of expensive scotch and I might smoke a cigar or two, but when you get hit by me you feel it. And you’ll keep on feeling it for a few days after. Crimson Cobra is going to find that out tomorrow. And boy am I going to hit him hard. He’s going to have much bigger problems than his dead snake when I’m done with him. When you go zero for three against the champion, where does it leave you? You’re no longer a contender, because the world knows that you can’t get the job done. Not like me. I get into that ring and I win matches, there’s no doubting that. I’m the best thing that Monday Night Madness has to offer, not Jeff Hardy, not Neonero and definitely not Crimson Cobra.

Ahem.

The camera moves over to the kicked in door, and a large, bald security guard examining the damage to it. He kicks the door lightly a few times, sending it tumbling to the floor. He looks up at the pair with concern on his face.

Security: I, uh, got some reports that there was a disturbance in the hall. What happened here?

Samuels: Crimson Cobra happened here.

Security: C’mon, really? This door is solid, it’d take somebody much stronger to knock it in like that.

Samuels: YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT IT DID!

Security: So it was you?

Samuels: ...No.

Security: Funny, because my radio reports that the perp looked like European champion John Samuels. And if I’m not mistaken, you just happen to be European champion John Samuels, seated in front of a damaged door. Strange coincidence?

Samuels gets up, his face a bright red. He stands face to face with the security guard, staring him directly in his eyes, with his teeth clenched and nostrils flared.

Samuels: It’d be best for you if you did just call it a coincidence.

Security: What are you going to do? Beat me up like you keep beating on everyone else? I’m not an old man, nor am I scrawny bartender. If you’re going to come at me, I’m not going to back down to you Samuels.

Samuels smirks and backs off, nodding his head.

Samuels: You’re not a coward. I like that. What’s your name?

Security: Scott. Marcus Scott.

Samuels: Well, Marcus Scott. You’ve definitely made an impression with me. Just give me one second.

Samuels holds up one finger as he pulls out his cell phone. He dials a number and patiently waits. After a moment he smiles and turns his back to the man, his head bouncing up and down as he chatters away. He nods his head several times and turns around, back to Marcus.

Samuels: Here, it’s Paul Heyman.

Excitedly, Marcus grabs the phone and lowers his already deep voice. He places the phone up to his ear with a smile, which quickly disappears. Marcus tries to speak but is continually cut off. After a few moments the man bows his head and hands the phone back over to Samuels.

Samuels: So what’d he say? New promotion? A bump in your pay?

Marcus: I’m uh... he f--

Samuels: What’s that? Speak up!

Marcus: He fired me.

Samuels: Oh no! He fired you? Whatever could you have possibly done to merit that? Surely, it wasn’t you barging into this office, uninvited, and threatening Paul Heyman’s greatest star? Noooo. That couldn’t be it, could it?

Marcus begins to sniffle and wipe his eyes.

Marcus: I was just doing my job. I have kids, man.

Samuels: And now you’ll be able to spend plenty of time with them. Unfortunately, since you’re no longer an employee of the XWF, I’m afraid that you are trespassing and I must insist that you leave immediately.

Samuels escorts the crying man out of the office personally, smiling at his pain. As they reach the exit door he holds it open for Marcus to leave. On his way out, Samuels kicks Marcus in the ass on the way out and slams the door.

Samuels: THIS IS MY SHOW!

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