--John Michael White sighs. He looks at the TV, a tiny set sat on a folding chair, buzzing with static and faded colour. He leans over from his flaking, splintered bench and flicks off the television. He has just watched Dexter Bale announce to the world how wonderful he is, and seen the sumptuous New York penthouse his opponent calls home. Probably just as well John didn't see it in HD. He's jealous enough as it is.--

--John looks up, a red light striking his bald head. XWF had sent a camera operator to record his thoughts going in to his first match. They had begun recording. He was so used to this. It would flow like water from a fountain, like blood from a stuck pig. A promo, the unit of hype that built interest in a match, that sold a feud, that justified a war. He would let it run right out of his mouth and down the street: the countless reasons he had to hate Dexter Bale. This was a man worth millions, conceited enough to not even be grateful for his good fortune. This was a man blessed with good looks and breeding and still he was brutish enough to treat sex as a simple transaction. This was the kind of man who did not need to fight to scrape together a living, he did it because he needed to feel superior to other people, and looking down at the ants on the sidewalk from the 47th floor just wasn't enough. This was a man so selfish, arrogant and hollow that it was like looking in a mirror.--

--Except the mirror had hair. The lawyer stands, weary and sore, helped by his cane. He unbuttons his shirt, fingers deft and swift. They are long and elegant, the fingers of an artist, and with a pen and some paper, he could perform art in any courtroom. And just to be greedy, he has an extra finger on his left hand.--

--John Michael White slides his shirt off his sleeves, neatly folds it and sets it down on the bench. From a rusting hook he lifts a black shirt, pulls it over his head. Emblazoned across it in white lettering is a simple maxim: Heads Will Roll.--

--John Michael White reaches for another hook, lifts off his purple sports coat, slides it on over his sinewy arms. He turns to the camera, flashes his devilish grin.--

--And with those two and a half words, the lawyer walks off, his boots clomping on the gritty tiles. He purses his lips, whistles with his back to the camera, and starts to sing to himself.--

--Fade to white.--