23, 24, 25, 26-

His back moving up and down, lifting and falling to the sound pained grunts and counting aloud, Smoke Man is still stuck in custody. Exercising as best he can in the restrained environment - performing press-ups in his jeans, and sweating like a motherfucker. He did ask whether he could train outside but apparently that's too ludicrous for 'a criminal like him'.

They do, however, let him watch television, so at least he won't be missing Monday Madness tonight. Awesome.

30, 31, 32, 33-

Smoke Man, right now, is just kicking himself - metaphorically of course - because he can't exercise properly for probably one of the hardest matches he'll ever have to endure. The first round 8-a-side Lethal Lottery Match. In which he is the Captain of his team. And just because of his stunt against Matt Lennox during their match, he can't work out as properly as he would have liked.

Smoke pauses his exercise after panting out "38," distracted by the thought of the Lethal Lottery. He regains his composure, but lifts his left arm behind his back, and continues pushing up and down on just the one arm. The panting and vocal counting become much more rigorous under the intense circumstances.

42, 43, 44, 45-

The thing that Smoke has to be cautious of, however, is a certain stipulation that has been imposed:

***If either of the 24/7 title holders are pinned or submit in their match, the title WILL change hands***

And so even if he doesn't win, Smoke has to be sure that he's not the one to take the fall, that he doesn't cost his team the victory. Otherwise, it would cost the belt that he has held for nearly an entire month. Meaning the last he'd ever seen the belt in his own possession was before he was dragged off to the police station, with the shattered and mocking belt in his hands.

Thanks to Scotty Guillermo. The bastard that gave Shane a way of trapping Smoke.

Smoke Man pauses for a moment to change hands, smirking to himself.

57, 58, 59, 60-

Scotty will get what's coming to him. It's more than destroying his title belt. The physical representation is as good as meaningless as long as he's still champion anyway. It's just that those actions culminated in Smoke staying with the police for the week. Not exactly the best vacation, nor what you'd consider a vacation in the first place.

Suddenly the door swings open. There stands a police officer, the very same that had driven him to this so-called 'paradise'. He impatiently waits for Smoke to stand, who actually squats and jumps up reasonably quickly. Choosing to not yet slip his top back on, Smoke begins to stretch his worked upper-body - primarily at the hips.

What's up.

The round man stares at Smoke in amazement at the utter-disrespect of the law. He shakes is head to forget it, flapping his infinitely flabby cheeks.

Ah've been toll' that choo can have yer one phonecall now.

Smoke stops stretching and shrugs heavily.

I don't really want a phonecall.

And with that, the officer abruptly turns to depart out of the door, snorting:

Oh-kee.

Before he can slam the door shut, however, Smoke puts his leg in the way to block it. The police officer realises this and rotates on the spot, pointing his gun at Smoke. Smoke is quick to put his hands up, inhaling quickly as he does.

Now you git the FUCK back in dat door rat now, before ah blow yer gotdamn head off.

Confused by the sudden outburst, and the cherry-face of the officer, Smoke Man feels the need to shout to get his point across. Even though the room behind is quiet, and has a few other cops (most of which hadn't noticed this going on, or even chose not to take interest).

Woahwoahwoahwoahheyheyhey take it easy.

The officer is adamant, and takes a slight step forward, pushing Smoke back a little.

I-I meant that I didn't want a phonecall, I wanted a camera crew.

A camera crew!? Whaddya think dis is some surt of nature program! A docu-fuckin'-mentery!? Ah don't fink so ya punk! Lord knows what they'd carry in'ta dis place! Weed, cocaine, guns. Ah ain't taking that chance, YOU HEAR ME!? Now get back in the fucking room!

The cop takes another small step, but Smoke stays in place.

MOOVE!

My God he actually sounded like a cow. Maybe a nature program would actually fit here.

Nononowaitwait, hold on.

The Michelin Man pauses and looks Smoke dead in the face, waiting for an explanation.

I want a camera crew from the XWF. Y'know, the place I came from. You- you can get them from the same guy who sent you to get me!

The cop squints his eyes suspiciously as the red washes from his face. Standing up straight (still about half of Smoke's size), he talks while still casually holding his gun toward Smoke's abdomen. Smoke doesn't even think about lowering his arms.

Whut fer exectly?

I-I... I need to make a promo for my match on Wednesday. I wanted to do it at some point in the week an-and that's all that really matters to me. I promise! Other than my exercise!!

The cop lets this stew for a few seconds - but for Smoke Man, with a loaded gun pointed at his abdomen, it feels like a damn eternity. After thoroughly thinking it through. The cop looks dead at Smoke and slowly slips his gun into its holster.

Ah fink ah can arrange dat.

Smoke breaths a sigh of relief as he lowers his arms.

Thanks, mate.

All it takes is for the officer to so much as glance at Smoke for him to turn around and head back into the room. The officer leaves - but not before closing and locking the door.

So now Smoke got the camera crew for the promo ahead of this week's Lethal Lottery encounter. Pleased, he walks back over and continues his press-ups, sweating profusely.

Although he's not sure he was actually sweating this much when the officer interrupted him.