Quentin Scarboro is shown standing in front of a velvet curtain. No Tara Robinson, no old man Lucas. No bells, no whistles, no thrills or frills.
And he looks pissed.
Do we have questions? That is all we have, questions and Quentin. Quentin and answers.
Q: I lost...or did I? I didn't see myself getting pinned in the ring. I fought my ass off to qualify for that Paramount championship match, and what do I get when I get there? More fucking smoke and mirrors. More of Inspector Summers getting involved in my business.
Q: All I asked for in this business was a fair shot, and they turned around and dangled a title opportunity in front of my face. Like the dollar at the end of the fishing pole, like a cheeseburger dangling as bait on a treadmill as motivation for the fat guy who just walked into the gym. I admit it, I took the bait. I bought in, hook line and sinker, I played the fool.
Q: I gave em all the hell they could handle inside that ring in the confines of that fatal four way match. As far as I am concerned, I proved that I belong. As far as I am concerned, I proved that I deserve a shot at that championship.
Q: But just look where we are at now. Jimmy Allen is holding the gold strap, while Silas Artoria and Scourge get the red carpet treatment as they move back to the front of the line? Where does that leave friendly ole smuck Quentin Scarboro? I guess there is a bigger task placed in front of me. I am left to be the cure to a cancer that seems to be rucking amuck, "inadvertently" running into the backs of the real superstars around here.
Q: Scourge and Silas get the opportunity to earn a number one contender position? What do I get? More of the same, more of the run around. More of the Inspector and the En-farce-r. The time for fun and games is over. The time for questions and answers is over. The time for trash talk and petty positioning is over...it's time for some mudhole stompin', my friend. I'll see you Tuesday, Inspector Rectum, and it doesn't matter if you have Scott Dann, Superman, a garbage can or just a other also-ran. I am going to push your man around the ring, I'm going to push his face into the mat. I'm going to make him uncomfortable, I'm going to make him hurt. I'm going to make him beg and plead and bleed. And trust me, Mister Summers. I am not going to stop until you pull that zebra stripes shirt back over your shoulders, climb in the ring, and announce your precious little pretty boy punk isn't fit to compete in the same ring as the American Throughbred, Big Q.
Scarboro snarls before the palm of his oversized hand blacks out the camera lens.