Albuquerque, New Mexico
A vast desert landscape stretches out in front of us. Various shapes of cactus jut upward from the dry sandscape. Tumbleweeds blow by in the distance. Dan Ryan stands to the fore of this scene, looking through dark sunglasses and sneering at the annoyingly cold morning air.
Moments later a limousine pulls up and the driver pops out, rushing around the car to the curb.
"Sorry man. Traffic's a bitch right now."
Ryan rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses and climbs into the back of the limo as the driver loads the bags into the trunk.
A notification pops up on Ryan's phone and he glances down. Lindsay Troy. "Hit me up when you get here. We have some things to go over." Of course we do.
The trunk closes with a heavy thud and before we know it, the driver is back up front and driving away. Ryan hits a button on to the side of a screen in front of him and a little red light starts blinking...
Dan Ryan, looking front and center, the CWF World Championship over his left shoulder.
You know, this routine is starting to get old already. I have a match with one of you guys, it goes pretty well, we get close to the finish and then BOOM! -- bumfuck of the week runs out and ruins it. And what's the reward this week for burlap bumfuck? Or rather, what's MY reward for defending my championship one week after winning it against the former champion and having this cockeyed Joanne's Fabrics mask wearing motherfucker interrupt.... again??
I get to team with him.
Ryan's insincere smile gives way back to a sneer.
And why is he rewarded with another match at the top of the show after refusing to appear for a number one contender's match? Why is Ataxia even allowed anywhere near my belt? His sideshow flunky ass ought to be backstage cleaning up the crusted over ice cream droppings from the concession stands. He's done nothing but consistently disappoint ever since I've been here -- and yet here he is.
And here I am -- forced to elevate some poor pathetic fool to a place deserving of some sort of attention.
And then there's our esteemed opponents.
THE SHADOWY SHADOW!!
Back for another shot at shining some light on CWF and casting his long and boring shadow on the masses -- trying, desperately to confuse us all with his bath and body works candle tribute while reading from the book of dead. How come I have to be subjected to this Brendan Fraser battle against evil bullshit? Everyone knows The Shadow and Ataxia are too caught up in their inevitable dance toward some weird as fuck mutual blowjob of the macabre to give any serious consideration to this match. Seriously, why don't the two of you go set up a fucking yurt out in the New Mexico desert and fuck already?
And that leaves me to the one and only person in this entire situation who seems to actually take any of this seriously.
Duce, I'm done with the dookie jokes.
They were amusing for a little while, but now that I'm starting to get to know you, I've decided to dispense with the potty humor. I can see you're a man who is serious about your craft -- and dumb name aside -- I appreciate that. You may be a little too openly introspective and a tiny bit urban 90210 for my taste, but at least you give a damn.
I'm glad it was you that ended up as number one contender.
Every great champion needs a great challenger to start his reign off with. When I listen to you, I hear a guy who's been there before and is busting his tail to get back.
Ryan waves his hand dismissively.
Not that it matters. Still, I wanted it said.
But don't let yourself get drawn into the same trap as everyone else -- blowin' smoke up your own ass and talking about me like I'm one of these run of the mill dimestore chumps you're used to. When you think about your future and you see me in it, I want you to remember a few things.
First of all -- I don't talk about all the shit I've done. Other people do it for me. People who have to run their mouths about where they've been and what they've done aren't worth the toilet paper I wipe my ass with.
Second of all...
Ryan holds the belt up.
It took me seven matches -- SEVEN -- to become the CWF World Champion.
Am I surprised by that? Well, you never know how things are gonna roll out. But I knew I would eventually be World Champion. You know why that is? Because I always become champ eventually. It's just a matter of time before the opportunity arises and I take advantage of it. That shit where you go home and chit chat with your entourage about your doubts and fear while tokin' up and reflecting on life? That shit's foreign to me. I take my lumps for sure -- but I come right back like a man and fuck people up. That's what I do, and that's why I'm a fucking God of this business.
Ryan leans back, arms outretched on either side of him.
We're here in New Mexico, land of coyotes and pueblo mud houses, and we have this clusterfuck of a tag team match -- even though we know pretty well what's about to go down.
Someone's gonna go too far -- my money's on Burlap Bobby -- and this shit's gonna break down fast. So I'll tell you what. I'm gonna do you a solid. I'm gonna give you a free preview.
When shit hits the fan, you come and find me, and we can introduce ourselves to each other. Me, I'll introduce you to my fist via your face, and you can introduce the back of your head to the canvas.
And then -- once those two goons are out of our way, we'll get this party started for real.