LIVE FROM MADISON SQUARE GARDEN

The camera pans to the announce team.

	Welcome to Riot Episode 466!
	We are just 3 weeks away from The Biggest Show of the Year!

	and 1 Week Away from the mother of all Riots!
	I can't contain my excitment lets go!

The scene opens to a private area of an airport. A limo sits in front of a helicopter, whose blades are slowing down to a halt. The trunk of the limo closes, and behind the limo is a woozy Jack, Luther (still naked) and Leon.

Leon: Do you think duct taping a rag soaked in ether is too much?

Luther: Meh.

Jack: I've done worse. Plus, it's not a long ride.

Leon: Driver, how long is the ride?

The driver looks at the group in the rear view mirror.

Driver: 4 hours.

Jack: See, not that bad.

Leon: I don't want this guy to die. I want to keep him alive, and ALMOST kill him over and over....

Leon goes a bit hysterical and continues to talk as Luther and Jack get into the limo.

Leon: ...and when he's finally about to break, I'm going to...

Luther: Shut up you C*NT, and get in the damn limo!

Jack: Seriously, tick tock asshole.

Leon stops his tirade, stares blankly at Luther and Jack in the limo before shaking his head and climbing in. As the door closes we see the three men sitting in the limo. Jack has a seat all his own, and Luther and Leon share the back seat.

Jack: Finally, back in the good ol USA. I could go for some American specialties.

Luther: Steak and eggs.

Leon: Give me one of those beers...I need one.

Jack: I was talking about inexpensive methed out, single mother, stretch marked up, bacon slab tittie hookers.

Leon: Of course you were.

Luther: F*ck the steak and eggs, I'm with Jack, I'll take some bacon slabs.

Leon: Why not spend the extra money and get a classy one that maybe has...less than 8 std's?

Luther & Jack: Can't catch it if ya already got it.

Leon: What have I associated myself with?

Jack: A league of extrodinary shitbags. You're welcome ahead of time. Driver!

The divider panel rolls down.

Jack: Please bring us to your nearest overpass.

The camera pans to the announce team.

	A bunch of nogoodnics!
	Rude!

The scene begins with a black screen, radio music can be heard faintly in the background. It remains black until a small bell is rung, the screen cuts to Cole Kappa in his regular street clothes standing on the customer side of a counter. An elderly lady approaches the other side. Cole Kappa hands his in ring gear to the lady and speaks.

Cole Kappa: You mind touching these up a bit? Not too many people are feeling it.

The elderly lady stares at the gear with a disgusted look on her face, she takes the gear and throws it in the trash. She speaks as Kappa looks on confused.

Elderly Lady: Sit there.

She makes her way to the back, and Kappa takes a seat, the scene ends there.

The camera pans to the announce team.

	Someone's got a tailor!
	Fancy!

Jett Draven vs Vincent Winters

The camera pans to the announce team.

	Right down to the wire!
	He got all of it!

The scene opens up with Seb Abbott walking the hallowed halls of Madison Square Gardens, he'd barely walked a few feet before he bumped into a brick wall of a woman.

Abbott coming back to reality looked up at who he ran into and glared a little, it was Bertha Stiglitz.

Bertha: Stay out of Bertha's way little man.

Seb: Excuse me love but it is you blocking the way.

Bertha: You say Bertha fat, rich coming from man with pink eye.

The Englishman made to push pass Bertha as she made the comment about his eye, he pulled up short red in the face and stared her down.

Seb: Now listen here you mullet. why don't you light your tampon, and blow your box apart? Because it's the only bang you're ever gonna get, sweetheart. And it's not pink eye, it's "conjunctivitis".

Satisfied with his insult as Bertha stood silent, Seb began walking off but Bertha grabbed his fruity little ponytail and rammed his face into the corridor wall not once, not twice but three times.

Seb slumped face first down the wall leaving a bloody snot trail in his wake, Bertha grinned then stepped over the fallen Abbott and left. Seb groggily rose to his feet and wiped the blood from his upper lip and made his way to the Rev Inc locker room.

Seb: F**king ape of a woman. Lucky I got a, a um. Bloody woman.

He walked into the locker room shaking the fog that had returned from his head and threw his gear bag into the corner before plonking down into a chair.

Seb: Why am I here again?

With that the camera flashes to the announce team leaving Seb to figure out why he is on Riot tonight...

The camera pans to the announce team.

	You don't mess with The Bertha!
	Good god get that man a moist towellete or something!

[Pre-recorded footage]

Footage from what seems to be a cheapish handheld digital camera on a tripod begins to play, with Cort Marshall's aviator-clad face filling the screen. He adjusts the camera and backs away, showing a small stream behind him with thick forest surrounding it. 

Marshall: Welcome to the outdoors, OCW. A place most of you wouldn't survive for ten seconds in, without your makeup rooms and your why-phy and your legions of closeted teenage fanboys desperate for a flick of your ab sweat.

Marshall reaches behind him, pulling a lever-action rifle off a strap on his backpack.

Marshall: For me, this place is my retreat. My sanctuary. Where I go when I need to take my time, and think about things. A place nobody will bitch at me about noise laws when I do this.

He pulls the lever, aims, and takes a shot across the creek. A grin plays across his lips as the smoke from the gun wafts into the clear noon air and the crack of the shot echoes off the surrounding peaks. He waits until the only sound is once again the running of the creek before continuing.

Marshall: But that isn't the reason you're seeing this, right now. No, I saw this little creek, like one of many in my true home out here, and it made me think of someone.

The smile disappears.

Marshall: It made me think of you, H2O. It made me think of all your stupid little speeches about comebacks, about competition, about your destiny as a big-time player. About you and your washed-up harlot of a girlfriend.

Marshall: Here's a tip, buddy. She'll leave you for the next cock in town the moment she realizes your 15 minutes of fame are up. 

Marshall: Here, let me show you what I mean.

He approaches the camera again, removing it from its tripod and walking it to the edge of the stream. Pointing the camera at the stream, he uses his free hand as a cup, scooping up some water.

Marshall: See this? This is you, H2O. Crystal clear, right off the snowmelt. Looks beautiful on its own, doesn't it? But...

He empties the water back into the creek.

Marshall: Just like that, it disappears, lost in a million others just like it. Part of the system, no more special than the molecule next to it. The oceans have a place on every map.

Marshall: The droplets like you fall on the ground and disappear. You talk a big talk, H2O. You claim to be special. “The head rookie.” Every time you fall you get back up again, vowing that you'll never give up until you're the best.

Marshall: You've got guts, kid. I respect that. But you don't have any sense of scale. 

He gestures at the creek.

Marshall: Do you know how many people thought the same way you do? How many people thought that hard work would trump talent and ability?

Marshall: That this setback was only momentary, that they'd be back up on two feet to climb the mountain tomorrow?

Marshall: That their blood sweat and tears meant anything at all in the face of the great machine we call life? 

Marshall: I've got sad news for you, kid. There have been a million others like you before, and there will be a million after. None of them will ever learn. You've got no talent.

Marshall: No skill. You aren't the biggest guy, the fastest guy, the smartest guy. The meanest guy. You're just a drop in a puddle, like everyone else who didn't have what it takes.

Marshall: One day you'll get up one last time and realize, how long has it been? How many times have you been knocked down and struggled back to your feet, and for what?

Marshall: To get knocked down again; to have it hurt more the next time you summon the strength to rise. You should quit while you're ahead. While your body still works without three bottles of pills in the morning.

Marshall: When you can remember where you are when you wake up in the middle of the night sweating. 

He stops for a moment and breathes, clearly thinking about something personal. Then, Cort turns the camera around, aiming it at his face while poking an outstretched finger into the lens.

Marshall: Come Riot, H2O, I'll show you what the difference between someone like you and someone like me is. I can put in half your effort and get twice the results. I'm not destined to be the best; I already am.

Marshall: You just don't realize it. I'm a natural winner, H2O, and you're just a peasant pining for a crown. No matter how hard you try, a pauper can never be a king. A slave can never be a master.

Marshall: And a perennial loser like you could never beat a natural winner like me. Don't believe me? Of course you don't. 

His smile returns, meaner than ever.

Marshall: Not yet.

A click is heard, and the video stops.

The camera pans to the announce team.

	What a load of hot air!
	You shut your god damn mouth, Cort is a GOD DAM PATRIOT, you Commie son of a bitch!

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