The camera comes in on an absolutely furious Christian Garcia and Alistair Ross, who are already in the middle of a screaming match by the time the frightened cameraman rounds the corner to DDE’s personal locker room.
Christian: -you HAD it, big man! You said, again and again and again, ‘stay out of my way,’ that you HAD it, that you didn’t needme in that corner, and look what happened! You let Aisu flatline you like an IDIOT.
Ross: Oh I’m sorry! Any other person in that fat shits corner and I would have been fine! That fucking snake stabbing me in the back had me off my game! Everyone! fucking snakes!
Ross: Not that it really matters huh!? might as well of been out there on my own. Were you too fucking scared or did you just want to see me lose? I can see I was stuck with you, for all the money Parca’s slipping in your fucking thong you sure as shit can’t dance when the lights are on.
Christian:Oh, pardon me, I can’t perform? ME? Who’s the one who went on a two-and-a-half month hissy fit because he couldn’t beat El Primero, Mark Reese, and The WRESTLING CLUB in a straight fight?
Christian jams his finger into Alistair’s face accusingly, unafraid of his larger tag team partner.
Christian: While you were sitting at home crying into a beer bottle, I was putting up the fight of my life against Tyson Wagner and Maxx Edwards, getting ducked by the likes of H2O and Justin Jehst because they RECOGNIZE the threat I pose, and taking any and every fight that came my way. So I don’t want to hear any excuses from you. I thought you were better than that shit, Ross.
Ross: I don’t need excuses, I can admit I was off my fucking game, but you’re going to actually try and hold Justin fucking Jehst over my head?
Ross: Listen you cocky little shitstick, I murdered that man, I concussed your little Premero, I destroyed Reese, I fucking bodied wrestling club while you couldn’t beat its weakest link.
Ross: And don’t try to tell me about straight fights. That match was anything but. A straight fight is me facing down one man, and that never fucking ends well for anyone. So can your fucking insults before I drag you back to that ring and beat you black and blue while Sensation can do fuck all but watch and wait till I’m bored!
Ross: Aisu can rock me, but you can’t do shit. You’re dirt on my boot rookie, and damn lucky your boss pays me to be here.
Although Christian’s expression changes little, he lowers his hand, rattled by the exchange.
Christian: If a one on one match is what it takes to get you back on your game, I don’t give a rat’s ass who it’s against. Because the Alistair Ross I saw at Summercide couldn’t lace the Christian Garcia I saw at Summercide’s boots. Prove me wrong.
Christian:
Go out there and murder somebody. But until you do, don’t you talk to me about what I can or can’t say, because all I see looking at me right now is a tired, worn-down old man who doesn’t have the fire he came in here with.
Ross: Whatever gets you to shut the fuck up.
Ross looks over at the camera.
Ross: You hear that whoever’s watching in the truck? I want a fucking tune-up match, and I want it on turmoil, remind those little fucks of who they’re probably laughing at. Actually you know what, while you’re at it, get big bad oh and five here his Jehst match too.
Ross turns to Garcia.
Ross: Don’t worry kid, some of us around here get what we want. I’m out of here, can’t stand the fucking sight of you right now.
Alastair walks away from his tag partner down the hallway before Jim Black appears from another corridor.
Jim: Excuse me Wre-
Garcia disappears back down it with Ross staring a hole through Jim Black.
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