-=The scene opens on a television screen in the midst replaying the events of Pro Wrestling NEO’s latest event. In particular? It’s the closing moments of Tabitha Tremont vs. Nariko Inazuma; the diminutive daughter of Chris Strike eating powerbomb after deadlift powerbomb filling the high definition screen, each one leaving her body a little bit limper than the last, before Tremont’s lifting her up and ragdolling her to the mat with a spinning powerbomb. The rest is academic-the ref’s hand rises and falls three times, yet the feed is paused just as the three count is made. Hardly a moment later, the camera slowly zooms out and pans to the left-revealing that the television screen is settled within the office of none other than William Bateman, the Pretty Boy Assassin (and Christ) himself. A look of mild disdain rests upon his features as he sits behind the massive desk that dominates the camera’s view, his brow showing the faintest of wrinkles and his lips pulled into a disgusted sneer. From the looks of it, one would’ve thought that a trash truck had driven by on a hot summer’s day...or maybe he had just seen a picture of Samantha Tolson’s sideboob on Twitter (not that he’d follow something so terrible).=-
Bateman: ...They want me to wrestle that, you know? In fact, she requested a match with me. Chris Strike’s favorite premature ejaculation, Nariko Inazuma, wants to wrestle me, when she can’t even handle someone like Tabitha Tremont? Hell, she can barely handle putting on her own ring gear, let alone winning a match on a somewhat consistent basis, but somewhere within that idiotic brain of hers, she seems to think that she has any hope of a positive outcome against me, the God Damned Bateman. I have to wonder…
-=A pause, the look of disgust fading--only to be replaced with that of dull amusement.]=-
Bateman: ...Can the effects of multiple concussions be passed down genetically? Because she’s clearly suffering from some sort of delusions if she thinks she even deserves the privilege of facing me in any context.
-=While he looks amused, there is no hiding that sense of outright offense being taken to the notion. It’s something that lingers for a few moments before the man draws in a deep breath through his nostrils and allows his hand to rise; the process of making sure his wavy brown hair is out of his face and the full windsor knot, crafted out of the finest black Italian silk, at the base of his throat is perfectly centered. With an exhale, it seems as though he’s found zen.=-
Bateman: ...But such ignorance is to be expected of a younger generation. Such ignorance is all I’ve faced since I’ve come out of retirement. Marlon Cure? Beat him in my first match in three years, but rather than just accepting his failures after talking such a good game? He’s talking about my return to the ring being little more than a nostalgia tour, as if that would lessen the embarrassment of losing to me in his mind. Which leads to Nariko challenging me, as though she’s done anything worthy of note, thinking that she could...that she can beat me. And then, finally, our esteemed Twitter peon behind the PW NEO account feels like she can simply get me booked in any match she wants in one of the worst buildings to ever host a wrestling show while simultaneously refusing to promote anything I’ve done. All because they believe that they can. That they have the right to pick and choose, and a man who has made actual, paper-trail documented millions in this business for both myself and my employers, simply doesn’t make the cut.
-=Another slow inhale is taken through his nostrils, his eyes closing for a moment as he tries to find that calm despite the insults to his pride, his ego and his talents. It’s only after a couple of seconds that he’s able to exhale and let it go, a brief chuckle escaping his lips before he’s pushing himself up to his feet.=-
Bateman: ...But the time has passed for giving such small people credence. They’re little fish, practically plankton, who would get lost in the depths of the waters I’ve swam. They’d be dragged into the undertow by the beasts I’ve conquered. They are small, laughable little things...and I have more important matters to address than to give those bit players on my road towards what is and always will be mine: Greatness. Instead, let’s talk about something more important-Heaven or Hell.
-=As he circles around the desk, a hand swipes something up from it’s surface. To the astute eye (or well versed fan), it’s none other than the infamous 24k Gold iPhone (which literally only exists to play Angry Birds). The screen is raised toward his eye for a moment, as though checking to see if there was anything better he could be doing, before the device is slipped into his pocket and his attention returns to the camera.=-
Bateman: ...Here we are, the qualifiers for the World Championship of theirs. All of us vying to be the first, all of us here by virtue of proving ourselves. Some through ‘hard work’. Others through determination and skill. Some...by taking advantage of the fact that their opponent was an idiot rookie who shouldn’t be booked in any building that holds more people than a Waffle House. But here we are, fighting for the chance to be the first-to set the tone and example for everyone who follows. And the next round is...a tag match.
-=He almost had himself going, it seemed. There was something of a smile, if not a condescending smirk, creeping it’s way upon his face...but as soon as the words tag match were uttered? It all fell; a look of ‘really’ cast forth with the rise of an eyebrow. That disappointment turns to an almost defeated expression, his shoulders slumping and an audible sigh leaving him as he reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose.=-
Bateman: ...Alright. Real talk? I fucking hate tag matches. I hate tag matches because they usually mean that I’m facing mediocre talent who couldn’t manage success on their own. Or, worse still, I’m forced into one in a situation like this-a partner that I don’t know, don’t care about and want nothing to do with, two rando’s and something of value on the line when I don’t even know if I can trust the person beside me to wipe their ass right, let alone be somewhat competent. And yet here I am, forced into a tag match against…
-=There’s no attempt for a dramatic pause. No purposeful silence. Instead, there’s a look of confusion on his face for a moment or two that only grows increasingly awkward as the seconds tick by. It becomes so great that, eventually, he’s withdrawing the phone that he had just put away and breaking his golden rule in regards to it.=-
Bateman: One moment.
-=There’s some idle tapping, followed by his eyes narrowing a bit...before visibly mouthing “who the fuck?”. Shaking his head, that phone is put back into his pocket.=-
