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Location: Medicine Hat, Alberta. Searra Motel.
Time: 10:30 p.m.
A man holding a camera is walking along the outside of the Searra motel, his left hand on the rusty railing of the 2nd floor. We switch onto the view from the camera’s live feed as he reaches room 202 and knocks at the door. From inside, we hear loud and animalistic grumbles followed by the sound of glass bottles clinking against each other and hitting the floor. Another grunt and a few stomps later, the door swings open and there stands Don Marshall, and he has never looked this haggard. His long-matted mahogany brown hair is almost stained with grease from being unkempt and unwashed for what seems like over a week. On his chest hands a ragged and torn white wife beater stained with patters of old tobacco chew spit, whiskey stains and cigarette burns. His face is slightly puffed up from inebriation and his cheeks are mired with red specks from broken blood vessels. His eyes are bloodshot and his breath smells like a dirty bathtub full of fermenting sour mash. Don wipes some foreign liquid off his mouth and spits on the ground at the cameraman’s feet.
Don: You coming in or what, dickhead!
His voice is still booming and surprisingly unshaken given the amount of toxins currently floating in his body. He grabs the camera man by the shoulder and shoves him inside the room. The camera pans around the room and we see the destruction and war that Don has been waging against sobriety and cleanliness. On the nightstand stands at least 6 empty 40oz bottles of Canada Club rye whiskey, one of them tipped on its side slowly dripping onto the cigarette ash covered floor. In front of a flat screen tv is another table with an overflowing ash tray to which Don walks towards, poking his fingers through the remanence he selected one that still had some tobacco clinging to its end; he brings the butt to his hair filled lips, pulls out a zippo and slams his thumb down on the wheels setting the burnt end of the smoke ablaze. He takes a deep pull and exhales loudly through his nostrils, filling the room with blueish grey clouds of toxic haze, cascading like a river across his hanging black beard. Don grabs a small wooden chair and swings it in front of himself, violently sitting down with reckless abandon along with a relieving sigh.
Don: So, Bobby sent you here to give my thoughts on the next fight and sent you here eh kid? Look a little wet behind the ears to be interviewing me, dontcha think boy?
He takes another deep drag of his cigarette and exhales through his nose as he continues before the camera operator can answer.
Don: Just ask me the damn questions and get this over with, man...
Nameless intern: Mr. Marshall, at Road for Gold you won the first qualifying match in epic fashion. Unfortunately, in the following match later that evening, Buffalo Jones managed to get one over you and get the pinfall in what some are calling the most physical and exciting match in AMA’s short tenure. How do you feel right now?
Don abruptly gets up, in complete silence, and walks over to the mini bar. He opens it casually and pulls out a new 40oz bottle of rye, pour himself a glass, and sits back down. He takes a slow, methodical sip while looking the camera dead in the eye. He puts the glass down on the table beside him and we can see a very slight shake as he puts it down.
Don: You want to know how I feel?
Don scoffs and puts his hand through his Amazonian Forest that he calls facial hair.
Don: I feel like every other time in my life where I have been on the top of the mountain and at the top of my game, only for the world to screw me over and find a way to take it from me unfairly. I destroyed everyone in my path in my AMA career, whether it be with Johnny or by myself. I put Sawyer on the shelf. Yet, the people behind the scenes running the show decided that me, Don Marshall, of all damn people!
Don stops and takes another gulp of whiskey and slam his glass back on the table.
Don: That I need a qualifying match for another match in the evening, while that pipsqueak gets a one off and gets destroyed again! What kind of disrespect is that? You tell me huh? Is AMA so scared of Don Marshall that it stacks the deck against him? Damn cowards, all of them!
Don’s face is tense now and crimson red as he is visibly shaken up and angry even mentioning his loss.
Intern: Thank you for you answer, sir. My next question is concerning your upcoming match. Don, you are going to be facing The Fear Incarnate, Pariah. He will no doubt have the Hamad Agency in toe...
Don whips out of his chair and gets to his feet and in an instant is chest to chest with the camera and its young operator.
The young man’s voice is trembling and the camera itself is now shaking along with him.
Don grabs the boy by the throat and lifts him off the ground and pins him up against the back wall. He is breathing wildly, his eyes wide open staring right into his soul.
Don: Did you fucking disrespect me by addressing me by my first name? Do you have any idea how god damned rude that is boy? DO YA?
Don shakes him with one arm, then drops him to the floor. The camera points down to the ground to a thud but barely a second passes before it is grabbed and pointed up to Don’s face who’s now pointing down at the young lad.
Don: You need a lesson in respect boy!
Don releases him and walks over to the bed and grabs a large leather belt and stomps over back towards him. He holds up the strap with both hands and cracks it upon himself, making the kid and camera jump in fear.
Don: You see when I was a kid, my drunk old daddy would beat my ass with this belt whenever he deemed I disrespected him or the family. Or whenever he just fucking felt like it. Beat out the weakness, he would say. He would bring that leather down on my back so hard I would feel like my lungs would come out of my mouth. Bled through all my damn wife beaters. He was a damn prick.
Don spits on the ground.
Don: But one thing he showed was to respect those on top of the food chain, and you will address me as Mr. Marshall. Are we clear?
Don raises the belt as the camera boy whimpers and manages to squeak out a “yes, sir.”
Don: Good, now get your ass up.
Don smiles as if nothing happened and sits back down and takes a drag of his still lit smoke.
Don: So, AMA’s decided to let me take out my frustration on Pariah huh? The man who walked out of his opportunity for the title the very same night I got screwed over. Well, I call that some poetic justice. That could have been my spot, and me moving forward. I earned that spot, and this punk just walks away from it to give it to his...associate? Tell me then boy, how can he call himself The Fear Incarnate when he is too much of a little bitch to take on a fight? Pathetic!
Don: But the obvious aside, there’s a lot we have in common. We both love to hurt people and we both like to get paid. We both dish out punishment and can endure a tremendous amount of damage on our bodies. But the difference comes down to what I talked about earlier, is this very belt right here.
Don brings up the old leather belt and bring it before his eyes and gets lost for a moment staring at it.
Don: You see Pariah, they’ve made a crucial mistake in putting us in a ring together in a strap match, because this leather strap is over 18 years of my life. Every single knockout punch, eye poke, powerbomb I do is to unleash an insatiable hunger to unleash a fraction of the abuse I conquered. And putting a leather strap in my hand, tied together where no one can escape the inevitable thunder that will crack through the sky lighting up your bare back? Well, that is just putting Don Marshall right in his element, isn’t it?
Don belts out a belly laugh and takes the last swig of his drink and slams the glass down again
Don: The rule of this game is respect, and given what has been taken from me last match, I cannot allow you to show me disrespect of any kind. You will be put in your place Pariah, and I will slam this belt into the back of your thick skull until you say my name. You will say: Mr. Marshall, I respect you! Just like this sniveling little shit holding the camera, and just like my Daddy on my 18th birthday, when I broke his jaw with his own belt you see here...You will acknowledge me. You will respect Don Marshall.
Don’s eyes are almost bug-eyed and his brow is extended, appearing like a gruesome half-man/half- beast lunatic.
Don: Anything else kid? I’m bored of this already and I’m feeling destructive.
Intern: Yes. Mr. Marshall...How is your relationship with the Northern Touch going? You walked away from them last event and said you did not want their help. Is that still the case?
Don: Jesus H...The Northern Touch are fine. Johnny is my brother, nothing will ever change that. Sometimes Bobby is a sniveling little shit and he pisses me off with his mind games and his bullshit. Like bringing you here, for example! Bobby needs to remember I call the shots and I tell him when I need him, not the other way around. You got that you greasy prick?
Don grabs and throws his empty glass at the wall beside the camera boy. Who yelps in shock.
Don: Now get the fuck out of my room, I got some training to do!
Don grabs the rye bottle and the last thing the camera sees as the kid runs for his life is Mr. Marshall downing a good portion of it, slamming the door behind him.
---- Bobby Tremblay’s Legal Office
Bobby on the phone in his office: Well, did you do the interview? Yeah? How did it go?
The other line babbles on for a few moments
Bobby: Ya ya ya. Got it, you can shut up now kid.
Johnny: Well? What’s up?
Bobby: Everything is going to plan Johnny boy, he’s ready.
Johnny: Sick!
They clink two glasses of champagne and laugh as the scene fades to black.
