*The video opens to show the former Intercontinental Champion, Jack Rogue, outside, apparently at the back of the Precision arena. He is dressed in his ring gear and appears unperturbed by the Vancouver snow falling onto his shoulders. As he stares a hole in the camera with his two bruised eyes, his irises a cobalt blue, Rogue shakes the snowflakes off him and speaks with bubbling fury in his voice, and steam puffing from beneath his half-mask*
Jack: A week ago... at TLC...
*Jack begins to tremble, not from the cold but from what is on his mind. His breathing gets heavier and shorter, the clouds of steam growing, before he screams. He howls with frustration and rage, an ugly, hoarse, uncontrolled release of pent up anguish, as he falls to his knees. Suddenly, he stops, spins, and throws his face into the brick wall of the arena*
*The wet crack of Rogue's nose is sharply audible, and causes the cameraman to take an untidy, shocked step backwards. Jack too steps back from the impact, stares at the coarse, dirty wall he has just stained claret, and falls to his knees again. After another moment or two of stunned indecision from the cameraman and detached stillness from Jack, Rogue stands and turns towards the cameraman who hurriedly returns to his position, and then closer as he is beckoned. While Rogue's nose is obscured by his face wear, a discoloured, spreading stain is visible above the fanged decal of the mask*
Jack: ...I WAS SCREWED. Not by Jason St. Pierre, the new Intercontinental Champion. No, he deserves whatever praise he gets. He overcame me, one way or another, and due to this I am inclined to think that he may be some kind of angel, or perhaps a demigod. Because to me... his luck seems DIVINE. It took no skill, none of the brains he touts so highly to win that title from me. He was lucky: he had only to be in the right place at the right time. And I don't blame him, I hold no vendetta against him. The problem here is our General Manager, Ryan Blake.
Jack: He made me defend my title in a triple threat ladder match, that would, but for injury to Jordan Bull, have been a fatal four-way. The championship could be, and was, snatched away from me in a fleeting moment. Not three seconds, but a fraction of one. Not only that, but I didn't have to lose, to lose. It was while that predictably ineffective, naïve moron Alex Hade attacked me without bothering to look up that St. Pierre stole that title.
*As the former champion projects his frustrations, the stain has spread down his mask, bright scarlet over the painted white fangs, and now blood is slowly dripping from the bottom, down Jack's neck. Rogue, however, is so focussed on his words as to be oblivious*
Jack: And not only that, but now that I don't have my title anymore, I'm not even entitled to a one-on-one rematch... in the same way as ANYWHERE ELSE. But, hey... maybe there's no point in... hehehe.... going crazy over this. See, since I won the Intercontinental Championship at Wrestle Dynasty, I haven't been the same. I've had nothing to pursue... my edge has gone. And now, with hellfire in my belly... this theft has sharpened my knife. Ryan Blake will regret what he has done. I could come after him personally, physically, but... no. Instead, I will kill his child. I will massacre his pride and joy. I will destroy... Precision.
Jack: I will rip this promotion limb from limb, taking my penance for the effort I have piled into it. I will dismantle its heroes, its villains, its staff and its reputation. I will burn this show to the ground, then rebuild it in my image. And this starts with my match this week, against CRASH. That mad, but mindlessly mad, naive moron. You talk about how we will "get wrecked" - I say "speak for yourself". I intend on hardly breaking a sweat against you, much less doing myself any damage. You, however, will have your strange fetish satisfied, when you face Annihilation... when you crash and burn.
*Jack, his blood still flowing through the fabric of his mask and falling in stark crimson splashes on the bright, perfect snow, turns and stomps through the thick white carpet towards the back door of the arena, as the video fades to black*
-End of segment-
Jack: A week ago... at TLC...
*Jack begins to tremble, not from the cold but from what is on his mind. His breathing gets heavier and shorter, the clouds of steam growing, before he screams. He howls with frustration and rage, an ugly, hoarse, uncontrolled release of pent up anguish, as he falls to his knees. Suddenly, he stops, spins, and throws his face into the brick wall of the arena*
*The wet crack of Rogue's nose is sharply audible, and causes the cameraman to take an untidy, shocked step backwards. Jack too steps back from the impact, stares at the coarse, dirty wall he has just stained claret, and falls to his knees again. After another moment or two of stunned indecision from the cameraman and detached stillness from Jack, Rogue stands and turns towards the cameraman who hurriedly returns to his position, and then closer as he is beckoned. While Rogue's nose is obscured by his face wear, a discoloured, spreading stain is visible above the fanged decal of the mask*
Jack: ...I WAS SCREWED. Not by Jason St. Pierre, the new Intercontinental Champion. No, he deserves whatever praise he gets. He overcame me, one way or another, and due to this I am inclined to think that he may be some kind of angel, or perhaps a demigod. Because to me... his luck seems DIVINE. It took no skill, none of the brains he touts so highly to win that title from me. He was lucky: he had only to be in the right place at the right time. And I don't blame him, I hold no vendetta against him. The problem here is our General Manager, Ryan Blake.
Jack: He made me defend my title in a triple threat ladder match, that would, but for injury to Jordan Bull, have been a fatal four-way. The championship could be, and was, snatched away from me in a fleeting moment. Not three seconds, but a fraction of one. Not only that, but I didn't have to lose, to lose. It was while that predictably ineffective, naïve moron Alex Hade attacked me without bothering to look up that St. Pierre stole that title.
*As the former champion projects his frustrations, the stain has spread down his mask, bright scarlet over the painted white fangs, and now blood is slowly dripping from the bottom, down Jack's neck. Rogue, however, is so focussed on his words as to be oblivious*
Jack: And not only that, but now that I don't have my title anymore, I'm not even entitled to a one-on-one rematch... in the same way as ANYWHERE ELSE. But, hey... maybe there's no point in... hehehe.... going crazy over this. See, since I won the Intercontinental Championship at Wrestle Dynasty, I haven't been the same. I've had nothing to pursue... my edge has gone. And now, with hellfire in my belly... this theft has sharpened my knife. Ryan Blake will regret what he has done. I could come after him personally, physically, but... no. Instead, I will kill his child. I will massacre his pride and joy. I will destroy... Precision.
Jack: I will rip this promotion limb from limb, taking my penance for the effort I have piled into it. I will dismantle its heroes, its villains, its staff and its reputation. I will burn this show to the ground, then rebuild it in my image. And this starts with my match this week, against CRASH. That mad, but mindlessly mad, naive moron. You talk about how we will "get wrecked" - I say "speak for yourself". I intend on hardly breaking a sweat against you, much less doing myself any damage. You, however, will have your strange fetish satisfied, when you face Annihilation... when you crash and burn.
*Jack, his blood still flowing through the fabric of his mask and falling in stark crimson splashes on the bright, perfect snow, turns and stomps through the thick white carpet towards the back door of the arena, as the video fades to black*
-End of segment-
