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Michael is stumbling around a ill lit and empty street in Chicago. He's wearing a fluffy jacket, sweatpants and a tuque. He's carrying a bag in his hand, covering the liquor bottle inside it. He's clearly intoxicated and unable to coordinate himself.
Michael walks past closed stores and vendors, looking through their showcase windows, burping and murmuring about days past where he had based his living out of this very city, living in the high rise lofts, embezzling funds and booking IWT.
Michael: Fuck, I want a hot dog...
Michael's sudden craving leads him down an alley way that connects to the side street. He takes two or three more sips but in the midst of tipping the bottle, and his head, backwards, he runs into a garbage drum that tips over. Michael loses his footing and lands in the rubble. As he lands, he hits his head on something heavy and hard.
Michael: Ow!
He drops his bottle and rubs the back of his head profusely, cringing in pain and panting. The occasional bystander walks by and thinks they're witnessing a man dry humping a raccoon and quickly run away. He twists and turns before gaining his composure. He takes a knee as he attempts to stand back up. The head knock has knocked him straight into soberville and he has regained his cognitive abilities. Michael looks back to see what he hit his head on, and gasps...
Michael: Oh. My. God...
He brushes off used napkins, dirty diapers and empty bottles to find the RWK Imperial Championship. Besides the obvious filth, it appears to me in great condition. Michael is stunned at what is before him. He picks up the title and sits down, leaning back on the dirty alley wall with the title in both hands, resting on his thighs. He's relieved, shocked and in awe.
Michael: This may be my ticketed back in. This is my key!
Michael shuffles to his feet and tucks the title inside his jacket. He looks around to make sure no one has spotted him and he briskly speed walks down the alley. He gets to the side street and looks both ways before jogging across, scaling the stairs onto the train platform. He patiently waits for the train and steps onto one. The usher asks for his ticket...
Michael: Umm, y'see, I had a tick- but then-
The usher cuts him off...
Usher: Sir, you cannot board this train without showing me a valid ticket.
Michael looks back and forth on the car to see if there is anybody there. The train is completely empty. Michael nods in agreement with the usher, he tucks his hand into his jacket so to appear as if he's reaching for money or a wallet, but instead swiftly takes out the title, bashes the usher over the head with it. The usher is knocked out; he throws the usher out onto the platform. He tucks the title back into his jacket, zips it up, and takes his seat, acting as if nothing has just happened. The train begins to trudge off.
About 45 minutes have passed before the train makes a stop in another ill lit neighborhood; however, it is clearly of much better socio-economic standing. Michael steps off the train and speed walks off the platform and down onto the street below. He walks off into the distance before coming across a unkempt building which resembles a warehouse. He walks to the backdoor and attempts to open it, but it's locked. He picks up a small rock seated by the door, flips it over and takes the spare key. He opens the door, and inside is revealed to be the remnants of the infamous IWT television studios.
Michael: Oh it feels good to be back here.
Michael begins to walk through, wary of any aggressive inhabitants who aren't so pleased with his sly entrance. The building is completely empty, the production equipment covered in tarps and even some lights left on throughout the years. Michael walks to a room, the door left ajar. He steps inside and takes a look at a draped and tarped room. He grabs the tarp and swings it off in one swoop revealing a small broadcasting station, and a camera. He clears the dust off the camera, and smiles as he sets the green screen behind him. He walks over to the equipment and hits the "Record" button. He slowly walks in front of the camera and takes off his jacket, revealing the RWK Imperial Championship strapped around his waist. He takes a deep breath and begins...
Michael: Hello everybody. I hope you remember me. I hope you can remember when I booked the biggest promotion in the world to their absolute height. I hope you can remember when I won the IWT World title after more than a year out on the shelf. I hope you can remember when I won, and subsequently, single-handedly defended the IWT Tag Team titles...I hope you remember me.
Michael stares down, scoffs and looks back up.
Michael: I'm sure you've heard, or you can tell, I've fallen some hard times in recent years. After IWT fell apart, I traveled the world looking for bigger business opportunities in the wrestling industry. SIG, IWT v2, Diethnes, and a plethora of other companies came and went. I was flushing money into this wrestling industry, looking to re-create my empire. I couldn't get any of them off the ground, and I lost almost everything I owned. I was flushing money into this wrestling industry for the fans, for the love of this industry but love isn't rewarded in this industry. It's a cold industry, and I was just another worn out cog in an ever-evolving machine.
Michael strokes his forehead, looking down with a glazed look.
Michael: I spent my prime years looking to re-establish myself but life is a tricky thing. Y'see, just a few hours ago I was walking aimlessly through the streets of Chicago, dazed and confused, spending my last dollars and brain cells on booze, hookers and fast food. However, something brilliant happened. I stumbled into something magical, I stumbled into something special...I stumbled into the RWK Imperial Championship.
Michael pats the title and looks at it.
Michael: It dawned on me. I had gotten my key back into the life and industry I loved. Danny Jacobs stole the IWT title after the bankruptcy, he's had it the last 1500 days, I had to pay the administrators out of pocket for the that, by the way. Regardless, In an instant, I went from a broken man with the ashes of an empire in his back-pocket and herpes on his dick to a man with something big, something worthy.
Michael: I had spent the prime of my life helplessly trying to re-create my own empire, but now I've just gotten the keys...to the goddamn Kingdom.
Michael chuckles
Michael: I am now the RWK Imperial Champion. I am the reigning, defending, RWK World Champion, and THAT is my fucking vindication...I have reached the pinnacle, yet again, folks.
Michael walks off screen and the feed cuts.
Michael walks past closed stores and vendors, looking through their showcase windows, burping and murmuring about days past where he had based his living out of this very city, living in the high rise lofts, embezzling funds and booking IWT.
Michael: Fuck, I want a hot dog...
Michael's sudden craving leads him down an alley way that connects to the side street. He takes two or three more sips but in the midst of tipping the bottle, and his head, backwards, he runs into a garbage drum that tips over. Michael loses his footing and lands in the rubble. As he lands, he hits his head on something heavy and hard.
Michael: Ow!
He drops his bottle and rubs the back of his head profusely, cringing in pain and panting. The occasional bystander walks by and thinks they're witnessing a man dry humping a raccoon and quickly run away. He twists and turns before gaining his composure. He takes a knee as he attempts to stand back up. The head knock has knocked him straight into soberville and he has regained his cognitive abilities. Michael looks back to see what he hit his head on, and gasps...
Michael: Oh. My. God...
He brushes off used napkins, dirty diapers and empty bottles to find the RWK Imperial Championship. Besides the obvious filth, it appears to me in great condition. Michael is stunned at what is before him. He picks up the title and sits down, leaning back on the dirty alley wall with the title in both hands, resting on his thighs. He's relieved, shocked and in awe.
Michael: This may be my ticketed back in. This is my key!
Michael shuffles to his feet and tucks the title inside his jacket. He looks around to make sure no one has spotted him and he briskly speed walks down the alley. He gets to the side street and looks both ways before jogging across, scaling the stairs onto the train platform. He patiently waits for the train and steps onto one. The usher asks for his ticket...
Michael: Umm, y'see, I had a tick- but then-
The usher cuts him off...
Usher: Sir, you cannot board this train without showing me a valid ticket.
Michael looks back and forth on the car to see if there is anybody there. The train is completely empty. Michael nods in agreement with the usher, he tucks his hand into his jacket so to appear as if he's reaching for money or a wallet, but instead swiftly takes out the title, bashes the usher over the head with it. The usher is knocked out; he throws the usher out onto the platform. He tucks the title back into his jacket, zips it up, and takes his seat, acting as if nothing has just happened. The train begins to trudge off.
About 45 minutes have passed before the train makes a stop in another ill lit neighborhood; however, it is clearly of much better socio-economic standing. Michael steps off the train and speed walks off the platform and down onto the street below. He walks off into the distance before coming across a unkempt building which resembles a warehouse. He walks to the backdoor and attempts to open it, but it's locked. He picks up a small rock seated by the door, flips it over and takes the spare key. He opens the door, and inside is revealed to be the remnants of the infamous IWT television studios.
Michael: Oh it feels good to be back here.
Michael begins to walk through, wary of any aggressive inhabitants who aren't so pleased with his sly entrance. The building is completely empty, the production equipment covered in tarps and even some lights left on throughout the years. Michael walks to a room, the door left ajar. He steps inside and takes a look at a draped and tarped room. He grabs the tarp and swings it off in one swoop revealing a small broadcasting station, and a camera. He clears the dust off the camera, and smiles as he sets the green screen behind him. He walks over to the equipment and hits the "Record" button. He slowly walks in front of the camera and takes off his jacket, revealing the RWK Imperial Championship strapped around his waist. He takes a deep breath and begins...
Michael: Hello everybody. I hope you remember me. I hope you can remember when I booked the biggest promotion in the world to their absolute height. I hope you can remember when I won the IWT World title after more than a year out on the shelf. I hope you can remember when I won, and subsequently, single-handedly defended the IWT Tag Team titles...I hope you remember me.
Michael stares down, scoffs and looks back up.
Michael: I'm sure you've heard, or you can tell, I've fallen some hard times in recent years. After IWT fell apart, I traveled the world looking for bigger business opportunities in the wrestling industry. SIG, IWT v2, Diethnes, and a plethora of other companies came and went. I was flushing money into this wrestling industry, looking to re-create my empire. I couldn't get any of them off the ground, and I lost almost everything I owned. I was flushing money into this wrestling industry for the fans, for the love of this industry but love isn't rewarded in this industry. It's a cold industry, and I was just another worn out cog in an ever-evolving machine.
Michael strokes his forehead, looking down with a glazed look.
Michael: I spent my prime years looking to re-establish myself but life is a tricky thing. Y'see, just a few hours ago I was walking aimlessly through the streets of Chicago, dazed and confused, spending my last dollars and brain cells on booze, hookers and fast food. However, something brilliant happened. I stumbled into something magical, I stumbled into something special...I stumbled into the RWK Imperial Championship.
Michael pats the title and looks at it.
Michael: It dawned on me. I had gotten my key back into the life and industry I loved. Danny Jacobs stole the IWT title after the bankruptcy, he's had it the last 1500 days, I had to pay the administrators out of pocket for the that, by the way. Regardless, In an instant, I went from a broken man with the ashes of an empire in his back-pocket and herpes on his dick to a man with something big, something worthy.
Michael: I had spent the prime of my life helplessly trying to re-create my own empire, but now I've just gotten the keys...to the goddamn Kingdom.
Michael chuckles
Michael: I am now the RWK Imperial Champion. I am the reigning, defending, RWK World Champion, and THAT is my fucking vindication...I have reached the pinnacle, yet again, folks.
Michael walks off screen and the feed cuts.
