A pair of gloved hands are illuminated by the flickering white candle that they hold. The darkness shrouds everything else in the shot. A deep, booming voice rings out. “The 8-Card Stud tournament.” The camera continues to focus on the completely still candle. “The prize? A TNA World Heavyweight Championship match at Against All Odds.” A trickle of wax falls down the side of the candle and hardens on the right-hand glove. “The competition?” A rapid-fire montage of still images of Hernandez, Bobby Roode, Matt Morgan, Nigel McGuinness, Rob Van Dam, Samoa Joe, and Daniels. “Deadly.” We return to the image of the gloved hands holding the camera, slowly raising the candle aloft. “As for me?” The candle has been raised enough to show the masked face of Suicide holding the candle. “Well… I’m still trying to figure that out.” An instrumental version of NWA’s “Chin Check” begins playing as a logo takes over the screen. |THE HARDWAY| 
|THE HARDWAY| After the twenty-second intro of the song passes the camera cuts to Daniels standing in the chamber of a cave, leering over what appears to be a raised rock formation protruding from the cavern floor. He swirls around a black substance in an ornate bowl that rests atop the rock formation as the intro music continues to play in the background. He chuckles softly. “For some… the words people choose to use are ultimately meaningless. They are simply sounds uttered in a certain pattern to convey a meaning that can be easily understood. To me though? Words mean everything. On Thursday night, eight lucky competitors get the chance to battle for an opportunity at the World Heavyweight Championship at… Against All Odds.” Daniels whips his head to stare intensely at the camera. He breaks from swirling the black liquid, his hand, however, remains submerged. “Luck. Chances. Opportunities. The things that have evaded me my entire professional career. You can point to Tag Team Championships and X-Division Championship but in the grand scheme of things how does ‘The Fallen Angel’ really stack up when held against the best professional wrestling has to offer? Have I really been that lucky when compared to the World Heavyweight Championships? Have I gotten fair chances and opportunities? Three-way matches where even if I didn’t take the fall I could still walk away with nothing. Feast or Fired matches that I won twice… and both times received the pink slip for my efforts. Cast as the foil as Samoa Joe and AJ Styles rocketed to the top. Cast aside completely to make way for the legends of yesteryear’s turn with the belt. No luck. Feigned opportunity. Tell me… did a guy like me ever really have a chance?” The Fallen Angel’s free hand trembles in anger as he slowly resumes stirring the black liquid with the other. “Even now… as this latest… ‘opportunity’ presents itself, people question my inclusion. Even my involvement in this tournament is ridiculed; they say I’m only here because Jon Moxley got himself disqualified against me. The whispers grow louder that I shouldn’t be here, that I have 0% chance of coming out on top. It’s funny that the victor of this tournament will get his championship match at Against All Odds… because that’s exactly what I’ve been up against my entire life.” Daniels withdraws his hand from the bowl, black goo dripping from his fingers. “The tides are turning, the company is changing, and in less than two short months, I’ll be 40 years old. I’m not going to be here forever. I’m not going to get many more chances or opportunities. I’ve long since forgiven the idea of luck. Write ‘The Fallen Angel’ off at your own peril… ‘cause I’ve more to lose than anyone in this tournament.” Daniels begins smearing the black substance underneath his right eye as the video cuts. -|*/*/*|- The camera cuts to a topless Hernandez standing in a red-brick alleyway. He’s wearing a black cap emblazoned with the word “SUPERMEX” with a red bandana tied around his neck. The veins pop in his neck as the amped-up Hernandez shouts at the camera. “YA’LL GOT SOMETHIN’ TO SAY?” Herandnez spits on the ground. “Seems to me that damn near everybody got somethin’ they wanna say these days. Entitled little bitches who think they can jet in, make any demand they want, and walk on outta here like nobody is gonna check ‘em. It might be easier for people to look the other way, but not freakin’ me. Not freakin’ Supermex, esse.” Hernandez slaps his bare chest a couple of times. “See, I clawed my way here. I had to fight for my place. I had to fight for my fucking job. I got fired… TWICE! Two times I was released and shown the door but both times I kicked that door right freakin’ in and showed why I deserve to be here. I had to shed blood, sweat, and tears to earn the right to stand in between those six ropes but jumped up little putas like McGuinness get to be flown in on a first-class jet, paraded around in front of the fans like some kinda superstar, and then call his damn shots whatever way he please? Nawh-uh, dog, not on my watch. Not when I’ve had to sacrifice to be here. So, yeah, I took aim at McGuinness… ‘cause he couldn’t keep my name out of his mouth and he had what I wanted.” Hernandez pulls his red bandana over his face and gets right up into the camera lens. “But make no mistake… that shit shoulda already been mine.” -|*/*/*|- A hulking figure stands against a plain white backdrop, a small towel draped over his head. He breathes steadily, his heaving chest slowly rising up and down. Without looking at the camera or seeing his face, it is still clear that it is unmistakably Samoa Joe. “You want a soundbite? You want something for your show? I mean what the hell do you expect me to say? You think I’m going to give credit to any other man in this tournament? Respect anybody else in this company? There was a time when nobody in the damn world would tell me that I had to do something. That I was needed to put together some promotional package. There was a time - not so long ago - the name Samoa Joe struck fear into the heart of every man, woman, and child on this planet. For some reason, the name Samoa Joe doesn’t seem to carry the same weight anymore.” Joe shifts his head so that the camera can see the death glare he is casting. “I hope to god that none of my opponents are stupid enough to think that. I pray none of you are being that foolish. Have you all been watching me ragdoll every wrestler that’s been put across from me? Have you all been watching as I tear my opponent limb from fucking limb? Have you all been watching Samoa Joe get back on track and get right back to where he should be? This ain’t slowin’ down boys, know your place, get down.” Joe takes a step toward the camera. “Or I’ll fucking put you down.” Joe throws his towel at the camera. -|*/*/*|- “You know what they’re saying, James?” Bobby Roode sits at a wooden table counting stacks of $100 dollar bills as James Storm takes a sip from a bottle of Bud - the latest in a long line of many judging by the empties littering his side of the table. “What’s that, partna’?” Roode sweeps his hand over the table between them. “They’re saying this is all we are. Beer and money.” Storm “tsk’s” and takes a long gulp from his beer bottle. Roode points at Storm and then himself. “They’re saying that we can only succeed when we prop each other up. That we can’t stand on our own two feet.” Storm shakes his head as Roode slams a closed fist into the table, spraying some money on the floor and causing some empty beer bottles to teeter on the edge of the table before falling and causing a light smashing sound. “Well guess what!? This is us. We’re beer and we’re money and you can bet your last cent that there will always be two of us. But you know; I like beer, I love money, and I sure as hell would rather have James Storm in my corner than in my opponents. You think I’m a tag team wrestler? That I can’t cut it in this environment? You think I won’t do every damn thing I possibly can to win the 8-Card Stud?” Bobby clutches at the notes raising a fistful of money. “This is what I live for. Being the champion means I get a hell of a lot more just for doing what I do best - kicking people's asses. You can be sure when there’s a big payday around that I’ll put on my ass-kicking boots - and there’s gonna be a lot of ass-kickings dished out at 8-Card Stud! Don’t ever forget: it pays to be Roode. And if all else fails?” Bobby looks over at James. “Well, my buddy here is just gonna make sure I have a safety net. He won’t let me lose. He’s my insurance policy. If you’ve got a problem with that or think it’s unfair well… well, tell’em, James.” Storm drains the dregs of his beer and slams it on the table. “SORRY… about your damn luck.” -|*/*/*|- Rob Van Dam is sitting on a luminous green beanbag, hunched over a small coffee table rolling a joint. He speaks as he begins spreading ground-up bud into the paper. “Worried? About the tournament? You’ve gotta be kidding me. There’s no point getting worried, dude, I’ve been at this race a thousand times before, this stuff doesn’t phase R–V-D.” Rob begins moving the paper between his fingers, shaping the joint in front of him. “The biggest prize in this company awaits whoever can come out the other end of this tournament, man. They’re looking at me as the guy with crazy athleticism, the guy who’ll take to the top rope and fly all over that six-sided ring. That isn’t all I am. I’m not just some exciting name that Heyman brought in to pop a short-term rating; I’m Rob Van Dam - the whole fucking show.” RVD licks the top of his joint and begins sticking it together. “There are some big names in the 8-Card Stud, no doubt about it, but none of them are as good as me. That’s not being cocky, that’s just a fact, dude. I wasn’t signed to TNA because I’m another big name, I was signed to TNA because I’m the best professional wrestler on this green planet. Come 8-Card Stud, everybody on the roster will know that’s a fact. Whoever has the TNA World Heavyweight Championship - AJ or Kurt - they’re gonna have a lot of sleepless nights. And the fans in the iMPACT Zone?” Rob pauses to place his joint in between his lips, raise a lighter to it, and spark it up. He takes a long drag before exhaling the smoke in the camera's direction. “Well, they’re gonna find out exactly why I’m ‘Mr. Thursday Night’.” -|*/*/*|- The reflection of Matt Morgan in an expensive-looking, navy suit can be seen in a full-length mirror. An elderly man in black slacks and a white shirt is on his knees holding a measuring tape against the inner leg of Morgan. “Have you any idea how much it costs to have a tailor-made Sartorio Napoli suit commissioned? For a guy of my size? Heh, who am I kidding? There isn’t a hope in hell that any of you losers sitting in your mom’s basement have ever even heard of Sartorio Napoli.” Morgan adjusts the sharp collars of the baby-blue shirt underneath his suit jacket. “This is a little congratulations present from me to me. I think I deserve a little ‘thank you’ for all but securing the TNA World Heavyweight Championship. I want to look good when I walk out in two months' time with that championship around my waist.” Morgan motions for a belt around his waist, smiling and nodding his head in approval. “I can see it now and let me tell you; I look damn good. Call it premature if you want, but is there any point in being modest? I’m called ‘The Blueprint’ for a reason. I have been designed for success. I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and I’m genetically superior to every other man in the world. I was created better than everyone else and that’s not just conjecture.” Morgan pulls away from the tailor and points into the mirror, gritting his teeth. “That’s scientific fact.” -|*/*/*|- Nigel McGuiness is kneeling in the middle of a ring - an unbranded one - in an empty warehouse. He lightly runs his fingers across the canvas, his face pointed down. “I was born the greatest fighter in my empire. First, I scrapped my way through the backstreets of London - dark alleyways off Camden and then up to brawl with the muggiest fuckin’ brutes Seven Sisters had to offer. My name carried weight. I said what I wanted. I did what I wanted. I wore what I wanted. I remember splittin’ a geezer open outside of Canary Wharf because he had the cheek to ask me if I was lost. London weren’t long for the lastin’ then, I tell ya that much.” McGuinness continues to softly brush his hand against the canvas of the ring. “Why would I have been satisfied with just London, though? There was a whole country there for the taking - so I took it. I was the most feared fighter in the whole of the United Kingdom, so why stop there? Next, I conquered Europe. Soon after, the bigwigs came callin’, the moneymen from the States.” McGuinness rests his palm firmly on the ring mat. “Do what I was already doin’ but be paid a fuck-load more cash? Easy decision. For years I was beating the best the independent circuit had to offer, if you were lucky enough to witness any of it you’d agree I was the purest talent to ever hit an American wrestling ring. But there was always a higher plane I could ascend to… and I did. I was the World Champion of the biggest independent company in United States history. It wasn’t a matter of if my phone was going to ring, it was when. The only question that remained was if it would be him or if it would be Heyman. In the end, they both called and I made my decision. Nobody should be surprised that every figurehead in this industry wanted me to sign for their company; I was born the greatest fighter in my empire after all.” McGuinness raises his head, his obnoxious shades covering his eyes but not hiding the smirk on his face. “Oh? You arseholes actually thought I was talkin’ about England when I said I was born the greatest fighter in my empire? England isn’t my bloody empire.” McGuinness smashes his open palm against the mat. “THIS IS MY BLOODY EMPIRE!!! This ring is the domain to which I belong. To which I rule. And in my empire… I'm the judge, jury, and bloody executioner!” McGuiness flicks the two-fingered salute as the YouTube feed begins to glitch out. 
The screen is encompassed by rather grainy footage, the type that looks like it was shot on a handheld camera phone. The up close and personal face of a seething Jon Moxley takes up so much of the view that it’s impossible to say where he is. For the first time, The Hardway theme music stops playing. It is completely silent until Moxley begins talking, his voice the only sound that can be heard. “Hahaaa… suspend me? Sorry… suspend me without pay. Gotta be specific about the particulars, eh, Paul? I mean, that’s gonna sting me a whole lot more, ain’t it? Money… money… money makes the damn world go round booooys.” Moxley lifts a fifty-dollar bill into the shot and waves it around while looking at it. “This is what it’s all about, right? This is what makes everybody tick. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Good little clocks, spinning their wheels over and over and over, trying to accumulate as much of this green dollar as humanly possible. I can imagine the conversations: Hit ’em where it hurts, Paul! Where’s that, Kev? THE POCKET, BROTHER! Hahaaa…” Suddenly, Moxley holds the bill up to his forehead and in a lightning-flash motion staples it to his own skin, immediately drawing blood. He turns his head to the side and smiles crazily. “You think that I… care about money? You think that I… care about being suspended? Do you have any fucking idea who you signed to your company, Paul? I’m Jon Moxley. I’m not like the rest of these megastars on your roster. I ain’t driven by TV time or where I am on the card or fucking money. That shit comes and goes.” Moxley rips the fifty-dollar bill clean off his forehead, showing a sizeable slit with blood oozing from it. He tears the bill (further) in half with his teeth, snarling at the camera. “Just like that; it’s worthless. You know what I want, Paul. Don’t play this stupid game with me. Get me your friend. Get me Foley. Get me ‘The Hardcore Legend’. Get me my match.” Moxley smears the blood dripping from his self-inflicted head wound over his face. “Or are you both just afraid I’ll show all you ECW nostalgic acts for what you really are… BITCHES!!!” 
The music kicks back on, playing at a sped-up pace. Samoa Joe is glaring at the camera, his lip curled in anger. “The person I feel really bad for is Suicide. You see, you’ve got the unfortunate pleasure of being my first victim at 8-Card Stud. Four will fall… but you’re the first. You’ve got to deal with me at my freshest, at my most vicious. A regular ol’ match with me would signal a trip to the hospital for most men. But a Texas Bull Rope match? I nearly feel sorry for you. You have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You’re freaking attached to me. A match like this doesn’t bode well for your health, Suicide. In fact, if I was gonna give you a prediction, I’d say…” Joe stares intensely into the camera, you can hear the confidence oozing from every word he speaks. “Joe’s gonna wrap that rope around your neck and… JOE IS GONNA KILL YOU!” -|*/*/*|- The candle-lit mask of Suicide encompasses the shot following a quick cut. “I might not know who I am, Samoa Joe. I might be unsure of what my purpose is. I do know one thing though. I do know what I’m not. I’m not afraid. Not of you. Not of our match. Not of the fact that you can wrap a bull rope around my neck and try and squeeze the life out of me. See I’ve felt the noose tightening around my neck before and I’m still standing here. To me, it makes no difference if it’s by your hand or by my own hand, I’m not afraid of death and I’m not afraid of your threats. You’re a formidable competitor, Joe. But you’ve never had to face someone like me. Someone who isn’t afraid to put his body on the line and risk it… all.” Suicide deftly uses his fingertips to extinguish the candle, plunging the shot into the darkness. -|*/*/*|- McGuiness is leaning over the top rope of the ring, pointing down at the camera. “I’ve never understood this notion of people not having anything to lose. It doesn’t make sense. You’re Daniels, ‘The Fallen Angel’, a household American name. You’re regarded among your peers as one of the best bloody technical wrestlers of this generation. A pioneer of TNA’s own X-Division. A stalwart between the ring ropes. A genius at work. You can stand there and mouth off about how you’re an underdog in this tournament but you’ve admitted it yourself - you have more to lose than bloody anybody in this tournament. Not because your clock is ticking or because you’re running out of chances. No, it’s because you have to get in the ring with me. You have to get in MY ring and fight by MY rules. This is a pure rules match; you won’t be able to say you lost because I cheated, or I caved your ugly mug in with a steel chair. You’ll have to admit that you just weren’t up to it, you weren’t up to my standard, that you were outwrestled by the greatest professional wrestler in this industry and made to look like an amateur despite your twenty years of experience. Daniels, you think you understand what’s at stake here, you think you know what you have to lose…” McGuinness whips his shades off and a look of intensity is etched upon his face. “But it’s only when I’m stretching your arm from your shoulder blade, dislocating your fingers, and twisting your body into a bloody pretzel that you’ll realize what you really stand to lose.” McGuinness flips off the camera and shouts. “YOU BLOODY WANKER!!!” -|*/*/*|- Quick cut to Daniels in the cavern, he has manipulated the black substance on his face into the shape of an ankh around his right eye. “You think I don’t realize the gravitas of the situation I find myself in, Nigel? Do you really think I don’t realize what is at stake here? Twenty years on the job and arguably I’ve never had a chance like this. For twenty years I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to show the world just how good I can be. Twenty years I’ve been waiting to step into the ring with somebody just like you and make everybody stand up and notice. You’re a cocky man, Nigel, it’s something that I respect about you in an absurd way. The thing you don’t realize yet is that you’ve hit your ceiling, you’ve reached your apex, and you can’t go any higher. For ‘The Fallen Angel’? Well… he can always fall further.” Daniels uses a finger to trace the shape of the ankh around his eye. “Our match might be contested under Pure Rules, Nigel, but trust me when I say… there’s nothing pure about ‘The Fallen Angel’.” -|*/*/*|- Matt Morgan is fully suited, and it must be said, looking rather dapper as continues to speak into the mirror, the camera focusing on the reflection. “Hernandez is a pretty big guy, he looks after himself, I’ll give him that. Strong too, I’ve no doubt in my mind - I’ve seen him complete some pretty impressive feats of strength. There’s a difference between being big and strong and… well, being big and strong.” Morgan flexes his arms, his biceps threatening to tear through the expensive fabric of his Sartorio Napoli suit. “They had to get a custom-made mirror wheeled out to fit me in this shot. I’m seven freaking feet tall and three hundred pounds of pure muscle. You aren’t even going to be able to get me off my feet, Hernandez. As for lifting me? Putting me through a table? You need to put down the 40oz, amigo.” Morgan stands to his fullest and then curls his shovel-like hand into a fist before smashing it into the mirror, shattering it into thousands of tiny fragments. “THAT’S JUST NOT HAPPENING!” -|*/*/*|- Hernandez is leaning against the red-bricked wall in the alleyway, his bandana still covering the lower half of his face. “This gringo thinks he’s hot shit, doesn’t he? They’re all like that esse, they’re all like that up North. He struts around thinking the whole damn world owes him something, thinking that he’s better than everyone else. Guys like him are a dime a dozen up North, but down here in the South, guys like him are called ‘little putas’. We’re from very different worlds, Morgan, but I promise you SuperMex is gonna find some common ground with you.” Hernandez steps forward from his relaxed position against the wall, spreads his arms, and screams in fury. “I’M GONNA TAKE YOU WAY UP NORTH AND THEN SEND YOU CRASHING DOWN SOUTH THROUGH A FREAKIN’ TABLE, GRINGO!!!” -|*/*/*|- Cut to Beer Money sitting at the table, Storm’s “empty” pile has grown a little bigger and Roode’s cash has been stacked a little higher. “Rob Van Dam, I’m going to say something that I don’t say about a lot of people: I respect the heck out of you and what you’ve done for this business. When I was working my ass off across Canada, toiling every night, hoping for that break - you were the inspiration. I watched you break out of a bingo hall in Philly, to sold-out arenas country-wide. You made me believe. But now… now it’s your turn to believe. Believe in what I can do. Believe in me. Believe in Bobby Roode. Believe that I will make you bleed. It’s nothing personal, Rob, you’re just standing in my way. When all is said and done and you’re getting the blood cleaned off your face… well we’ll be in the back celebrating with two things.” Storm shoots up from the table, raising his arms above his head and shouting. “BEER!” Roode stands up, flipping the whole table, sending smashing bottles and bundles of cash everywhere. “MONEY!!!” -|*/*/*|- Rob Van Dam leans back on the beanbag, eyes closed, half-smoked joint dangling from his lips. He stretches widely and yawns before placing the joint on the ashtray in front of him. He smiles at the camera and speaks jovially. “I’ve competed in some of the greatest matches of the last fifteen years against a lot of competitors, dude. Bobby Roode isn’t someone I’ve ever had to come across before, he isn’t somebody who has shared a ring with me. That doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about you, Bobby. I know you hit hard, I know you dig deep, and I know James Storm will have your back at ringside. I know you’re going to try and hit me with that lariat off yours or dump me on my head with your suplex. I know you’re desperate to break through the glass ceiling and will do anything in your power to make that happen. Makes it seem like the odds are in your favor, man, but are you forgetting about where R-V-D is from? Do you forget where I started out? I’m not afraid to bleed man, and you know I’ve busted open a hell of a lot scarier dudes than you, Bobby.” Rob Van Dam does his R-V-D taunt, pointing at himself with his thumbs. “This type of match is designed for me, man. Bring James down to ringside all you want, dude, just make sure he’s got something to stitch you up with.” RVD picks up the half-smoked joint and smiles coyly before popping it back into his mouth and sparking it up as the music and the camera feed begins to fade out… 
“You all forget somethin’?” The camera pans out to show Konnan standing outside a large building on a bustling New York street, the SpikeTV Champion Marco Corleone is standing beside him. “You all forget about ‘El Intocable’? This guy right here, he’s the damn SpikeTV Champion. You listen here, Paulie; you don’t get to run a live TV special on SpikeTV without their goddamn champion, ya hear? That kinda disrespect just won’t be tolerated. Don’t worry about it though, Paulie, we’ve just been to see the SpikeTV executives and they’ve agreed Marco needs to defend his belt at 8-Card Stud.” Konnan points a thumb over his shoulder at the building behind him and Corleone. “And they made it easy on your fat ass. They said they’ve got someone to face ‘El Intocable’, so ya don’t even have to worry about it - but don’t have us come lookin’ for a match again. Ya gotta realize what you got on your hands here, Paul, this guy is the freakin’ future of your company - whether ya want him to be or not. Thursday night we’ll see ‘El Intocable’ defend his title and collect his fourth star-chip against a special network representative… it ain’t gonna be long before he’s got all ten, Paulie, so I suggest gettin’ on board sooner rather than later, cause this guy, this guy is gonna be your biggest asset and if you can’t see it… well, let’s just say the network was very impressed.” Marco Corleone doesn’t say a word, just narrows his eyes as the camera zooms in on his determined-looking face. He curls his upper lip slightly as the first edition of The Hardway actually comes to a close. |
Author's Note: Well, that was something different for me with this project. It's the first time I've done dialogue on this site, and the first time in general in a long-ass time. Hope it was okay and hope it was enjoyable. The last update of this cycle will be the 8-Card Stud results and then we're onward to our third cycle which will feature the very first PPV of the Heyman regime! Thanks to all readers and supporters. Love u all tig x
