Ever wanted a chance to shine on a global platform?

Want to get your foot in the door for one of the most modern, premiere wrestling organizations in the world?

Just wanna… settle a score with someone?

WELL…

The camera shakes erratically as our cameraman, along with various other SHOOT personnel, run towards a very specific direction.

“YOUUUU WILL PAAAAAAAAAAY!!!” says a booming voice with broken English off in the distance.  The sounds of a woman crying out loud in agony directly follow.

We finally see where all the commotion is originating from.  Akuma Satsui holds Courtney Hatchett, over his shoulder as if he was preparing to deliver a running powerslam.

Without warning, Akuma runs forward into a docking bay door, slamming Courtney’s body into it as hard as he can.  She haphazardly falls to the cement floor, writhing in pain.

Akuma Satsui: Hehehe…stupid little girl.

Reaching down and pulling her up by her hair, Akuma delivers a malicious slap to her face.  Dazed and barely conscious after this violent attack, Courtney tries to get up on her own volition, albeit on wobbly legs.  Akuma helps her the rest of the way up and slaps her again, just as hard.  Courtney flies back against an equipment crate, where Akuma holds her by her beautiful, dirty blonde hair.

With one heave, he tosses her like a rag doll over another equipment box with the SHOOT Soldier’s Helmet logo.  Landing with a thud and her head hanging over the edge of the thick, metal encased box, Courtney desperately reaches out to try and stop the attack.

Akuma Satsui: No, no, no.  Not… finished… yet.

He reaches up with a foot and places it on Courtney’s head, face washing her while she remains upside down on the equipment box.  Backing up a few paces, Akuma surveys the damage done so far.  He then reaches into the waist band of his wrestling pants and pulls out… a fork!?

Reaching back with his arm, he slashes forward in a stabbing motion towards Courtney’s neck, but Courtney manages to roll off the equipment box and fall awkwardly to the floor, avoiding the brutal attack from worsening to a fatal degree.  About 6 or 7 SHOOT officials all pull Akuma Satsui back, who has become enraged that he couldn’t finish the job.

With a bloody elbow, caused from crashing awkwardly to the cement floor, Courtney winces and grimaces at the attack from her opponent later in the evening.

Courtney Hatchett:  AKUUUUMAAAAAA!!!  AAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!

Pissed off and hurt with tears of pain streaming down her face, Courtney forces herself to her feet with gritted teeth.  Seething, sending spittle in every which direction, Courtney clutches her ribs and elbow with a rage in her eyes.

We open to a simple black background with the white SHOOT Project logo emblazoned on it.

“I’d like t’tell ye’ my story.”

A heavily accented voice breaks the silence suddenly. The accent isn’t American. It’s Irish. The voice is feminine.

“I’d like to… but that’d be borin’. What I will do is give you all a story to tell.”

A large, well-manicured hand brushes the background, now revealed to be a simple curtain, to the side. A young woman steps into the picture. And she is an absolute monster… in the figurative sense.

The young woman wears a pair of tight-fitting jeans with tears purposely and strategically placed in the knees and thighs along with a black, faded t-shirt brandishing a Celtic Dominion Wrestling logo across a significant bosom. Her braided, dark red hair rests on her shoulders and hangs down loosely. It becomes evident that this woman has been the one speaking.

“That story will begin at Revolution 144. Aye, I’ll be there. And I may not be fightin’ on the show, but I’ll damn sure be makin’ my presence known. My name… is Andromeda Flynn. And my story… has just begun.”

Fade to Black

The scene opens backstage, where the Breedlove Tang Clan is shown. The leader, Joshua Breedlove, sits by himself on a couch with Brock Holloway and Octavian Enright on his side. He is holding his face with one hand.

Joshua Breedlove: I can’t believe this happened, Ock.

Octavian Enright: I mean, it didn’t really look that bad, man.

Joshua Breedlove: DIDN’T LOOK THAT BAD?! IT DIDN’T LOOK THAT BAD!!! HE PLUCKED MY EYE FROM ITS SOCKET. MY BEAUTIFUL BLUE EYE. LOOK!

Enright sighs as Breedlove pulls his hand away from his face, revealing an eyepatch.

Brock Holloway: I’m with Ock, honestly. You barely got scratched up.

Joshua Breedlove: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I lost EASILY THREE PINTS OF BLOOD FROM MY EYE SOCKET. THREE.

Octavian Enright: I mean, did you even really get attacked?

Breedlove begins to sob, a tear streaming down his face from the eye that’s not covered by an eye socket.

Joshua Breedlove: This is awful and you guys don’t even believe me.

Octavian Enright: Well yeah, we weren’t there to see it.

Joshua Breedlove: Maybe if you had been, IT WOULDN’T HAVE HAPPENED. That’s it, I’m going to enact a formal protest, in the name of my new activism group. BreedloveLivesMatter.

Holloway and Enright both groan LOUDLY as the scene fades.

We open backstage again, where Joshua Breedlove, flanked by nobody in particular at this point in time, is tearing through the halls looking for the Real Deal.

Joshua Breedlove: OTHER JOSH. LESSER JOSHUA. WHERE ARE YOU!?

He comes to the Real Deal’s office in the Epicenter and bangs on the door three times, before turning the knob and barging in. The Real Deal looks up from the two monitors on his desk and just sighs.

Joshua Breedlove: BREEDLOVE LIVES MATTER.

Real Deal: …what?

Joshua Breedlove: That’s the name of my new organization, devoted to activism in the name of its true leader, Joshua Breedlove. Me. My life matters, and I feel as though my life has been put endanger here in the SHOOT Project.

Real Deal: Are you serious, dude? You’re naming your organization as, what, a mockery of all of the things that are going on outside of these walls? Are you that blind?

Breedlove gasps and begins to speak.

Real Deal: Shut the fuck up.

Breedlove shuts the fuck up.

Real Deal: Look man, we let a lot of shit slide around here in terms of our content and what is allowed to get aired. You don’t have to go far back in our history to see that, but what I WON’T be okay with is some dipshit on my payroll parodying a very real issue and using it for his own personal gain.

Breedlove goes to speak again, Real Deal holds his hand up.

Real Deal: No.

Breedlove closes his mouth.

Real Deal: I see that nobody else from your group thought this was a good idea either, which I suspect is why you’re here by yourself, so let me give you some advice. Can it with the stupid bullshit. You’re a good wrestler, so focus on that. If you want to whine about dumb shit on camera, that’s fine. Plenty of people do that, but if you ever come in here and make a mockery of something like Black Lives Matter again… I’ll drag your stupid ass into the ring, embarrass you, and then fire you myself.

Breedlove’s eyes get big, but he does not try to speak.

Real Deal: Now get the fuck out of my office.

Black.

Avarice: Oh what a glorious morning.  I feel so free and so light, as if a weight has been lifted.  A feeling I cherish.  A feeling I hold close, like we all do to our good feelings.  

Avarice sits on the roof of the Epicenter in the blazing morning sun of another day in Las Vegas.  His mask of gold positively shimmers, it’s tone almost chrome in its reflective surfaces.  He chuckles softly. 

Avarice: Ria.  Congratulations are in order!  I gave you no easy way out and still you bested me.  Good for you! 

He claps, sincere, his voice a perfect stepford tier happy tone. 

Avarice: It would seem you heeded my advice–now heed another bit.  

A pause.

Avarice: Run. 

He laughs softly and slaps himself in the side of the head, as if remembering.

Avarice: Silly me, that advice isn’t just for Ria.  It’s for so many.  So many would do well to escape while they can.  

He looks down.  At this moment his voice attains an edge, a ruefulness.

Avarice: Crabs in a bucket will pull each other down rather than let one escape, though.  And as soon as one crab dies, his body poisons the whole bucketful.  He showed me when I was a boy. 

Looking to the sky now.  Almost a whisper.

Avarice: A throne of blood.  An empire of suffering.

Shaking his head, he looks at the camera.  Though we can’t see his smile, his eyes crinkle, and his voice goes almost joyous.

Avarice: But that is all for later!  For now, we sleep warm, and we find joy in the songs of birds.  And I feel free–free as any sparrow in the blue skies.  It is a glorious morning, and a glorious day.  Seize it!  Because those glorious days can turn to sand in our grasp just as quick, you know.  

He bows slightly.

Avarice: Peace be with you!

And there we leave him, taking in the blue skies of a glorious morning.