Animal Metaphors are For Losers.

[INFINITE PRO.]

Three

Two...

MY TIME!

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A beverage flies through the air, slamming its contents against an expensive windshield. The driver grimaces, his passenger unfazed. As hatred from the gathered crowd continues to fly towards the vehicle.

Suddenly, the door swings open. Crowd seeming like adoring fans compared to their new level of disdain. A wall of security on either side struggle to contain them, while in-between stands an IPW cameraman - regretting his life choices. Before him appears the subject of the crowd’s vitriol: Alastor Touchdown.

“Big shadow. Cast by a tiny tree.”

Smiling serenely, despite abuse raining on him from every angle, Touchdown saunters down the path created by security.

“I was excited to lock horns with the GREAT, Cross Recoba. If ya don’t understand how big a deal this guy is, don’t worry, he’ll tell ya!”

Every word drips with insincere reverence.

“Prides himself on his in-ring intellect. Has the intelligence to create scenarios and the talent to get there. Has the resume to make beating him matter.”

“So, it amuses me, that for all these facts. Criss-Cross Recoba feels the need to hide behind animal comparisons and downplaying my threat like everyone else has tried to. For a guy who can give you the exact time to the DAY since winning his first title on the Network, he ain’t doin’ a great job of holding onto it.”

Smiling at his jab working on multiple levels, Touchdown barely reacts to another drink thrown at him. Bouncing off his head and coating his hair in lemonade. His smirk only widens, as he uses the liquid to deftly slick it back.

“Lettin' Jack Diamond, a guy you made your debut on the Network blindsiding, beat ya down and steal your title, then impotently standing by as he holds your company hostage and gifts back your belt? These are not hallmarks of a man who’s in control. Getting basic facts wrong, like insulting the Jamrockers for not winning Tag Titles at First Contact that don’t exist, thinking I’m still this beloved fixture of IPW when I managed to get Spike fuckin’ Kane cheered last show before I beat him. These are not the hallmarks of a man who can “out-think” me.”

End of the line, the crowd forms a semicircle around Touchdown. Continuing to throw garbage and choice insults as he stands before a door, still unperturbed.

“As for “out-cheat” and “out-wrestle”? Well…”

Another smirk, Touchdown disappears through the door.

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A surprisingly tasteful interior. Polished oak flooring, fireplace, evening summer breeze gently bristling the curtains. All contrasted by the roguish Touchdown, sat on an easy chair with a thick book in one hand, expensive glass containing cheap whiskey in the other.

The locale and his mannerisms make it an apparent mockery of the locales favoured by Recoba.

“Don’t mind me, just reminiscing.”

As Touchdown flicks through the book, our view tilts upwards. Revealing its contents to be pictures of losses suffered by Cross from the likes of Mistress Discipline among others. He stops, tapping an image of Cross pinned by Irina Sokolov.

“Oh, here’s a good one. IPW’s first Criss-Cross Loss. How’d it happen? Well, the man who’s renowned ability is cheating, found himself reliant on the rule of a rope break which the ref never saw. It’s unfortunate, really. Someone who’s modus operandi is bending the rules to suit him, hasn’t seen fit to display as such in IPW. His biggest claims of superiority are getting rid of people the Jamrockers already beat and forgotten about. Winning a title in a multi-man match where luck is as big a part as anything, before having his moment usurped by his own employee.”

“Hell, even comparing me against my partner Jimi, desperately trying to sow some dissension by claiming one’s better than the other. Truth is, Cross? Which Jamrocker’s superior is irrelevant; we’re both better than you. But, if you have such an issue with the possibility that I might have outside help to blindside you, let me put in words you might understand:”

“I’m leveraging the assets I have and you don’t. Which, in this case, is a friend.”

One fell swoop, Touchdown downs the entire glass of whisky, gritting his teeth a little before exhaling, satisfied . He tosses the glass behind him, shattering it against the floor.

“But, some more pertinent ones are those you mentioned dismissively. I’m faster than you, I’m more athletic than you and, if our trajectories in IPW are anything to go by, I’m more ruthless than you.”

“You’re not going to get the “best of Alastor Touchdown” at London Heatwave. You’re going to get the worst, lowest, slimiest scumbag you’ve ever seen in your life. Because you said it yourself, you’re a better technical wrestler than I am. But what good’ll that do when your ego and underestimation of me leaves you blindsided by every trick I've got?”

“What good will your experience with cheating be, when someone quicker and hungrier seizes the opportunities before you can even blink?”

“What good will your first title win be, when Alastor Touchdown’s historic reign gets recorded right after it?”

One last flick through the book, a journey of Cross’ failings.

“You’ve talked a big game since signing. The promised numbers and profits from your name haven’t materialised. Meanwhile, even with people calling for our deaths, The Jamrockers continue to be a required fixture on IPW programming. You’re the personification of every entitled, shallow, insecure “legend” who demands respect without giving it in turn. That alone means I’ve so much more desire to beat you than your feeble desire to be a Champion can handle.”

The book slams shut, as it concludes, so too does Touchdown’s mockery of Cross. Returning to his irreverent demeanour.

“Unlike you, I don’t want the belt to further my legacy.”

“I just wanna piss on yours.”

Tossing the book into the fireplace, the sound of a zipper opening echoes as we fade to black.

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