Post by Syndicate on Aug 23, 2021 23:04:43 GMT -5
APTER HIGH SCHOOL - APTER, TN
AUGUST 6TH, 2008 - 3:45PM
?: You wanted to see me, Coach?
From nothing, we fade into the inside of a wrestling coach's office at Apter High School in Tennessee. The year is 2008, and the Apter Spartans wrestling team was deep in preparation for defending its team state wrestling championship, and in front of the camera sits the architect behind that title and the many more that came before it: Coach Scott Russell. An absolute legend in the amateur wrestling community, Coach Russell took a floundering Apter High School wrestling program in 2004 and turned it into a perennial powerhouse almost overnight. The Spartans reeled off two straight state titles in TSSAA Class A wrestling, along with other individual accomplishments, and even after encountering a down year in 2006, Coach Russell brought his team right back to the top in the 2007 season. Pictures from his coaching career, along with a picture of every team he's ever coached, line the white brick walls of his office, surrounding him with reminders of his previous accomplishments. One picture in particular, however, is placed on a pedestal above the others, hung right over his CRT computer monitor: am image of the championship squad from last year, notably featuring two familiar individuals: Colt Irvine, the star heavyweight with flowing brunette hair and a penchant for flashy moves on the mat, and his brother, Sydney Irvine...the future Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate.
Coach: Yep, come on in and take a seat.
We pan over to the doorway, where none other than Sydney Irvine himself is standing. Fresh off of practice and still wearing his maroon and gold wrestling singlet, the tired amateur wrestler looks both excited and nervous to talk to Coach. The previous year, Sydney had won the individual state title at 138 pounds as a sophomore, and he was looking to repeat at the same weight class this year while also contributing to the team's overall goal of a combined championship. After all, wrestling was his one true passion in life - his friends and family certainly understood that nothing else mattered to the high schooler as much as succeeding in this sport. With his short brunette hair glistening with sweat, Sydney walks over and takes a seat in a metal folding chair facing his coach's desk.
Sydney: What's up?
Coach: Well, Irvine, I've been thinkin'...
Coach Russell, with his booming voice and large stature, has a penchant for calling his athletes by their last names.
Coach: You're doing a hell of a job out there with the younger kids. Keepin' them motivated, getting on their asses when they mess up, and all that. I can't keep my eye on everyone at the same time, so I just wanted to commend you for helping me out with making sure everyone stays in line.
Sydney: Of course, Coach - I'll always do whatever's best for the team, and I want them to have that same mindset as well.
Coach: Good, good...you've got a solid head on your shoulders there, Irvine. Just like your brother.
Sydney seems a little miffed by this comment - he always finds himself being compared by others to his older brother, Colt, even though Sydney would much rather be treated as his own man. Nevertheless, he verbally responds favorably to the comparison.
Sydney: Thanks, Coach. That means a lot.
Coach: Don't mention it. Now get outta here and take a shower before you stink up the joint!
Coach Russell lets out a loud belly laugh as he gestures to the door, excusing Sydney from their "meeting". However, the future Syndicate doesn't move out of his chair, something that Coach immediately notices.
Coach: Hmm? You got somethin' to say, Irvine?
Sydney: Yeah, actually...I do.
Sydney Irvine shuffles nervously in his metal folding chair as he thinks of the best way to phrase what he's about to ask.
Sydney: You know...I've been trying to go out of my way to encourage the younger guys to be their best selves, like you always teach us. And I'll absolutely do whatever it takes to get this team another championship, no questions asked. But...I was hoping, you know, since my brother is already captain of the team, that I'd be able to share some of that responsibility -
Coach: Irvine, I'm gonna stop you right there. You know my policy - only seniors get to be named "captain".
Sydney: I know, and I respect you and your policy, Coach, but I really do think that I can provide some additional leadership to this team.
Coach: And I really do think that you've got another year of growing to do before you're ready for that position. I see you out there on the mat, Irvine, and it seems like sometimes, you're more focused on getting the crowd to cheer for you than actually coming out with the win. That's gotta get fixed, first and foremost, before we start talking about you becoming captain. Besides, your brother's doing a fine job in that role as it is - we don't need a second one this year. Clear?
Sydney: I just think -
Coach: I said, are we CLEAR, Irvine?
Sydney sighs at this, knowing that no matter what he says, the always-stern Coach Russell won't budge from his position on the matter.
Sydney: ...we're clear, Coach.
Coach: Good.
Coach Russell grabs a copy of the Apter Press-Gazette from his desk and opens it up to the "Sports" section, firmly breaking off the conversation with Sydney. This prompts the younger Irvine brother to solemnly stand up from his chair and walk towards the door. However, just as he begins to pull it open and leave, Coach Russell's voice booms out from behind the paper.
Coach: Although...I suppose some more help could come in handy around here...
Coach lowers the paper and stares directly into the eyes of a confused yet hopeful Sydney Irvine.
Coach: ...I'll think about it. But if you want that spot, you need to go out there and bust your ass each and every day, and show me that you truly want to be a captain of this team. Show me that you're here to win, not to be a showboater, and then we'll talk. But for now, get the hell out of my office.
As his coach turns his attention back to his paper, Sydney looks down at the ground in apparent disbelief. He's never seen Coach Russell change his mind like that, especially in such a short timeframe. Smiling to himself, Sydney Irvine hastily leaves the office, leaving Coach Scott Russell alone with his Tennessee Titans training camp reports.
From nothing, we fade into the inside of a wrestling coach's office at Apter High School in Tennessee. The year is 2008, and the Apter Spartans wrestling team was deep in preparation for defending its team state wrestling championship, and in front of the camera sits the architect behind that title and the many more that came before it: Coach Scott Russell. An absolute legend in the amateur wrestling community, Coach Russell took a floundering Apter High School wrestling program in 2004 and turned it into a perennial powerhouse almost overnight. The Spartans reeled off two straight state titles in TSSAA Class A wrestling, along with other individual accomplishments, and even after encountering a down year in 2006, Coach Russell brought his team right back to the top in the 2007 season. Pictures from his coaching career, along with a picture of every team he's ever coached, line the white brick walls of his office, surrounding him with reminders of his previous accomplishments. One picture in particular, however, is placed on a pedestal above the others, hung right over his CRT computer monitor: am image of the championship squad from last year, notably featuring two familiar individuals: Colt Irvine, the star heavyweight with flowing brunette hair and a penchant for flashy moves on the mat, and his brother, Sydney Irvine...the future Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate.
Coach: Yep, come on in and take a seat.
We pan over to the doorway, where none other than Sydney Irvine himself is standing. Fresh off of practice and still wearing his maroon and gold wrestling singlet, the tired amateur wrestler looks both excited and nervous to talk to Coach. The previous year, Sydney had won the individual state title at 138 pounds as a sophomore, and he was looking to repeat at the same weight class this year while also contributing to the team's overall goal of a combined championship. After all, wrestling was his one true passion in life - his friends and family certainly understood that nothing else mattered to the high schooler as much as succeeding in this sport. With his short brunette hair glistening with sweat, Sydney walks over and takes a seat in a metal folding chair facing his coach's desk.
Sydney: What's up?
Coach: Well, Irvine, I've been thinkin'...
Coach Russell, with his booming voice and large stature, has a penchant for calling his athletes by their last names.
Coach: You're doing a hell of a job out there with the younger kids. Keepin' them motivated, getting on their asses when they mess up, and all that. I can't keep my eye on everyone at the same time, so I just wanted to commend you for helping me out with making sure everyone stays in line.
Sydney: Of course, Coach - I'll always do whatever's best for the team, and I want them to have that same mindset as well.
Coach: Good, good...you've got a solid head on your shoulders there, Irvine. Just like your brother.
Sydney seems a little miffed by this comment - he always finds himself being compared by others to his older brother, Colt, even though Sydney would much rather be treated as his own man. Nevertheless, he verbally responds favorably to the comparison.
Sydney: Thanks, Coach. That means a lot.
Coach: Don't mention it. Now get outta here and take a shower before you stink up the joint!
Coach Russell lets out a loud belly laugh as he gestures to the door, excusing Sydney from their "meeting". However, the future Syndicate doesn't move out of his chair, something that Coach immediately notices.
Coach: Hmm? You got somethin' to say, Irvine?
Sydney: Yeah, actually...I do.
Sydney Irvine shuffles nervously in his metal folding chair as he thinks of the best way to phrase what he's about to ask.
Sydney: You know...I've been trying to go out of my way to encourage the younger guys to be their best selves, like you always teach us. And I'll absolutely do whatever it takes to get this team another championship, no questions asked. But...I was hoping, you know, since my brother is already captain of the team, that I'd be able to share some of that responsibility -
Coach: Irvine, I'm gonna stop you right there. You know my policy - only seniors get to be named "captain".
Sydney: I know, and I respect you and your policy, Coach, but I really do think that I can provide some additional leadership to this team.
Coach: And I really do think that you've got another year of growing to do before you're ready for that position. I see you out there on the mat, Irvine, and it seems like sometimes, you're more focused on getting the crowd to cheer for you than actually coming out with the win. That's gotta get fixed, first and foremost, before we start talking about you becoming captain. Besides, your brother's doing a fine job in that role as it is - we don't need a second one this year. Clear?
Sydney: I just think -
Coach: I said, are we CLEAR, Irvine?
Sydney sighs at this, knowing that no matter what he says, the always-stern Coach Russell won't budge from his position on the matter.
Sydney: ...we're clear, Coach.
Coach: Good.
Coach Russell grabs a copy of the Apter Press-Gazette from his desk and opens it up to the "Sports" section, firmly breaking off the conversation with Sydney. This prompts the younger Irvine brother to solemnly stand up from his chair and walk towards the door. However, just as he begins to pull it open and leave, Coach Russell's voice booms out from behind the paper.
Coach: Although...I suppose some more help could come in handy around here...
Coach lowers the paper and stares directly into the eyes of a confused yet hopeful Sydney Irvine.
Coach: ...I'll think about it. But if you want that spot, you need to go out there and bust your ass each and every day, and show me that you truly want to be a captain of this team. Show me that you're here to win, not to be a showboater, and then we'll talk. But for now, get the hell out of my office.
As his coach turns his attention back to his paper, Sydney looks down at the ground in apparent disbelief. He's never seen Coach Russell change his mind like that, especially in such a short timeframe. Smiling to himself, Sydney Irvine hastily leaves the office, leaving Coach Scott Russell alone with his Tennessee Titans training camp reports.
EASTON GYM CO. - LOS ANGELES, CA
AUGUST 23RD, 2021 - 7:24PM
***BOOM...BOOM...BOOM***
We cut from Coach Russell's office to the present day, inside of Easton Gym Co. in the middle of Los Angeles, California. Here, between the red brick walls of a mostly-empty facility, we see the adult version of the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, throwing haymakers into a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. Sporting a shirtless look with black athletic shorts and gray Under Armour sneakers along with red MMA-style gloves, Syndicate focuses his entire attention on providing the bag in front of him with as much "pain" as it can possibly handle. As he does, a gym trainer, standing no taller than 5' 10" and wearing a black tank top with matching sweatpants, watches intensely from a few feet away.
Trainer: That's it, Syd, you're doing great - five more hits to knock 'em out!
Sure enough, Syndicate responds to his trainer's advice with five well-placed strikes directly into the center of the punching bag, finishing the routine off with a spinning heel kick. He takes a moment to breathe as the trainer claps his hands.
Trainer: Awesome job, man. Hey, I'm gonna go take care of some stuff in the back - feel free to keep going if you wanna get ahead of our next session.
The trainer nods his head at Syndicate and wanders off to his office in the back of the dark, quiet gym. Syndicate watches him go for a moment before immediately turning back to the heavy bag, resuming his punches.
Syndicate: You ever had something spoiled, Jason? Ever been super excited to go see a new movie or read a bestselling book, just to have someone ruin the twist at the end of it all? I have - many times, in fact. I found out about Han Solo dying within the comments of an unrelated meme. I figured out the killer in Knives Out because there just so happened to be a story floating around online saying that villains can't have iPhones. I did my best to watch The Mandalorian within a day of each episode coming out, and yet, the official Star Wars Facebook page always seemed to have a picture of the big new twist character uploaded and on full display by the next morning.
The Los Angeles Outlaw, fresh off a dominating win at Fallout XI to earn himself an opportunity at the Legacy Championship, throws a vicious right hook into the bag, damn near knocking it off its chain-link harness. As he continues to speak, Syndicate continues to throw blow after blow into the canvas, somehow managing to barely break a sweat while doing so.
Syndicate: Being spoiled gives you that pain in your gut that you just can't describe, not because your life has been ruined or anything, but because you are burdened by the knowledge of the future. Others, they walk into that movie theatre, naively thinking that their future is yet to be determined, but you know that's not true. You know what's going to happen next, but even when you try and warn the people around you...they reject you as a sinner and a fraud, for you have ruined their chance at temporary happiness. In this situation, it is YOU that is evil, even though you're just trying to protect those around you from what is to come.
Syndicate, after minutes of assaulting the heavy bag, finally presses his palm against it to stop its momentum. Taking a deep breath, the Los Angeles Outlaw smiles at the imprints left behind by his fists before turning towards the camera, his lightning blue eyes piercing the lens.
Syndicate: I say all that, Jason, because I know you're going to reject what I'm about to say. I know that you, along with the rest of the world, are expecting a dream match at Night of Honor: "Elena DeDraca vs. Jason Long". Two of the greatest wrestlers on God's green earth, fighting for the richest prize in the sport on Project: Honor's biggest night. I'm sure there are plenty of people out there buying tickets to the show, just for the POTENTIAL of seeing that main event. And I know you've probably already got your advertisements and your Tweets ready to go out at a moment's notice, right when that match gets announced. After all, why care about lil' ol' Syndicate? He's just a cocky asshole from Los Angeles that thinks he's better than he really is, right? Someone that, even though he put out the most dominant performance possible on this past week's episode of Fallout, somehow isn't even worth an "honorable mention" in the Elite 7. Someone that you, the self-proclaimed Emperor of Project: Honor, can just waltz over, as if he doesn't exist? I wouldn't blame you for any of that - in fact, in your position, I'd probably be doing and thinking a lot of the same things. But just like the imaginary patrons walking into the proverbial theatre, I'm about to stand outside that door and spoil the whole thing for you. Because I know what happens at the end of the movie, Jason...and I don't think it's an ending that you're gonna like.
The co-number one contender for the Legacy title uses his forearm to wipe the sweat off his brow as he pops a squat on a nearby bench against the wall of Easton Gym Co., his gray duffel bag propped up next to where he sits. He grabs a green Gatorade-branded water bottle and takes a swig before turning his attention to his gloves, undoing the Velcro on his right.
Syndicate: You know, I've been watching you and your little Mystery Incorporated bullshit over the past few months. You and Savannah, being terrorized by a mysterious masked stalker week in and week out, to the point where you have to fake your own death in order to figure out that it's just...Arik Holt, of all people. Guy that doesn't talk ends up being the one doing all the talking - what a surprise. I could have figured that one out in about five seconds if I gave enough of a shit to care. And then, you go through all this trouble, all this work, swindling everybody up and down the block into thinking that you were actually dead...just to have your girlfriend deal with the psycho in the end. That's not the Jason Long I was expecting to see rise from the metaphorical grave. I was expecting the motherfuckin' EMPEROR, Jason...not someone that thought that Kayden Ellis, of all people, was behind all the torment and pain that your family has had to experience. And now, here you are, fresh off unmasking Redd to reveal - gasp! - Old Man Holt, coming face to face with someone that doesn't care about any of it. Look at yourself, Jason - you're out there making movies, you're out there re-enacting your favorite Nancy Drew novels, you're out there doin' the dirty with your girl Savannah night in and night out, and you expect me to believe that you've got 100% of your focus on a match with the Los Angeles Outlaw? Come on. I've seen preschoolers with more focus than you, and they at least sometimes give you a warning before they're about to piss the bed.
Syndicate angrily throws his right glove into his gym bag before undoing his left, providing it with the same fate.
Syndicate: I mean, look at what happened when you were preoccupied with Arik. I stood toe-to-toe with Elena DeDraca, and if Mr. DeMarco wouldn't have so blatantly shifted the odds into her favor, I would've come out on top in that exchange. Last week, three of the best and brightest that Fallout has - or, in Mason's case, had - to offer went out there in the main event, and before they could even fuckin' blink, they all got their asses kicked by the Los Angeles Outlaw. THAT'S how dangerous I am, Jason - one second of weakness, one moment of looking in the wrong direction, and all of a sudden, you're staring up at the lights wondering what the hell went wrong. And because I'm the spoiler, Jason, I'll TELL you what's going to go wrong: you're going to walk out there, you're gonna see my my smiling little face, and you're gonna want to punch a hole right through my ego. Just like Havoc did. Just like Julius Fairweather did. Just like every other sad son of a bitch in that locker room WISHES they could. But those guys failed, and you're gonna fail too, because I don't care if you're the Prime Champion or the case of Hamm's in the back of the gas station that nobody ever buys, the result's gonna be all the same: you're gonna fall at the feet of the uncrowned Legacy Champion, the greatest professional wrestler in the entire fuckin' world, the Los...Angeles...Outlaw.
He leans forward towards the camera in front of him, each hair of his graying stubble becoming more and more visible as he does. His fraying blonde hair only confirms what the beard suggests: Syndicate's starting to lose it from the stress of competing at the highest level of Project: Honor...he's just not willing to admit it.
Syndicate: But like I said before, I know that's not the result that the world wants to hear. That's not what the folks over at ESPN want to parrot on their pathetic excuse for a sports network. That's not what the top brass of Project: Honor want for their biggest pay-per-view of the year. I get it. It's not fun to see someone like me go out there, make outlandish claims, and prove them to be correct week after week, show after show. You can see the same storyline throughout this past season of the NBA. The Milwaukee Bucks, fresh off a second-round disappointment in the Bubble, came out with a ton to prove. By the time they got to the playoffs, people were already writing out "Nets vs. Lakers" in pen. But in the end, neither of those teams even made it to the dance. Instead, the Bucks beat down all the haters, defied all the odds, and won themselves a title. In this scenario, Jason, you're the Brooklyn Nets. You've got all the talent in the world, you've got the support of the media machine behind you...but just like those Nets, you're not gonna survive long enough to see the end of the story. Because when you come face-to-face with me, you're gonna find that I'm not some pushover. You're gonna find that I'm not just an asshole with a pretty face. Instead, you're gonna realize that you don't have the energy, the focus, or the ability to make it to the end of the road. And just like that "Nets vs. Lakers" pipe dream, you'll have to grapple with the reality that you're simply not good enough in the end to hang with someone that's just...plain...better.
Syndicate: But do you know what the best part of all this is, Jason? It's not that I'm one win away from facing Elena at Night of Honor for the top championship in this company. It's not that I have a chance to shut you up, with the entire world watching. It's that I don't even NEED to win this match of ours. Let's say we play your little game, and that you somehow manage to "drag me to fucking hell" like you say you will. Alright. You've bested the Los Angeles Outlaw, and you've survived with your ego and reputation intact...for a few weeks. For a few weeks, you'll be feeling like you're at the top of the world. For a few weeks, you'll feel like you bested a man that couldn't possibly live up to the hype that he gave himself. And then, even IF you manage to beat Elena for the Legacy title, your reign will inevitably reach its conclusion when you face off against the Los Angeles Outlaw again at Bloodbath. Don't you see, Jason? Win or lose, I still get what I want. I've been to hell more times than I can possibly count, and I can say with confidence that if you're gonna push me there, then I'm damn sure you're gonna go down with me. At this point, I'm playing with house money - I've got nothing to lose, but you? Well, let's just say that this week on Fallout, by the end of the night, there may just be another ass in the seat of the Emperor.
On the other side of the gym, a door can be heard slamming shut, accompanied by the ringing of keys. The camera turns to show the same gym trainer as before, backpack in tow, locking up his office and bounding across the gym past the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Trainer: Alright, Syd, I'm heading out. Just lock up when you're done.
Syndicate: Will do. Night.
Trainer: Night!
A few seconds later, the front door to the gym can be heard swinging open before shutting, leaving Syndicate as the only person left in the facility. He takes a deep breath, centers himself within his environment, and speaks once more.
Syndicate: You know, I think pretty much everyone thought you were dead, Jason - myself included. And even though I may want to hurt you, maim you, and throw you to the wolves in front of everyone you've ever loved, I'm mature enough to know that it's not exactly polite to wish death upon someone. But even I must admit...I wish you would have been dead for real, Jason, for your own sake. Because after you face off against the Los Angeles Outlaw...you will have had a better chance of walking out of Fallout alive if you would've stayed in the fucking ground. Welcome...to the Syndicate.
With a sick smirk spread across his perspiring face, Syndicate stands up from the bench and walks over to the showers to clean up from his workout. As he does, the shot is eaten up from all sides by flickering static.
We cut from Coach Russell's office to the present day, inside of Easton Gym Co. in the middle of Los Angeles, California. Here, between the red brick walls of a mostly-empty facility, we see the adult version of the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, throwing haymakers into a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. Sporting a shirtless look with black athletic shorts and gray Under Armour sneakers along with red MMA-style gloves, Syndicate focuses his entire attention on providing the bag in front of him with as much "pain" as it can possibly handle. As he does, a gym trainer, standing no taller than 5' 10" and wearing a black tank top with matching sweatpants, watches intensely from a few feet away.
Trainer: That's it, Syd, you're doing great - five more hits to knock 'em out!
Sure enough, Syndicate responds to his trainer's advice with five well-placed strikes directly into the center of the punching bag, finishing the routine off with a spinning heel kick. He takes a moment to breathe as the trainer claps his hands.
Trainer: Awesome job, man. Hey, I'm gonna go take care of some stuff in the back - feel free to keep going if you wanna get ahead of our next session.
The trainer nods his head at Syndicate and wanders off to his office in the back of the dark, quiet gym. Syndicate watches him go for a moment before immediately turning back to the heavy bag, resuming his punches.
Syndicate: You ever had something spoiled, Jason? Ever been super excited to go see a new movie or read a bestselling book, just to have someone ruin the twist at the end of it all? I have - many times, in fact. I found out about Han Solo dying within the comments of an unrelated meme. I figured out the killer in Knives Out because there just so happened to be a story floating around online saying that villains can't have iPhones. I did my best to watch The Mandalorian within a day of each episode coming out, and yet, the official Star Wars Facebook page always seemed to have a picture of the big new twist character uploaded and on full display by the next morning.
The Los Angeles Outlaw, fresh off a dominating win at Fallout XI to earn himself an opportunity at the Legacy Championship, throws a vicious right hook into the bag, damn near knocking it off its chain-link harness. As he continues to speak, Syndicate continues to throw blow after blow into the canvas, somehow managing to barely break a sweat while doing so.
Syndicate: Being spoiled gives you that pain in your gut that you just can't describe, not because your life has been ruined or anything, but because you are burdened by the knowledge of the future. Others, they walk into that movie theatre, naively thinking that their future is yet to be determined, but you know that's not true. You know what's going to happen next, but even when you try and warn the people around you...they reject you as a sinner and a fraud, for you have ruined their chance at temporary happiness. In this situation, it is YOU that is evil, even though you're just trying to protect those around you from what is to come.
Syndicate, after minutes of assaulting the heavy bag, finally presses his palm against it to stop its momentum. Taking a deep breath, the Los Angeles Outlaw smiles at the imprints left behind by his fists before turning towards the camera, his lightning blue eyes piercing the lens.
Syndicate: I say all that, Jason, because I know you're going to reject what I'm about to say. I know that you, along with the rest of the world, are expecting a dream match at Night of Honor: "Elena DeDraca vs. Jason Long". Two of the greatest wrestlers on God's green earth, fighting for the richest prize in the sport on Project: Honor's biggest night. I'm sure there are plenty of people out there buying tickets to the show, just for the POTENTIAL of seeing that main event. And I know you've probably already got your advertisements and your Tweets ready to go out at a moment's notice, right when that match gets announced. After all, why care about lil' ol' Syndicate? He's just a cocky asshole from Los Angeles that thinks he's better than he really is, right? Someone that, even though he put out the most dominant performance possible on this past week's episode of Fallout, somehow isn't even worth an "honorable mention" in the Elite 7. Someone that you, the self-proclaimed Emperor of Project: Honor, can just waltz over, as if he doesn't exist? I wouldn't blame you for any of that - in fact, in your position, I'd probably be doing and thinking a lot of the same things. But just like the imaginary patrons walking into the proverbial theatre, I'm about to stand outside that door and spoil the whole thing for you. Because I know what happens at the end of the movie, Jason...and I don't think it's an ending that you're gonna like.
The co-number one contender for the Legacy title uses his forearm to wipe the sweat off his brow as he pops a squat on a nearby bench against the wall of Easton Gym Co., his gray duffel bag propped up next to where he sits. He grabs a green Gatorade-branded water bottle and takes a swig before turning his attention to his gloves, undoing the Velcro on his right.
Syndicate: You know, I've been watching you and your little Mystery Incorporated bullshit over the past few months. You and Savannah, being terrorized by a mysterious masked stalker week in and week out, to the point where you have to fake your own death in order to figure out that it's just...Arik Holt, of all people. Guy that doesn't talk ends up being the one doing all the talking - what a surprise. I could have figured that one out in about five seconds if I gave enough of a shit to care. And then, you go through all this trouble, all this work, swindling everybody up and down the block into thinking that you were actually dead...just to have your girlfriend deal with the psycho in the end. That's not the Jason Long I was expecting to see rise from the metaphorical grave. I was expecting the motherfuckin' EMPEROR, Jason...not someone that thought that Kayden Ellis, of all people, was behind all the torment and pain that your family has had to experience. And now, here you are, fresh off unmasking Redd to reveal - gasp! - Old Man Holt, coming face to face with someone that doesn't care about any of it. Look at yourself, Jason - you're out there making movies, you're out there re-enacting your favorite Nancy Drew novels, you're out there doin' the dirty with your girl Savannah night in and night out, and you expect me to believe that you've got 100% of your focus on a match with the Los Angeles Outlaw? Come on. I've seen preschoolers with more focus than you, and they at least sometimes give you a warning before they're about to piss the bed.
Syndicate angrily throws his right glove into his gym bag before undoing his left, providing it with the same fate.
Syndicate: I mean, look at what happened when you were preoccupied with Arik. I stood toe-to-toe with Elena DeDraca, and if Mr. DeMarco wouldn't have so blatantly shifted the odds into her favor, I would've come out on top in that exchange. Last week, three of the best and brightest that Fallout has - or, in Mason's case, had - to offer went out there in the main event, and before they could even fuckin' blink, they all got their asses kicked by the Los Angeles Outlaw. THAT'S how dangerous I am, Jason - one second of weakness, one moment of looking in the wrong direction, and all of a sudden, you're staring up at the lights wondering what the hell went wrong. And because I'm the spoiler, Jason, I'll TELL you what's going to go wrong: you're going to walk out there, you're gonna see my my smiling little face, and you're gonna want to punch a hole right through my ego. Just like Havoc did. Just like Julius Fairweather did. Just like every other sad son of a bitch in that locker room WISHES they could. But those guys failed, and you're gonna fail too, because I don't care if you're the Prime Champion or the case of Hamm's in the back of the gas station that nobody ever buys, the result's gonna be all the same: you're gonna fall at the feet of the uncrowned Legacy Champion, the greatest professional wrestler in the entire fuckin' world, the Los...Angeles...Outlaw.
He leans forward towards the camera in front of him, each hair of his graying stubble becoming more and more visible as he does. His fraying blonde hair only confirms what the beard suggests: Syndicate's starting to lose it from the stress of competing at the highest level of Project: Honor...he's just not willing to admit it.
Syndicate: But like I said before, I know that's not the result that the world wants to hear. That's not what the folks over at ESPN want to parrot on their pathetic excuse for a sports network. That's not what the top brass of Project: Honor want for their biggest pay-per-view of the year. I get it. It's not fun to see someone like me go out there, make outlandish claims, and prove them to be correct week after week, show after show. You can see the same storyline throughout this past season of the NBA. The Milwaukee Bucks, fresh off a second-round disappointment in the Bubble, came out with a ton to prove. By the time they got to the playoffs, people were already writing out "Nets vs. Lakers" in pen. But in the end, neither of those teams even made it to the dance. Instead, the Bucks beat down all the haters, defied all the odds, and won themselves a title. In this scenario, Jason, you're the Brooklyn Nets. You've got all the talent in the world, you've got the support of the media machine behind you...but just like those Nets, you're not gonna survive long enough to see the end of the story. Because when you come face-to-face with me, you're gonna find that I'm not some pushover. You're gonna find that I'm not just an asshole with a pretty face. Instead, you're gonna realize that you don't have the energy, the focus, or the ability to make it to the end of the road. And just like that "Nets vs. Lakers" pipe dream, you'll have to grapple with the reality that you're simply not good enough in the end to hang with someone that's just...plain...better.
Syndicate: But do you know what the best part of all this is, Jason? It's not that I'm one win away from facing Elena at Night of Honor for the top championship in this company. It's not that I have a chance to shut you up, with the entire world watching. It's that I don't even NEED to win this match of ours. Let's say we play your little game, and that you somehow manage to "drag me to fucking hell" like you say you will. Alright. You've bested the Los Angeles Outlaw, and you've survived with your ego and reputation intact...for a few weeks. For a few weeks, you'll be feeling like you're at the top of the world. For a few weeks, you'll feel like you bested a man that couldn't possibly live up to the hype that he gave himself. And then, even IF you manage to beat Elena for the Legacy title, your reign will inevitably reach its conclusion when you face off against the Los Angeles Outlaw again at Bloodbath. Don't you see, Jason? Win or lose, I still get what I want. I've been to hell more times than I can possibly count, and I can say with confidence that if you're gonna push me there, then I'm damn sure you're gonna go down with me. At this point, I'm playing with house money - I've got nothing to lose, but you? Well, let's just say that this week on Fallout, by the end of the night, there may just be another ass in the seat of the Emperor.
On the other side of the gym, a door can be heard slamming shut, accompanied by the ringing of keys. The camera turns to show the same gym trainer as before, backpack in tow, locking up his office and bounding across the gym past the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Trainer: Alright, Syd, I'm heading out. Just lock up when you're done.
Syndicate: Will do. Night.
Trainer: Night!
A few seconds later, the front door to the gym can be heard swinging open before shutting, leaving Syndicate as the only person left in the facility. He takes a deep breath, centers himself within his environment, and speaks once more.
Syndicate: You know, I think pretty much everyone thought you were dead, Jason - myself included. And even though I may want to hurt you, maim you, and throw you to the wolves in front of everyone you've ever loved, I'm mature enough to know that it's not exactly polite to wish death upon someone. But even I must admit...I wish you would have been dead for real, Jason, for your own sake. Because after you face off against the Los Angeles Outlaw...you will have had a better chance of walking out of Fallout alive if you would've stayed in the fucking ground. Welcome...to the Syndicate.
With a sick smirk spread across his perspiring face, Syndicate stands up from the bench and walks over to the showers to clean up from his workout. As he does, the shot is eaten up from all sides by flickering static.
