We fade in to Dragon Jones sitting on a stool in his studio apartment. Wait. Studio apartment? No this isn't Dragon, he lives in a school bus that he tur-
"I sold the bus."
Oh. His voice has lost that youthful sheen it once had, but that certainly is Deej. I'm still not used to this serious nonsense. He slips a hand into his much more expensive looking jorts and pulls out a cigarette. Casually lighting it and continuing.
"In fact, I sold everything of any worth that the 'Dragon Jones' of old called his possessions. Which easily afforded me two tenths of this apartment."
He chuckles and takes a drag, staring slightly off camera as he does.
"I'm shedding my skin, so to speak. Which is a lark within itself as naturally this is the skin I always should have been in. The Dragon Jones you are all so fond of is dead. His 'legacy' is dead, I absolve any losses one may have suffered to him and strike any titles he may have held from the record."
He rubs his eyes and takes a moment to compose himself.
"For years I have been the butt of jokes within my own family. 'Oh, Dragon. I hear he can't even figure out a finisher' I'd hear from my aunt. 'Dragon? I saw him lose a match because he TRIED a moonsault.' my uncle would say. Not only that, while Dash trained my siblings I was mostly relegated to menial chores. IF I was lucky I would get to be the bump machine as all of my cousins, brothers and sisters hit move after move on me."
He crushes the lit cigarette in his hand, throwing the mess away soon after.
"No one gave me a chance. Not even after I became a WORLD champion in the WWA. WORLD. You know what they said to me at the family reunion that year? 'Dragon! I heard you finally got something to hold your pants up with!'"
He stands up, taking another moment before booting the stool across the room.
"That brings me to this. To why I'm talking to you right now. If they won't accept me as a Jones than the better damn well recognize me as the FIRST and the FIRST Intergalactic Champion to ever be in the bloodline."
His tension seems to ease at mentioning the IGChampionship, his scowl recedes.
"However, in place of simply letting me compete for the title itself I'm forced to go through a qualifying match. Apparently not even the IGCC dares to recognize the amount of talent that stands before them, so I they put me up with this Sabre guy to see if I'm worthy of a shot at the title."
He produces a folder from off camera, it has a headshot of Sabre pinned to the cover.
"Naturally, I dug up any information I could on this Sabre to see what I'm getting myself into."
He opens it up, looking it over it for a second before pouring the contents to the ground. Or, that's what he would have done if there was even anything in there.
"You're a blank slate, Sabre. For you, this plays to your advantage. I'm getting into the ring with a man I'm hardly familiar with other than what color mask he likes to wear to the ring. You have to consider though, Sabre, that I'm a blank slate too. Unshackled from previous burdens and prepared to go through anyone that is put in front of me."
Dragon brushes his hair out of his eyes. Wait...so he became this weird bad guy but didn't get a haircut? I mean, if I was going to go all rudo I'd be wanting to get that mop chopped off pront-
"I'm looking for a war, Sabre. If you can't bring me that? Fine. I'll just drive your skull into the canvas and move on to the next match. I want that belt and I don't intend to be stopped, especially not by someone from the deep dark scary 'parts unknown'. What I do intend is to leave a trail of carnage towards the top of the mountain, where I will sit crowned the FIRST Intergalactic Champion."
He grins, pleased with the clever play on words that he just laid out that everyone else will ignore or groan at.
"Bring that mask of yours, I'll bring a body bag."
He tosses the folder at the camera, it surprisingly knocks it over as we fade to black and I consider changing careers.
It is another dark and stormy night at Stately Sabre Manor. Sabre sits in a mauve smoking jacket with tweed slippers, and of course his ubiquitous black and silver mask. A long cigarette holder smoulders from his lip, and a cheery fireplace chases away the early springtime chill. Sabre is enjoying a read of his favourite book, whilst sitting in his high-back leather chair. He looks up and smiles, setting his book aside.
Sabre: Ah good. I was afraid you had trouble getting past the security gate. Shhh... No no, don't talk. I hate it when the Help talks. I want to welcome all the fans of Intergalactic Wrestling. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man whose been around for a time. I've worn many masks and worn many names in my time, and now you may call me Sabre. Why I chose this nom de guerre is my business; and ultimately it is irrelevant. If I chose to call myself Kicky McAsskicker I would still be the first IGC champion. It just would sound sillier. Ah.
Sabre pauses as a gentleman's gentleman appears at his left with a fluted glass on a try. Sabre exchanges his cigarette holder with the glass, takes a sip and continues.
Sabre: Mmmm. Delightful. So then, onto business. The Intergalactic Heavyweight Championship. Quite the mouthful, isn't it. But it seems many of the premiere wrestling companies around these here parts. So that means it is an important title, thus I covet it. And since it seems many other fine young wrestlers want this distinction of holding it first.
Sabre takes another sip, relishing the flavours.
Sabre: So not only will I win this coveted little bauble, I too shall crush the dreams of others. Now how can I pass such an opportunity up?
Setting aside his glass, Sabre steeples his fingers under his masked chin.
Sabre: But I being rude, talking about myself endlessly. Where are my manners? Let me digress and address my first stepping stone towards the IGC title, Dragon Jones. Hello Dragon. Are you well? How are you settling into your new life as "someone who doesn't give a **** no more?" Do you feel more...
Sabre provides us some air quotes. Presume that if you see quotation marks, he's making quotation marks.
Sabre: "Bad ass"? I am afraid that your recent paradigm shift will achieve nothing, Mr. Jones. "Dragon." You see, you are as transparent as you are see-through. You claim to reject the fans, to cast off your previous "happy-go-lucky" persona, but deep down we both know what you are.
Sabre pauses for dramatic effect and to chuckle evilly.
Sabre: You said it yourself, that you hate the way your own family rejected you. You loathe the fans who so rightly dislike you. And I choose the word 'dislike' carefully, as any stronger feeling would suggest the fans care one whit what you think of them. Yes, Dragon Jones, we both know you are in truth a sad little boy who just wants to be loved.
Sabre retrieves his glass and take another sip.
Sabre: You build your shell of resentment and self-destruction, telling yourself that you don't need the fans. You don't care if they don't like you. But all your bravado and messy hair cannot drown out the quiet weeping in your heart; 'why don't they love me?'
Sabre shakes his head in mock sympathy.
Sabre: Jones, Jones, Jones. We know this act of yours is just that. You secretly wish the fans to call out yout name again. We both know you would sell every worldly good you possess from the shirt off you back tothe ass in your pants to hear just one cheer. Just one little chant of 'DRAGON! DRAGON! DRAGON!'
Sabre drains the glass, and allows his gentleman to take it away.
Sabre: it will never happen. And the great tragedy is that when I destroy you in my first step toward the IGC title, no one will stop to weep for you.
Sabre smiles warmly at the thought. And we fade...
Dragon is already sitting in front of the camera, not caring much for a more luxurious introduction. He already looks pissed and ready to air why this is so.
"The fans? The ****ING fa-You think I give any thought towards sheep who used to cheer a mindless idiot? The fans are scum. They take everything on surface value and not once do they take the time to ingest anything thicker than a People magazine. Why, oh why, would I spend an iota thinking about what those short bus dwellers think about me? I have far more important things than that."
"Specifically, how many pounds of pressure it would take to shatter your arm into twelve different pieces. Or, how many blows to the head would it take to fill that mask of yours with blood? You know, the important things in life."
Dragon clears his throat and continues. His verbosity coming out in waves today.
"Sabre, honey, at first I thought this was going to be a little exercise in how quickly I can wrap up a match. But apparently you are so graciously going to come down from your magnificently appointed Tuscan villa to give me a fight. Though, try not to get distracted about what drapes will match the rug in your new pool house all right? I need you to at least look like you're all there before I turn your lights out. Better for appearances that way."
He runs his hand through his hair, grabbing it near the top and letting it cascade down again.
"Did my family essentially abandoning me when I turned eighteen hurt? Of course, but it made me stronger. Now that I've gotten rid of them I am able to forge my own legacy, I don't have to be choked within the shadow of any of my former kin. Destroying you will just be the first rung on the ladder to my own infamy. To forging fear behind the name Dragon Jones. Do me a favor though, just remember to leave any allergies you have with management, because you aren't going to be able to speak for yourself after that bell rings and my arm is raised."
He walks off, done with making talking pictures for the day. This reveals his barren apartment. Spotless white walls and not a lick of furniture to be found other than the stool he sitting on. There is a box in far corner with "TO BURN" written on it in thick black letters. Now that we've gotten the MTV Cribz look at Dragon Jones' new abode, we fade to black.
The halls of Stately Sabre Manor are dark, save a flickering fireplace at the back of the room. Sabre sits in his chair, and another light from his cigarette winks on and off as he puffs away.
Sabre: Goodness me. It seems in my attempt to open a dialogue with my young erstwhile first opponent, I seem to have struck a nerve.
The ember of the cigarette gives a reddish tint to Sabre's already sinister countenance. He continues.
Sabre: Truly, Dragon Jones, I am sorry. I am sorry you were so unloved, while I was raised in a wealthy home filled with love and constant celebrations of my brilliance. I am sorry that your efforts to be taken seriously have been met with indifference while I spotlight and headline where ever I may be. I am so very sorry that your greatest achievement in your life will be serving as a trivia answer; 'who was the first wrestler Sabre defeated on his path to the Intergalactic Championship?'
Puff, glow, exhale.
Sabre: Your bravado is to be commended though. Really, I see you bravely trying to say you do not care about the fans. You tell me being cast aside like so much spoiled meat by your family have made you into the big strong man you are today. Such bold words.
The ember moves away, suggesting Sabre has put down the cigarette. A shadowy outline and a voice are the only hints that Sabre is still here.
Sabre: But words ring false, Dragon. I can hear the hope in your voice behind each word. 'If I defeat Sabre, the fans will love me again.' 'If I can pin Sabre, my father will finally grunt and nod something resembling affection.' 'If I survive Sabre, maybe the pain of all my failings will be lessened.'
Sabre chuckles in a chuckly fashion.
Sabre: So enough talk. I will relish crushing you and all of your petty hopes.
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