There is no picture-- only a disclaimer that appears on the screen.
"The following was obtained through TEAM phone records, this past week. The contents are the sole property of TEAM, and may not be retransmitted or distributed without the express consent of TEAM."
The disclaimer fades from view. There is nothing more for a few moments, until the words "Pre-Recorded" appear at the top right of the screen. There is a bit of static, followed by the sound of a phone connection being made, with ringing and then the distinct sound of a person picking up on the other line. Captioning is enabled for our convenience, while the screen remains dark.
PERSON ANSWERING: "Yeah, hello?"
The responding voice on the other end of the line is scrambled, and thus unable to be identified.
UNIDENTIFIED: "We were watching, Mr. Tact."
LARRY TACT: "....Uh, your line is a bit messed up. I can't hear you that well. Did you say watching?"
UNIDENTIFIED: "Watching, Mr. Tact. Cuba... BANNED in the US... we saw you. And we were not pleased with what we saw."
LARRY TACT: "....Since it hasn't even aired yet, I'm assuming you were there live. Consider yourself lucky, you got a front row seat of the action. But I'm still not sure what exactly you're talking ab--"
UNIDENTIFIED: "When you spoke of your past, Mr. Tact. That information was secure.... information not meant for the public eye."
LARRY TACT: "Is this some kind of joke? I'm trying to work some things out over here, I don't need to be distracted. And I don't know how you knew I was here in the first place, unless this is some kind of prank. So talk, what's this about, who are you? What the hell is going on here?"
UNIDENTIFIED: "We... were content to leave that past to rest... but you opened a Pandora's Box, Mr. Tact."
LARRY TACT: "You know what? Freedom of speech, b****! Now I'm hanging up this phone...."
A very strange sound comes over the line, possibly laughter of some sort, though with the scrambling it sounds a bit demonic.
UNIDENTIFIED: "Try and ignore if you wish, Mr. Tact. Go ahead and attempt to dodge what you have set into motion. You will not escape it. And you will forever lose any chance... of reuniting with that lost piece of your past."
There is nothing, no sound, no captions for a bit. Then...
LARRY TACT: "What do you know?"
UNIDENTIFIED: "Oh, no, Mr. Tact. It is not so simple as just asking. You have no control in this."
LARRY TACT: "I SAID WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!"
More scrambled "laughter."
UNIDENTIFIED: "That's right, Mr. Tact; raise your aura. This is what we wish to see, now that you have joined in the game."
There is no response. Then...
UNIDENTIFIED: "The TEAM Invitational Tournament... this is your next scheduled assignment. Win your next match, and we will make further contact. Win, and we will provide... additional clarity."
An audible 'click' can be heard as the line disconnects.
FADE IN: to an office inside the TEAM complex, as indicated by a TEAM logo on the wall. Sitting at a desk is what we assume is a TEAM executive, dressed in a suit and tie, with dress shirt and slacks, as well as glasses and slickly groomed hair. He has an assortment of paperwork stacked on a corner of the desk, but currently has his finger on a recorder that seemed to just be playing. He places his hands on the desk, looking cordial as can be.
TEAM Official: "Our secretary, Irina, was the first to pick up the call. She said she couldn't make out much of it, but that someone had requested you personally. They knew you had come here today. Do you want to explain what... that... was all about, Mr. Tact?"
Sitting across the desk is Larry Tact, wearing a pair of khakis and collared black shirt and shoes. His blonde hair hangs at the sides of his face, and his olive eyes glare back across the desk at the Suit.
TACT: "Just like I told the chronies, downstairs, before, I don't know what the hell that was about."
TEAM Official: "Well you clearly had an inkling, given your responses toward the end...."
Tact looks away, then back defiantly.
TACT: "It could have been a prank, some internet reporter who had a bad run-in with me. It could have happened in Cuba, who knows. Maybe I didn't give him an autograph or something. He found out I'd be around here today, made a stupid call. It could've been anything."
The TEAM Suit adjusts his glasses.
TEAM Official: "As long as this isn't an issue... it won't be affecting your participation in the second round of the Invitational?"
Tact grunts.
TACT: "Are you asking me, or threatening me?"
TEAM Official: "Mr. Tact, you know TEAM is a promoter of many interested parties. We enjoy diversity, embrace it even. However, there are limits to what we deem acceptable. It wouldn't do any good for our image to have... unsavory individuals... running around our events. Furthermore, we don't desire any of our employed talent bringing along a Barry Bonds' circus. So whether you've got miscreant friends who like to block up our phone lines... or whatever you had said... just make sure you have your affairs in order. Now, you received your match assignment already. I believe you have some promotional work to do? In the studio?"
Tact looks like he could leap over the desk and uncoil on the official, but he thinks better of it. Instead he gets up, forcefully knocking over the cushioned, polished oak chair he was sitting in, and slamming the door shut behind him. The official just scoffs, taking some papers off the stack on his desk.
TEAM Official: "Animal."
He pushes a button on his desk phone.
TEAM Official: "Tiffany, can you come in here? The chair was knocked over... oh, and I need a fresh Latte."
FADE OUT.
FADE IN: on a "TiT: LONDON Region" backdrop. Standing in front of it, dressed in black leather pants and matching button-down shirt, is Larry Tact. His hair has been tied back, and he gives the camera a small smirk before speaking.
TACT: "I'm not feeling in the mood to rehash much about Round 1 of this tournament, so I'll just leave it at this: I hope I'll be able to do more than stretch before this match is over with. Sure, I'm the number three seed in London... but what does that really say when I can come through the ropes, make the cover, and exit the ring practically all in one motion? Well, aside from the fact I'm not messing around. But that should have been clear from the start of this. I just don't want there to be those looming questions about, "who you've faced" and "who has the toughest path?"
"I personally have little problem going in and laying waste to my opposition as quick as in Round 1, just as long as the accusations don't start raining down on me about how I didn't get any real tests along the way. I don't want to hear it. I went in and got the job done. Period."
He shrugs.
"But Round One is done. I'm on to Round number TWO... and the American Idol awaits. When I originally saw you were going to be my opponent, I didn't think much of it. Now, though, I've got the full scoop. Frankie Scott... your grand return to the ring is this tournament. And it's beyond phenomenal, right? That's what you said... and you even changed your moniker to show it."
He grins.
"I, for one, am glad to see you made it to round two... because I welcome another crack at you. Hell, it's a TEAM Invitational Tournament rematch! I remember it well... 2005, first round. You got me. But two times, Frankie...?"
He lets the words linger, then laughs bit, though not looking the least bit amused.
"I see you spoke about how you've still got it, Frankie. You don't want to be seen as someone who's lost a step, who's rusty. Well no problem there, Frankie. Because if you want even a chance at advancing to the next round, you're going to have to be way better than rusty. You'll need your top game to take this round."
"Unfortunately for you... I don't have any intention of letting you take your time, get your footing, and make some noise before getting down to business. I've got my own mission... and my own reasons... for needing to advance."
"So I'm going to come at you with every intention of making my statement to the rest of this region... and the rest of the field... stick. I want to break you down to the last breath. And I want you to fight back, so that when you do break... when you have only your guts and your pride left to give... and it isn't enough to keep you from tapping out... or kicking out of a pin... then, Frankie, people will recognize. They'll see more of what this bracket is capable of. They'll see what we're willing to do to each other, and in turn, to those who may be future opponents. And they'll get an unavoidable glimpse at how real a possibility it is... that Larry Tact will not be stopped this year."
He crosses his arms over his chest.
"I know you have strong reasons for wanting to advance, too. Aside from the whole comeback thing... I know you probably glanced at the brackets. Lindsay Troy is on the horizon, it seems. And from what I heard, you're one of those types who's just been dying to get your hands all over her... and for it to be legal."
He gives a toothy grin.
"That's what I hear going around, at least."
"I'm sure you'd be ready to impress her, too. I mean, you are the American Idol now! You must have legions behind you, ready to... I don't know... swoon in unison at the very sight of you? Have sex with you at a moment's notice? Give their undying fan-love to you?"
He scratches his chin, looking slightly perplexed.
"Wait, what exactly does an American Idol have to do with wrestling?"
He snaps his fingers in realization!
"Oh wait! That's right, they CHEER! They will find a way for your name to fit into a resounding, flowing chant, of which TENS of FANS will scream out of synch! Yes... they will chant your name and give you hope. They will make you a star against me...."
He points at the camera.
"And then... THEN!"
He lets his arm fall limp to one side, straightening up and glaring, narrow-eyed.
"I will break your star."
"Because I don't require anything from anyone. I don't need hope when I have raw talent. The only noise I need to make is that of my fist cracking off your face... your screams, as I contort your body."
"I don't need idolizing... not by America, or the world, Frankie. All I need, I have ready to unleash. And it will come at you, flush... unforgiving... in wave after unrelenting wave of crisp execution, and crude effectiveness. So that, by the time I'm done with you, Frankie Scott... there won't be a fangirl in the world who can swoon hard enough for you to come back. Not a fan who can chant loudly enough to turn the tide."
"Instead, I'll make them wish it would just end already. I'll make them hope for a tactful surrender."
He points at himself.
"I'll be able to do it because I will make sure to take you at your word, that you haven't lost a beat. Just make sure to take me at mine..."
"That I'm going to humble you... and avenge your eliminating me, two years ago..."
"With your own elimination, this year."
Fade out.
ffice