(CUT TO: Troy Windham walks on a beach. He's wearing a white shirt buttoned only on the bottom, so the air fills it. His long hair flies back in the breeze. He's wearing slacks w/ sandals, no socks, and is scanning out at the horizon.)
TROY: Y'know, a LOT has been said about me in recent weeks. There's been a lot of murmurs about what I've been saying and what I've been doing. A lot of pundits out there are saying that it's 1997 all over again. That Troy Windham is on top of not just his game... but on top of THE GAME, PERIOD.
(Troy stops and spins, his back to the ocean.)
TROY: Those people are right. You see, right now, this industry is at a crossroads. No -- check that -- it's not at a crossroads. IT'S IN THE DOLDRUMS. IT'S IN THE PITS. PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING IS AT ITS LOWEST MOMENT. And that... THAT, my friends... is why I am back. The white hat has been TORN off. The old Troy Windham -- the vintage cool cat who did what he wanted WHEN he wanted and made you all pop and mark at every one of his dastardly deeds... the Troy Windham EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU WANTED TO BE... but never COULD be... is BACK.
(Troy walks some more and comes up to a sandcastle.)
TROY: I've made a LOT of money in this sport. That was my MOTIVATION since day one. Make a much money and f as many girls as possible. I was here to USE this sport for my greater goals. And I did. I've made movies. I've gone on tour. I've hosted VH-1 retrospectives. I own beachfront property on the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Indian and the Mediterranean. I've got a lifetime pass for the slopes in Vail and I've been in Vanity Fair and GQ. My blackberry has Paris' cell and Nicole's houseline. When my lear jet needs refueling, I go on my SECOND lear jet. I don't NEED this sport. I don't NEED the CSWA.
(Troy crouches down before the sandcastle.)
TROY: But I *WANT* it. I *CRAVE* it. Y'see, I'm here to SAVE THIS LEAGUE and to SAVE THIS SPORT. The motivations for wrestlers has changed a lot over the years. And I'm here to show you MY motivations will win out. I DON'T have a LiveJournal. I DON'T have emotional scars from my father's abuse. I DON'T know 55,000 Japanese wrestling holds.
(Troy takes off his shades.)
TROY: What I know is that the POWER in this sport has always come from making people WANT to see you perform. From MAKING people give a damn about you... and then beating anyone who dares cross your path. And while everyone else is silent, while everyone else thinks of poetic ways to show the emotional burdens of their childhood... or while everyone else simply RIPS ME OFF... I'll be the person who comes up right to your face and spits in it... simply because I can.
(Troy turns to the ocean.)
It *IS* like 1997. NO ONE can compete against me. Not on the microphone. Not in the ring. The power of this industry STARTS AND ENDS WITH ME. I am going to SAVE this sport from the no-names who have taken it... from the likes of my opponent, Alias, the so-called best wrestler in the world who, curiously, has NO idea how to make ANYONE want to watch him in the ring... and it starts HERE in the CSWA. The CSWA World Title will ONCE AGAIN be around my waist. And, once again... I CALL THE SHOTS. I AM YOUR KING. And the world...
"Congrats on being the King o' the World, but I've got a headache... so I'm going to make this quick."
FADE IN. It was late. There Alias stood, successful in his first Primetime, against a man he already held a history with, who also happened to be arguably one of the most decorated competitors within the institution that was the CSWA, Mike Randalls. That was a number of days ago though, it was now night, and he had been a busy man ever since with his hectic schedule. Then again the Pulp Original always seemed to be moving, and tonight was no different, as he was led here... to the Blue Tattoo.
"Honestly though, the bullsh*t and self-hype wasn't entirely hard to cut through. You've taken the time to paint a pretty picture of yourself, listing all material possessions and past reflections like they're really something to sneeze at. You're going to same this sport from the 'no-names' who've taken, huh?"
CUT to where he stood outside the blue hued nightclub, leaning against the wall with one leg bent in and under him, resting on the wall itself... the glow of San Diego all around him. Alias had on clean-pressed dress pants, but black and white Chuck Taylors to throw it off. The bright white dress shirt that he was wearing, clung tightly to his torso, but a black t-shirt that simply said "Wrestling" in white block letters across the chest, hung just as tightly over top of it, letting the bottom of the white shirt poke out from under the black while the collar jutted out from the top. The opposing shirts where otherwise tucked nicely within the black pin-striped European cut suit jacket he wore.
If not for slight bruises on his roughly charming mug, he'd otherwise be looking sleek as the camera caught him lit by the San Diego lights. As he stood up from the wall, began talking towards the camera as he walked towards the camera.
"You kill me, you really do. Though then again, you come from the vein that gloats out it's arse, with public pronouncements. Who thinks that there opinions on everyone else actually matter. Like they ever have actually mattered." Before walking INTO the camera though, he pivoted on a dime and started walking up 5th avenue towards west Broadway.
Shoving a battered hand into pocket of his sleek suit jacket, he pulled out a light, before procuring a rolled up cigarette from behind his ear. Putting it in his mouth, Alias goes to light the cig before his self-propelled conversation sweeps him up again. The cig bobbing and dangling as he motioned the hand with the lighter to make a point every so often.
"It'd be wise to remember that I didn't pigeon-hole myself as 'The Greatest Wrestler Today', that was the CSWA's doing. You know, the very place that you're saving from me and all those like me. I cannot say that I haven't met you before, I haven't spent moments, months and years going toe-to-toe with guys just as bad you. Just as poisonous in their sloth and greed to this sport, I can't say that because I don't know you. I know what you've done and I'm examined you perform, but like hell am I going to attempt to find out what goes on inside that head of yours. Then again, this is enough wasted time as I'm going to allow myself to get into about one Troy Windham. I'll get back to you."
Finally he took a break in what he was saying, what he had gotten so caught up in, and lit the cig that still daggled in his mouth, before shoving the shining zippo lighter back into his pocket. Suddenly he stopped walking and took the recently lit cancer stick out of his mouth, and once again addressed the camera directly.
"I'm blunt when it comes to the message I want to get across, because there's no reason to beat around the bush and puff myself up. Especially when punching someone in the head or giving 'em a pat on the back puts the same message across just fine. Don't get me wrong, I'm not foreign to the mic. It just feels completely unnecessary if I can show what I'm capable of... inside of a ring.
Let it be know I've shown what I'm capable of, and I'm still able to accomplish that much more... all after my first official match within the walls of the CSWA. My first main event. My first official win. What does that tell you? It tells you everything you need to know, and it lets me keep a few secrets for myself. I gave Randalls a great fight, and I reaped the rewards. I've been doing that same thing over the last decade, since I stepped into this sport at eighteen, and stepped back into it at twenty-seven. The biggest thing about the last three years is that now... I'm technically bruising for every moment."
As he exhaled smoke from his lunges, he nodded his head to the side with a smirk, his weathered face now illuminated by the auburn hue of the home-made smoke.
"Taking a stitch for every second. Taking breaths away every minute. Every minute of every day. I've got passion, and that's why I've made things entertaining for all involved, for so long. You hear the crowd in San Fran? There cheers are the currency that makes me a rich man, that's for damn sure. Not to say that I sure haven't been able to make myself comfortable outside of the squared circle, with the way I move inside of it."
Alias rubbed his temples, "Okay so, so much for making this quick. What can I say though, even with a mind numb, I've got a lot on it." Alias had hit west Broadway and his eyes scanned down the street, where Broadway hit the harbor, even further west. His eyes stayed there, peering into the distance of the night.
"Troy... I hear what you're saying. You want, and you crave, and because of this you're wrestling's savior. You're frickin' money. The best damn thing on the mic, and in the ring. You're a former CSWA Champion, and not just the heir apparent, you're already the damn king. You're smug, a phrase in and of itself which is entirely to light, in the knowledge that I'm doomed, and that the UNIFIED title is as good as yours. Blind to the kind of fight you're walking into."
Alias broke from his straight-laced emotions up until all, even from his tongue-in-cheek moments, with a large grin. Looking with fresh eyes, not just at the camera now, but at Troy Windham. It was more then a little unnerving.
(CUT TO: Troy Windham, sitting on his pre-fab furniture in his sun den overlooking the Atlantic Ocean of South Florida.)
TROY: Alias, my man, let me be the first to congratulate you on all the work you put into that little promo. That must have taken a lot of edits and a lot of co-ordination with the various grips and best boys and associate assistant directors to get the scene down just the way you like it. How to adjust the key lighting so we could see from the comfort of our living rooms just how tight that t-shirt of yours is, just how wide Broadway is and the exact direction the puffs of cloud come from your cigarette. But I'd be remiss in saying, something Alias, that aside from the fancy camera tricks that try and make your mic-work seem oh-so poetic, it doesn't mask this simple fact... you're just another unoriginal hack without anything to say whatsoever. I think we all learned from the anti-smoking episode of 7th Heaven I made a guest appearance on -- where I played the young "bad boy" minister who has an unfortunate misunderstanding with Reverand Camden's wife -- that smoking can't and won't get you over. I mean, Craig Miles has been trying that bit since 1997 and he still can't crack a 1.4 rating for his PPV's unless my name is attached to them.
(Troy gets up from his couch and stretches.)
TROY: But, Alias, I think deep down inside that you KNOW that already. It must be confusing to be you right now. I mean, you want so much more from your life... to be seen as The New American Smoking Badass... but also as the guy who hangs out in the... and I'm trying not to laugh as I say this... San Diego's hottest "alternative lifestyle" bars. The Blue Tatoo? Isn't that the bar from Police Academy? And then the further confusion. Your off-the-rack "European cut" suit jacket? It's called TAR-GET, son, not TAR-JAY, and from what I hear they have an excellent return policy you might want to look into. And then you match that with a t-shirt that simply reads "WRESTLER" on it? Are you that lacking in sexual confidence that you would intentionally wear a shirt that will NOT get you laid in a bar?
(Troy hits a button on a remote control. His closets light up showing his expensive wardrobe behind him.)
TROY: Alias, I WILL ANSWER YOUR CRY FOR HELP. First, obviously, you need help in learning how to get over. I suggest you do what the rest of this sport has been doing for the past ten years, pal. And that's watch every one of my promos and just impersonate them -- maybe you'll be 1/10th as cool, funny, hip and as brilliant as me and then that would make you the second most over wrestler in the world. Secondly, Alias, I'm going to get some of the $5,000 suits that I wore in my past... probably the one I wore to the Olsens Sweet 16 party... and get them to you right away. Tailored in Milan, Italy and handcrafted by the finest clothiers in the world. No more Sears Discount Catalog for you, my man. No more airbrushed wrestler T-Shirts from the local dirtmall. I'll give you my hand-me-downs... which would make the second best dressed wrestler in the world today. And then, my man, then I'm going to meet you in the ring -- the man who complained about being "pigeonholed" as the best wrestler in the world today -- and I'm simply going to, piece-by-piece, take you down, tear you apart and pin your shoulders in the mat. I'm going to teach you how to work the microphone so people would want to see you perform, Alias. Then I'm going to teach you how to look good and to look the part of a world-class athlete instead of the no-named hack poseur you're currently coming off as. And then, my man, I'm going to give you the wrestling lesson of your lifetime... and then you can go crawling back to whatever minor league you came from and tell alllll the wittle people back home about the time you stepped foot in the ring with Troy Windham, a real superstar, the benevolent king who turned the little boy who tried so hard into a man. (FTB)
(CUT TO: TROY WINDHAM, standing in the driveway of his palatial South Florida oceanfront estate. Behind him is a moving van. Various ethnic minorities -- Latinos, Cubanos, Haitians -- are packing away various belongings such as furniture, accessories and, most notably, old clothing. Troy is wearing yellow-tinted shades, a Saville Row-tailored navy blue suit jacket over a pink David Ledbetter golf shirt, khaki slacks, leather braided belt, sandals, no socks.)
TROY: Now, being the consumate modern man that I am, I am constantly on the (snaps his fingers. One of the Salvadorians behind him immediately looks up, used to having being snapped at like a dog.) go, go, go. I'm constantly buying new real estate and constantly upgrading the real estate I already have. Hey -- you! (An older guy with a mullet and cut-off dungarees comes running, holding a rolled up sheet of paper.) Show the folks at home my blueprints!
(The guy unrolls the paper and shows blueprints.)
TROY: What I'm doing HERE (Troy points) is expanding the lower tier sun room. Why, you ask? Because when I win the NFW Ultratitle and... most importantly... the CSWA World Championship, I am going to need a new trophy room! What better way to enjoy the fruits of my labor then coming into the room, a red-head on my left, a brunette on my right, a bottle of Cristal in an ice bucket, prepared by my butler, and then having my way with the two of them in the shadow of my championship title and my trophy? I can't think of a better way to spend an evening. But for the sunlight to hit the title I WILL win at the right angle, I need new bay windows, and the only way I can put them in is by getting rid of the rear closets. But don't worry -- I'm going to be replacing them upstairs with some rare Brazillian Cherry Oak panelling. It's all good.
(Troy looks at the workers putting his clothes on a truck.)
TROY: But while I'm re-designing my estate, it's always good to clean out my closet. Which brings me to my point. Now, a lot of people have been saying a lot of things about Troy Windham. Now, no one will say it to my face. But the one thing that has been said about me is... TROY WINDHAM HAS NO SOUL. That people are unclear of my motivations for getting up in the morning. People are questioning WHAT IT IS THAT MAKES ME TICK. Well, I'll tell you.
(Troy starts pacing on his property.)
TROY: You see, I'm not like the other boys and girls around here. I looked at this industry from the moment I became a pro for one reason -- as a way to make myself rich and famous. But I never wanted to be just a wrestler. I never wanted to be someone like Hornet or Eli Flair or my brother. I... I always wanted to ECLIPSE them. So what I did... I didn't just become a popular wrestler. I MADE WRESTLING POPULAR. I used my fame as a wrestler, combined with my good looks and my state-of-the-art fashion sense, and used it to become a real-life television and film star. And then I used my fame in the media to draw interest in wrestling. Thus, I made everyone a whole lotta money... most importantly, myself.
(Troy now stands in front of a cherry red Porsche.)
TROY: See, that's the secret to this sport and to life on this planet. You only have soooo many days alive. If you've got the looks, the talent and the skill, you do whatever you can to ensure that you spend as many of those days in a tropical paradise, having sex with supermodels until the sun rises and lights up your room when it reflects off of your championship trophy. And for those of you without the skill, the talent or the looks... well, you can read all about my exploits and live vicariously through me during your 20-minute lunch break at the lugnut factory.
(Troy gets off the Porsche. He barks for a worker to wax it for him.)
TROY: Now, unfortunately, there's some people out there who just don't GET that. A new group of wrestlers who spend their days training, learning ultra-complicated Japanese wrestling holds and setting up overly-poetic mic-sports using cinematic techniques better than ones made in any of the TV movies I have starred in. A bunch of people who are constantly searching for something -- searching for a way to get over some sort of internal demon. Apparently, these new so-called "stars" think that by delivering a high-angled powerbomb on an opponents neck, it will help them get over their parents tumultuous divorce in the mid-80's. Here's a message to all you new-jack crybabies who complain about my lack of "emotional resonance" or how I seemingly lack depth: no matter how hard you train, no matter how many times you go searching to get over your sexually abusive grandfather, you will always have to go to sleep knowing you are an emotionally stunted virgin. And me? I go to sleep knowing that the pillows I'm sleeping on are a pair of 34D's.
(The workers continue to put clothes on the truck. Troy runs up and grabs a suit.)
TROY: Hey! Look! That's the suit I wore the time I ate maki-maki off of Natalie Potman's naked back! (Troy throws that one aside. That's a keeper.) Now, right now, I'm Cleaning Out My Closet. I'm getting rid of these old clothes. Why? A symbolic measure of how I've "let go" of the fact that my mother never held me? Hardly. Simply, I'm a man who believes in helping others. And there's one charity case here in the CSWA I want to help more than others.
(One of the workers has a clipboard.)
WORKER: Troy, where are we bringing this to? The tsunami aid shelter?
TROY: No, not today. I think those people have gotten enough, don't you think? You're going to be bringing those shirts and old suits to the guy known as Alias.
WORKER: Alias! Really? Wow! I love him!
(Troy gives him the evil eye as the guy shuts up and drives away.)
TROY: Y'see, Alias. The last time you spoke, I looked at that as a cry for help from a man who doesn't know what he wants to be. Are you a man who wants to be the best wrestler in the world, as made evident by the tacky air-brushed shirt you wore on national television? Or are you hoping to be something else -- a little more "deep" than that, as made clear by the key lighting you used to illuminate the gay bar you frequented in San Diego. But what I think, Alias, is something else... you want to be NONE of those things but you don't know how to pull it off. What you want, Alias, is to look the part of a REAL man. You want to look the part of a REAL champion. Basically, Alias... you want to look like me!
TROY: But a real man would never buy a suit off the rack at Target and then claim it is European cut. And a real man would never wear a ratty airbrushed shirt out for a night on the town, unless he was participating in a "make fun of white trash" ironic kind of thing. No, Alias -- you aren't a real man. You aren't even 1/5th the man that Troy Windham is. But I heard your cry for help. I heard you plea. Alias. I read through the dramatic sub-text, Alias. Alias -- enjoy the suits I haven't worn in two to three years. Try them on, look in the mirror and enjoy the lesson that I have given you... a lesson in how a REAL man and how a REAL champion dresses, acts and looks. And then, in a few short days, enjoy the WRESTLING lesson I am going to give you when I pin your shoulders to the mat. And then, Alias, maybe you can have some closure to one aspect of your pathetic little life... and that's no matter what, you'll never be as good as Troy Windham. (Troy turns his back to the camera and walks towards his house. FTB.)
"You want to answer my cry for help, when you didn't even hear the question. I mean you asked enough questions, and hell, you nearly hit the nail on the head. Want to hear the question?
Wait for it.
Where's the soul, Troy?”
“Oh, I just heard you don’t worry, but I don't mean where's the love, caring and feeling part of you. The waaanting part, of you. F*ck if that's existed in any way, whether you want to admit or not, since the late-90's, for anything that didn't have a dollar sign on it. When I say soul, I mean when do I care about what you have to say? When can I feel what you're actually trying to get at, past the name dropping and plug-and-play 'cockier then though lines'? Where's the substance, rich man? Or did Eli Flair break it off of you after he was done with your fingers?"
Alias was dressed decidedly more casual then his suit and shirt get-up from the first taping, and instead, wore the black track pants with the white stripes down the side and the red anarchy “A” hoody. The same get up that he had worn in his first appearance on CSWA television, when he was seen talking to Mike Randalls in a promo for there first round match-up, as he ran across the Golden Gate Bridge. Now the Original Pulp Hero was set comfortably in the seat of a stadium. Front row. At the venue in Portland where the CSWA would be holding there next show this coming Monday. The red hood hung over his head, entirely covering his messily spiked blonde mane but only partially obscuring his bright blue eyes.
“I’d go right into calling you the ‘walking b*tch box’, but then again, Sonny Silver has got that one trademarked, and atleast he makes things entertaining with his fare share of expletives. You though? You seem so afraid of offending your focus group, you couldn’t dare slip in a few cuss words. Then again, I’m sure you’ll say something like ‘I don’t need to say four letter words to be a REAL man’ and then connect it in some way that seems clever to you, about my awful smoking. Yeah sorry to bust your bubble, bub, but I’ve heard the smoking jokes before. So deal with the fact that we all have vices and some of us… can’t rely on excess.” His eyes looked forward towards the blank spot in the center of the stadium, almost building the squared circle with his eyes, going through the events that would transpire in three days. As his eyes scanned this ring, playing through that match against Windham, Alias’s was deftly wrapping his rough hands with white tape. A ritual he had done so many times by now, he didn’t even have to look down.
"Then again face it, it's almost been a decade since CSWA drew anywhere near the amount needed for every Dick, Joe, and Mark Windham to get an expensive sports car to size up their receding hair lines. No wonder they called you the 'King of the Slackers', you've stopped trying and just continue coasting on the beach... oh, and keep the $5,000 suits. They hold as much importance to me, as you do, which is only fitting I suppose. Putting the idea out there that a price tag puts importance on something, or gives it any real meaning of perspective. Of style. heh, Troy, you're just lucky that you can see the Atlantic off the end of your deck, coming off so very short-sighted." Alias snapped the tape off one hand, finished, before he then started on the other. A grin grew across his face. Hell, you could almost call it a snarl.
“It’s not like I’m going to let myself get riled up about you however. Hell, my schedule is a bit to full to mark off any allotted time to fully get into any mud you want to throw my way. There’s one thing you had to say though, that I’d just love to reply to. It’s not about the lessons about being a REEEAL man either, so don’t get yourself all riled up as you get the stamps ready for that care package o’ suits. I mean come in, the real man bit is a comedy piece at best. Even with that though, it wasn’t even the funniest part. It’s when you come off calling me part of some new crop of kid wrestlers. You’re talking down to me like I’m some sort of green kid coming into the business and suddenly making waves with my angst…
Lord knows I shouldn’t be surprised, but let me assure you, I’m about as green as that Centurion AmEx I’m sure you’ve gotten your hands on by now, Windham. If you don’t watch it, then that underestimating will be biting you in ass on your way out to the ring.” The second hand had been finished and Alias slipped the tape back into the pouch of the red hoodie, for a moment he methodically rubbed his knuckles, pressing the tape down into his hand. Finally, the Tin Angel broke his gaze on his ring, his future battleground, and addressed the camera. Alias rarely got himself riled up when quoting poetics... but Troy Windham just that vein of voice-box to do it. As he continued talking, the more animated he got.
“Troy, it’s easy for me to admit that yeah, I’m controlled by my past sometimes, and by those ghosts in my past. Does it rule my actions or set me down an vengeful path though? Hell no. You see, as much as I know the power of my past, I know it means sh*t all to dwell on it… the good things and the bad. Which leaves me wondering while you’re stuck in the past? You’re so busy talking about how you changed the sport, oddly enough in those air-brushed ‘dirtmall’ shirts yourself, that you – you can’t be showing anymore, how scared you are of your own future. Finally your brother retires, finally Eli Flair isn’t coming back for your ass in the CSWA, that you’re left gravely over compensating for yourself when you’re speaking to men like me. Like you’re trying to impress! You’re scared that it’s becoming more glaringly obvious that you’ve lost perspective by already making your shot at the top before seeing what was on the field. Making such wide strokes… already calling your shot, pointing out to left field as this big man with both the belts of the CSWA and NFW already in his hands! HA! You’ve already lost, because you can’t see any other outcome, you’ve lost perspective.
You’ve got no scope.”
Alias was now on his feet, his hood having fallen around his face, revealing intense eyes but an otherwise assured look on his face. Not cocky and care-free. Ready.
“No substance and scope. No spirit and no soul. Yeah… this ‘overly-poetic’ alliteration is sure easy to come up with, with source material like yourself, Troy.” FADE OUT.
(CUT TO: TROY WINDHAM, on a cellphone in his new Championship Sun Room, wearing shades indoors, with construction workers putting on the finishing touchers on his mantleplace, with CSWA WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP REIGN #2 carved elegantly into Brazillian Cherry Oak.)
TROY: (on the phone) What do you mean he didn't sign for the delivery? Well, I'll tell you what -- just take everything that's inside the truck and dump it on his front lawn! (Troy hangs up the phone, chuckling.)
TROY: Alias, my friend, the least you could have done was THANKED me. You see, I didn't extend my act of charity to you to make myself feel good. Waking up every morning next to a blonde, a brunette or, as is usually the case, both makes me feel plent. I didn't HAVE to donate you all my old clothing, but I did anyways. So, I insist -- TAKE the suits. TAKE the dress slacks. Take the designer shoes. The reason why I want you to do so, Alias, is simple.
(Troy plops himself down in a leather recliner chair.)
TROY: Because you are nothing more than the biggest cliche I have seen in all my years in this sport. What, you got the memo that smoking cigarettes stopped beind "edgy" in 1996 or so so you decided to re-invent yourself with an anarchy jacket straight from Hot Topic? You see alias, my generosity wasn't just designed to have you stop from coming out here on national television and LOOKING like a fool. It was designed to help you present yourself articulately, so you could look the part of a CSWA Wrestler, so you don't look like every other Johnny-Come-Lately who has come from the Rape Baby Orphanage the past five years. But guess what, pal?
TROY: You have managed to re-invent the phrase "cliched toolbag." You should feel glad about that, to be that mediocre in your presentation.
(Troy looks as the workers walk past with a black'n'white portrait of Troy in a suit holding a lazer gun as David Hasslehoff shoots lightning from his eyes from some TV movie.)
TROY: But that doesn't just end there, Alias. Because you're also something else -- the most feeble-minded person I've ever had the "honor" of debating with. No scope, Alias? No soul, Alias? I'm scared of my future, Alias? You see, Alias, I tout my accomplishments on national television for a reason -- because no one in this sport can match up with my legacy, just as how no one in this sport can match up with my wits or my boyish good looks. And I also tell the world of my illustrious past to tell them what the future holds. Alias, here is my raison d'etre. Here is why I am out here: to win the CSWA World Championship to ensure my legacy as the greatest this sport has ever seen. And, by doing so, I will take this league, take this sport and take this industry to heights never before reached. And you know why I can do that, pal?
(Troy takes off his sunglasses.)
TROY: Because I am the NEW PATRIOTISM. Because I am the NEW RELIGION. I am what these people who watch us perform think about night and day. I am what they wish they could be. Because, Alias... I am fighting not just to add to my trophy case. Not just to show the world that I am the best wrestler who has ever lived...
(Troy puts his shades back on.)
TROY: But to show the world I AM IMMORTAL. And, Alias, that's something a guy who smokes cigarettes, wears anarchy shirts and wrestles to get over daddy's lack of love won't ever understand. Alias, that's why those clothes are now littering the postage stamp you call a front lawn. My friend, you're here to fill the role of the cliche, to represent to the masses who they are -- a bunch of people no one dreams about. Me, Alias?
(Troy starts laughing and stands up.)
TROY: I'm here to forge a new destiny, a new path, a new history. Ant that is something with more substance and more soul than your small mind will EVER be able to grasp. You're the footnote. I'm the textbook.
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