Mister Dread
League Member
[updated:LAST EDITED ON Aug-16-02 AT 10:56 AM (EDT)]::FADEIN on a 50’s style Railroad car diner. THE WOLF occupies the far table, lounging to take up most of the bench seat. A half-empty pack of Camel nonfilters rests by his right hand, while a cup of cooling coffee sits near his right. His eyes are lidded::
THE WOLF: As some of you may have heard, I’ve … been through a rough time lately. You’re sitting there looking at me and thinking to yourselves ‘Last week he was calling himself Chris ‘Mister Dread’ McMillan. Now he’s calling himself ‘The Wolf’ Chris McMillan. What’s the difference and why should I care?’ Well, it’s a long and undoubtedly boring story. I won’t waste your time with it. Let’s suffice to say that we’ve buried Mister Dread. The casket is closed, and there’s a bigass mound of dirt on top. Now only the Wolf remains.
::THE WOLF shoots a smoke out of the battered pack and fires it up, dragging deep and exhaling a lazy plume of smoke as he continues::
THE WOLF: Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself ‘Ahhh, he bit this whole Wolf thing off of Mike Randalls.’ Or, ‘He bit this whole alter-ego thing off of Mick Foley.’ Or maybe you’re even thinking that booking thought that Mister Dread was getting stale and needed a little repackaging. Well, think what you like. If you want to believe that I’m some sort of poser or that the Wolf is a marketing gimmick, then feel free. I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t even expect you to care. You’ll learn the truth, however, when you step into the ring with me. Gone are the days of the handshake and the clean break, and comes the pain … I love that moment when whichever cretin has the misfortune to draw me finally realizes that he’s dealing with an altogether different animal than he though he was.
::THE WOLF draws deep on his cigarette, letting the smoke curl softly from his nostrils before finishing the dregs of his coffee. He crushes out the butt as he slides the coffee cup aside::
THE WOLF: You know, Doc Silver once asked Mister Dread why he was here, and who he was. There’s a different answer now, although one that Doc Silver will most likely find no more satisfying. The answer now is this: I am the Wolf. I am the thing that goes bump in the night. I’m the stalker, the feral hunter … I’m an animal. I exist solely to clean up the messes that Dread wasn’t man enough to handle head-on. I am a creature born of rage and passion and unfulfilled hunger … and betrayal. Still wondering what the difference is, aren’t you? Well, let me put it this way … I am what would happen if someone were to steal Michael Manson’s PEZ dispenser and fill it with Flintstones Chewable Prozac. A little kinder, a little gentler, but still psychotic. I would at least suffocate the kittens before I ate them.
::FADE TO BLACK::
THE WOLF: As some of you may have heard, I’ve … been through a rough time lately. You’re sitting there looking at me and thinking to yourselves ‘Last week he was calling himself Chris ‘Mister Dread’ McMillan. Now he’s calling himself ‘The Wolf’ Chris McMillan. What’s the difference and why should I care?’ Well, it’s a long and undoubtedly boring story. I won’t waste your time with it. Let’s suffice to say that we’ve buried Mister Dread. The casket is closed, and there’s a bigass mound of dirt on top. Now only the Wolf remains.
::THE WOLF shoots a smoke out of the battered pack and fires it up, dragging deep and exhaling a lazy plume of smoke as he continues::
THE WOLF: Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself ‘Ahhh, he bit this whole Wolf thing off of Mike Randalls.’ Or, ‘He bit this whole alter-ego thing off of Mick Foley.’ Or maybe you’re even thinking that booking thought that Mister Dread was getting stale and needed a little repackaging. Well, think what you like. If you want to believe that I’m some sort of poser or that the Wolf is a marketing gimmick, then feel free. I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t even expect you to care. You’ll learn the truth, however, when you step into the ring with me. Gone are the days of the handshake and the clean break, and comes the pain … I love that moment when whichever cretin has the misfortune to draw me finally realizes that he’s dealing with an altogether different animal than he though he was.
::THE WOLF draws deep on his cigarette, letting the smoke curl softly from his nostrils before finishing the dregs of his coffee. He crushes out the butt as he slides the coffee cup aside::
THE WOLF: You know, Doc Silver once asked Mister Dread why he was here, and who he was. There’s a different answer now, although one that Doc Silver will most likely find no more satisfying. The answer now is this: I am the Wolf. I am the thing that goes bump in the night. I’m the stalker, the feral hunter … I’m an animal. I exist solely to clean up the messes that Dread wasn’t man enough to handle head-on. I am a creature born of rage and passion and unfulfilled hunger … and betrayal. Still wondering what the difference is, aren’t you? Well, let me put it this way … I am what would happen if someone were to steal Michael Manson’s PEZ dispenser and fill it with Flintstones Chewable Prozac. A little kinder, a little gentler, but still psychotic. I would at least suffocate the kittens before I ate them.
::FADE TO BLACK::