Flashy graphics, shiny colors, even catchy music.

We start with the SCCW logo, bright and lingering on the screen. Scrawled across it is cursive, yellow and gleaming, reading "Sinner's Choice."

And we cut to a rather pedestrian set, two chairs and a desk with the SCCW logo behind it. On the left is Mary Jackson, coffee-skinned and in red and black. On the right, that's Kendall Heath (you can tell from the fifty-tooth smile).

Mary Jackson (Jackson): Good evening, fans, and welcome to what we think will be an interesting experiment.

Kendall Heath (Heath): And an experiment it will be, which is why I have to sit in for Tubbo.

Jackson: Throughout this evening, we'll hear and see some of the personalities that make Sin City Championship Wrestling perhaps the greatest wrestling federation on the planet.

Heath: Perhaps? Perhaps? Blah, you're not nearly as exciting as Dave and that's an insult.

Jackson: Two weeks from tonight, the stories, issues, and personalities you see will be in Salt Lake City, Utah, site of the first SCCW card, for our Homecoming. In the main event, dominant Universal—

Heath: (sigh) Superversal, c'mon.

Jackson: Champion Amy Campbell, the most dominant champion in professional wrestling today, having held her belt since August of last year, will face upstart Gateway Champion Phillip Kennedy in the finals to the No Limit Tournament. We'll have Phillip and Amy face-to-face later on this evening, but first, the challenger has requested a moment of our time...

What we have for you today is pretty...unique.

A room. A small room, yes, but not a dingy room. It's got a nice bed, a carpet, and some other furnishings. But those things aren't important, so let's get to what is.

A single bulb glows dimly at the top of the room, illuminating the only figure in the room. With cowboy hat placed on his head, and championship belt draped over his shoulder, it's instantly obvious to SCCW fans who it is. But hey, if you're flipping channels, or watching your first SCCW action on ESPN since the company was called FUSE, we'll throw you a bone and tell you who the man sitting on the made bed is.

Kennedy: My name is Phillip Kennedy. I am the SCCW Gateway Champion. And this, where I'm sitting right now, is my prison cell.

The wannabe cowboy gives a wave of his hand.

Kennedy: I know what you're thinking. Bit nice for a prison cell, ain't it? Nice bed, well appointed and shit. But at the end of the day, it's still a jail. Its purpose is still to keep me inside, unable to escape. Unable to reach my true potential.

Patting his bed, Phillip shakes his head wryly.

Kennedy: The bed's where the whole thing started, you know. Met a lady named Kathryn backstage after my first win in Sin City. Gave her a dollar to help her get a Cherry Coke, and one thing led to another. Let's just say that her evaluation of my cowboy reputation had me begging for salvation all night long. You guys like that reference, right? You used that song for the WSOP one year.

Kennedy chuckles, though it's not the sort of laugh that indicates true happiness or amusement.

Kennedy: And ever since then, I've been Kat's pet. Never mind what else I do. Never mind what else I say, to a bunch of people that matter, I'm Kathryn Shaw's toy. And to that I say...go on. Keep thinking that. Because it's those people thinking that way that has helped me on my rise to the very top of this company. I love Kat. But at the end of the day, I'm my own man.

Stretching his arms, and adjusting the golden prize on his shoulder, Phillip Kennedy stands, starting to slowly pace across the width of the small room.

Kennedy: Kat's the reason I got into the Dead Man's Hand. But she's not the reason that I beat Edward Lambert. She's not the reason I beat Sean Sterling for...this.

A firm pat of the golden belt bearing his name on the nameplate.

Kennedy: She's not why I beat Lance Marshall. She's not why I took the most feared person in wrestling to a thirty minute draw. And she won't be why I escape this prison cell, once and for all. All of that, dear friends, is on me. My talents. My abilities. My desires.

One look into Phillip Kennedy's eyes confirms that he believes what he says.

Kennedy: I am the future of Sin City. I say this any time I get a camera on me, because it's true. I also say it because there are those who would deny it. My jailors. Those that keep me in here, because they fear what happens when I am let out to flourish, to dominate, to triumph on my own terms. They are two redheads who cannot stand anything that does not benefit them. Two women who care little for the Dead Man's Hand -- who have in fact destroyed it through their selfish actions, and in doing so, turned me from loyal soldier to rebellious general. You probably know them as Aimz and Desade -- DNA. I know them as the reasons I'm not Universal Champion as we speak.

The Universal Title meant more to Kennedy, he believed, than it did to anyone else.

He'd have the chance to find out.

Kennedy: There is, though, one good thing about my time spent in this prison, prevented from going on the offensive, prevented from realizing my potential. A little something called...experience.

The smile on the Stack's face only widens.

Kennedy: Cause you see, to get out of this prison, I've got to step into one.

Through the magic of ESPN's editing department, the small room surrounding Phillip Kennedy disappears, replacing itself with fifteen feet of chain link fence built around a wrestling ring, with a top preventing escape or entrance.

Kennedy: Because at SCCW Homecoming, it's going to be Amy Campbell vs. Phillip Kennedy. The finals of the No Limit Tournament. For the SCCW Universal Championship.

The Big Stack's arms spread wide, to gesture to the skin-tearing metal that surrounds him.

Kennedy: In an enclosed steel cage.

Solemnly, Phillip looks around, perhaps anticipating the bloodshed that will take place in such a structure at Homecoming. Perhaps anticipating his victory.

Kennedy: On Temptation last week, I threw every single chip I had in my possession into the middle of the table. I didn't go all in of my own volition. Because, despite what they'll tell you, Amy Campbell and Alexandra Pierce forced my chips to the middle. I'm not naive enough to believe that one double-up here's going to get the job done, though it will get me a prize far nicer than any bracelet...

The SCCW Universal Championship flashes briefly on screen.

Kennedy: And more importantly, it'll prove what I've been saying all along. At the end of the day, I don't care what Alex brings to the table with her at Homecoming. I don't care how badly Amy wants my head on a stake. I'm coming to Salt Lake City with one goal on my mind: being the man that dethrones the Red Raver from her perch and proves to the world that, all poker metaphors aside, Sin City Championship Wrestling's deck only has one ace.

Panning back, the camera takes a wide-angle view of an emptied arena, the challenger to the Universal Championship seeming ant-small, until the picture zooms all the way back in to the man's eyes, holding there for the final words.

Kennedy: You're looking at him, world.

Fade down to a commercial for the NBA playoffs; but honestly, they don't mean shit to our game seven.

Sin City returns after commercial break to find Kendall Heath enjoying some leisure time, fist under chin, alongside Mary Jackson on the set for Sinner’s Choice. His eyes are gleaming with wild excitement (he’s off to see Star Trek after the show). Kendall shakes his head slightly at the thought of anybody else but Nemoy doing a Spock. He loses himself in the thought, a smile grows over his face but shortly fades as he notices the big, flashing red light in his peripheral vision.

Heath: Welcome back, Sinner’s! Next up we’ve got a nice, little surprise lined up for you loyal fans.

Jackson: That’s right, Kendall. Sin City’s first No Limit Tournament hasn’t just brought us to a four-way sprint to the top of SCCW and rights to be called No Limit Champion. Names like Kennedy, Campbell, Connors, Marshall have put Sin City on the map as one of the most unpredictable, game-changing places in wrestling today.

Heath: Quite right, Mary. In fact, the No Limit tourney has tripled SCCW’s ratings and attendance numbers. I’d say people are enjoying it.

Jackson: Another thing that has tripled is Aimz’ reputation when she silenced that miscreant, Connors!

Heath: And yet another thing the No Limit tourney has done for SCCW. But the things we’re here to speak about right now are the fresh faces... errm, wrestlers that have come into Sin City to compete. One man in particular.

Jackson: A man who has gone nameless to the world for years; a man who combats evil and defends innocence each and every day; a man some of you may remember as a tough first-round task for Wyatt Connors...

Thunderous, hollow stomps interrupt the session as a man wearing a simplistic mask runs onto the set. Heath and Jackson turn like turrets on patrol to spot the man coming onto the set. He wears a black t-shirt that conforms to his muscular torso and biceps with a pair of blue jeans. His belt buckle shines like a beacon in the night as the sterling silver catches the studio lamps like a kaleidoscope.

Jackson: And here he is! The topic of conversation... FRIAR! Welcome, noble sir.

Heath: Holy Hell! We’re being robbed.

Friar: Sorry I’m late. There was a tempting bag of Brownie Bites that needed my undivided attention. But alas, my partner did not come with me this evening. Only one-half of Holy Hell will be here this evening, Mr. Heath. Apologies. And thank you, Miss Jackson. Partially because in my travels a ‘welcome’ is hardly what I receive and mostly - to hear a woman’s voice say it… is pleasing, to say the least.

Friar’s eyes wander to the bluish-gray cement, thinking back to the last time a pretty girl made him feel accepted. He adjusts his mask to shake the cobwebs loose, thinking about how it was a long, long time ago. He reaches for the seatback next to him and sits to finalize the entrance.

Heath: So, Friar? What was that you were saying about ‘one-half of Holy Hell?’

Friar: Well, Mr. Heath, I have only just began wrestling. It has been twelve years down my long, winding road to this place you call Sin City – but I am here. As a wrestler and as a man of the Light. That said, I have come to know many people. People I like and-

Heath: Friar. You’re rambling.

Friar catches himself, looking down to notice that he is now crouching on top of the studio desk. He grins and slowly replaces his position in the seat below.

Friar: I also work for a company called Global Championship Wrestling. You may have heard of them. But the point of my tenure there is mainly team wrestling. I have an ally – Uncle Truck – and together we work under the moniker, Holy Hell.

Heath: I see…

Frair: No, you don’t. Because all you must worry about is one man. That man being me and that worry stemming from the pit inside this organization.

Jackson: Pit? What pit are you referring to Friar?

Friar nods on cue and points.

Friar: Now we’re talkin, MJ. The ‘Pit” is caused by soulless cowards who pick on the weak and innocent for power. It comes from a company allowing inferiors to run amuck while the greats are cut down, one by one. That pit I’m talking about is from the likes of Wyatt Connors, Desade, and Lane Stevens. Which is why you can all rest assured I will be making Sin City my very own… peach… of a project.

Heath: Oh God! Peach?

Jackson: What does that mean, ‘Peach of a project?’

As if he was running an orchestra, Friar laughs aloud and claps his hands together.

Friar: Very good, kids. For those who don’t follow, listen close. Every peach has a pit. The hard, callused center that is impervious to even the hardest of bites onto the delectable fruit. So, how do you get around it?

Heath: Eat around it, duh.

Pointing even before Kendall’s mouth opens, Friar smiles big in retort.

Friar: That is one way, Mr. Heath. The other?

Jackson: Remove the pit!

Friar grins at the response he wants. His mask hides any other expression, the grin slowly fading out as his head rotates directly into the camera ahead of him.

Friar: Precisely, Miss Jackson. I’m here to gut the dead, lifeless, soulless pit that has been plaguing Sin City Championship Wrestling since its inception. When Homecoming comes around… I’ll start with whoever I have to in order to make this place righteous.

Friar stands and darts off the set into the studio somewhere. Cameras don’t follow. Instead, they stay with the anchors, looking at one another in a bit of borderline-funny confusion. Mary folds her head into her heads and lets out a deep breath. Kendall watches off camera.

Heath: I wonder if he knows we’re based out of Las Vegas?

Heath: Well that was certainly interesting.

Jackson: Right you are, Kendall.

Behind the duo, an image pops up of Lane Stevens holding the old FUSE livewire title.

Heath: Moving on, recently Sin City Championship Wrestling added a familiar face to its roster. A face that many fans and competitors would have just preferred stay in the shadows.

Jackson: Recently I had a chance to sit down with Lane Stevens …to get his thoughts on the past, present, and future of the Dead Man Hand’s Weapon of Mass Destruction.

(Cut.)

Dramatic music. Grainy footage. Lane Stevens stands inside of a steel cage next to Clinton Sage. This was the formation of the Affliction. As per usual, there is a microphone in Lane’s hands.

Lane Stevens (LS): We will unzip our pants, take our dicks out…and piss on your lives!

Jackson (voiceover): From the time he got his big break in FUSE, Lane Stevens did not mince words. His antics were not always…the classiest.

We now see file footage of an interview segment gone wrong.

Dominique: I’m here with Lane Stevens, who has gotten through a hard fought match with….

In middle of her sentence, Lane puts a pair of underpants on her head.

Lane Stevens: I wore those tonight, they smell like my balls.

Dominique runs off, shrieking, and Lane grabs the microphone and looks directly into the camera.

Jackson (voiceover): But despite multiple titles, his win/loss record left some to be desired. Many felt as if he never really cashed in on his potential.

(Cut.)

Mary Jackson and Lane Stevens sit across from each other at a table on the outdoor balcony of the River Rat’s condominium. The peaceful community of Henderson, Nevada is our backdrop. He is wearing a DMH t-shirt and khaki shorts. An orange cocktail with an umbrella sits in front of him.

Jackson: Many in FUSE called you Sage’s gopher, and thought that maybe you should have been the one gunning for the Universal Championship.

LS: Is that a question? Cause there was no inflection in your voice at the end.

Jackson: It was a statement that most people would not take too kindly to hearing.

Stevens shrugged, and took a sip of his beverage.

LS: Sage was brighter than some people think. A little off his rocker, sure, but a good man to be next to in the trenches. Outstanding talent in the ring, a real sadist. We worked out the dynamic up front, you know…like bands do. He was going to be the leader, I was the mouth piece. Everyone made money. We were fighting some stupid war or something, I guess.

Lane laughed aloud.

Jackson: A war?

LS: I had it in my head that all my previous failures were the fault of people like Amy Campbell, and others in the business that I felt got by because of sensationalistic hype and not actual talent.

Jackson: Do you still think that’s true?

LS: Well Amy has certainly proved herself to be…well, the fucking best. Was my claims of her rise to the top true at the time though? Maybe, maybe not. I guess I just don’t give a shit about that stuff anymore. It’s not how I think.

He gestured to his head.

Jackson: Amy Campbell, interesting you brought her up.

(Cut.)

Jackson (voiceover): One of the most interesting feuds in the old FUSE, was Lane and Aimz, the current Universal Champion.

File footage of The Hand’s WMD standing in the middle of a FUSE ring, with Aimz on the ramp.

Aimz: I'm telling you right now, Lane... don't take it here. You're better than this.

Lane pauses for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Lane Stevens: No, not really. SO WHO WANTS TO SEE SOME TITS!?!?

(Cut.)

Mary and Lane, sitting across from each other.

Jackson: You taped naked pictures of Amy Campbell under every fan’s seat at the Joe Louis arena in Detroit.

LS: Once again, that’s not really a question.

She pauses, trying to find the words.

Jackson: Do you feel badly about this?

LS: No. Being the person I was at that time, and given the spiteful nature I had towards her, combined with the lack of consequences in that federation...there’s no other way I could have gone about it, I’d say. The decision I made was the only one that the Lane Stevens of 2007 could have made, I feel. So why should I feel bad about that?

Jackson: But yet…these days, you speak quite highly of her. Despite the fact that she broke your neck, and recently put you in the hospital for a 2nd time.

LS: Isn’t it great? Amy’s got this whole smarmy vicious thing going on…pretty fuckin’ sweet. I think she’s cool beans.

Jackson: Well that’s a highly unusual way to look at it.

He shrugs.

LS: I suppose. Not a lot of folks around here think like I do. They’re all scurrying around, trying to show how big their nuts are. It’s good TV, certainly. You want a drink? On Alex!

Jackson: No I’m…I’m good.

(Cut.)

File footage of Desade standing in the ring. She watches on as Duncan Drake, who is strapped to a steel cross, falls face first into the ring. This was the dawn of the Dead Man’s Hand.

Jackson (voiceover): And speaking of Alexandra Pierce, it was her that was responsible for bringing Lane back.

(Cut.)

Mary hurrying to keep up with The Director, as she walks down an anonymous sidewalk.

Jackson: There is a prevailing thought that maybe…just maybe, bringing back Lane Stevens was not a good idea. To you believe he is content in his role?

The Spider in the Web turns briefly over her shoulder, that dark, stony gray gaze causing Mary Jackson to miss a step. She does not answer.

Jackson: You're not going to answer the question? Do you or do you not think Lane Stevens is content in his role?

Desade: Lane Stevens does not have a role.

Jackson: He seems to—

Pierce pauses, wheeling around on the other woman.

Desade: I do not hamstring anyone in my employ by telling them they are "only" to do one particular thing. Lane is... loud. Noisy in his dealings with his enemies. It is what he did with Amy Campbell, and it is precisely what he will do to anyone who has aggravated him. We will simply not be on that list.

(Cut.)

File footage of Dusk clotheslining Phillip Kennedy and Lane Stevens.

Jackson (voiceover): One person who does seem to be earning his place on top of that list, is Dusk.

(Cut.)

Once again, Mary and Lane on his balcony. His drink is much closer to empty.

Jackson: Dusk is your opponent for this PPV. How do you feel that he does not concern himself with you, as much as his end goal, your employer Desade?

Lane smirks slightly.

LS: I am not surprised. Alexandra is a powerful woman, and for a man like him its easy to rationalize that she is the root of all of the evil’s in the world. His analysis of me as a hired gun is amusing mainly because I don’t see the distinction between what I’m doing, and Kensington bringing him in here to clean things up.

Jackson: The distinction seems pretty clear to me.

LS: Because I’m a bad guy and he’s a good guy?

The River Rat laughs uproariously.

LS: Dusk wants to be the guy that saves the world more than he wants the world to be saved. I have a hard time finding the nobility in that. All these good guys with an edge, the shit is hilarious. They want to come out to the ring and tell Alex that her days are numbered, and all this dramatic crap. What are they really willing to do about it? Honestly, what is Dusk going to do to stop the Dead Man’s Hand other than wait for it to collapse because Kennedy is pissed he has to play 2nd fiddle to the longest running champion in history? Never mind the fact that no one with any clout really wants the Dead Man’s Hand stopped to begin with. Kensington would probably be out of a job if the Hand left town. Do you think anyone wants to see Dusk and Lance Marshall have a good clean fight for the belt? Are you even fucking serious?

Mary started to speak, but was cut off.

LS: This utopian world that half the assholes strive for around here, will lead them straight to the unemployment line. So they should just sit back, and deal with the fact that their girlfriends are going to get hit with a chair every now and again. It’s good for business.

Mary Jackson looks, in a word, horrified. After a few moments she regains her composure. In the meantime, Lane is shaking his glass back and forth, letting the ice make a rattling noise. From off camera the voice of Walter Halvorson can be heard saying something to the effect of, “in a minute Mr. Stevens”.

Jackson: So, are you going to win at the PPV?

LS: How should I know? What the fuck kind of question is that?

(Cut.)

File footage of Lane stepping into the ring as Clinton Sage is covering Jacob McKail. He takes off his shirt, and underneath it is a referee shirt. He counts a quick three, and the shot freezes with his smug grin.

Jackson (voiceover): Time will tell what kind of impact this River Rat will have on his allies and enemies alike. But as he himself might say, if nothing else…it’ll be good TV.

(Cut.)

Back in the studio, the duo smiles into the camera.

Heath: Excellent job, Mary.

Jackson: Thank you Kendall. We’ll be back momentarily.

Somewhere in the studio, unnamed interviewer guy is following someone. The camera pans over to show Rick Malloy wandering around aimlessly, as usual. The interviwer taps him on the shoulder. Malloy stops and looks around. He sees no one apparently but then tilts his head, noticing the interviewer.

Interviewer: Hello Rick. I'm here to ask you a few questions.

Rick looks around and seems a bit suspicious.

Rick: Do you work for the government?

The Interviewer shakes his head.

Interviewer: No, I work for SCCW.

Rick: Oh...so the government is run by SCCW?

Interviewer: ...A couple of questions. Firstly, what do you think of your opponent and current LiveWire Champion, Legion?

Rick: He's a LiveWire?

Interviewer: No.

Rick: But you said he was.

Interviewer: No, I said he was the LiveWire Champion.

Rick: We have champions here?

Interviewer: What?

Rick: Huh?

Awkward silence.

Interviewer: Ok, what do you think your chances are against Legion?

Rick: Yes.

The Interviewer looks confused.

Interviewer: What are you saying?

Rick: I...I have no idea what's going on.

Interviewer: So who do you think will win the tournament?

Rick: Some guy.

Interviewer: Who?

Rick: I don't have time for games. Some underpants gnome took my boxers and I have to kill him before he steals all of Desade's vibrators and all of Marshall's weed.

Interviewer: ...

Rick then wanders off while the interviewer tries to figure out what the hell is going on. By the time he does, Malloy is gone.

Cut back to the studio, where a round table has been set up with the inimitable Ken Heath in the center.

Heath: Oooookay. That was Rick Malloy, fans. Interesting chap. Don't ask him to come up with a dirty limerick for you.

Ken stacks the papers up, clearing his throat.

Heath: Just saying. Y'know, with all this talk of history and the last eighteen months, one of the most interesting matches at Homecoming is one with a little more history than this tiny little federation has to show. We're lucky enough to be joined by the two competitors in the first-ever Thrown to the Lion match, who have both promised not to damage this obscenely expensive mahogany table that I borrowed from my grandmother.

His smarmy grin pops up, right into the camera.

Heath: Okay. Not from my grandmother. Good story, though, right? Introducing first to my left, he is a former NWC and SCCW and other-places-you-may-have-heard-of champion. Joining us tonight with his wife Alanna, he is the Lion (the one in question, naturally), Lance Marshall!

Lance Marshall offers a brief, polite nod to the camera. Behind him, Alanna waves, also politely.

Alanna: Hey, everyone.

Lance: Hello, Ken. Can't say it's nice to be here. Nothing personal.

Heath: If I took things personally, I'd be... well, nevermind then. And to my right, his opponent at this month's Homecoming event, she is the leader—

There's a soft, feminine laugh from off-screen, and surprisingly, it's not from Alanna.

Heath: Of the Dead Man's Hand, the Spider in the Web, Alexandra Pierce – Desade.

Across the table, leaned farther back in the chair than many would have expected her, is Alexandra Pierce. She raises a hand in greeting and dismissal.

Heath: Well, all right then. Before we get into the how and the why of this bout, I think we should start with the obvious: just what in Hades is a Thrown to the Lion match, Lance?

Lance glances down briefly at the mention of the match's title, muttering something softly under his breath. When his head comes back up again, it's bearing an expression we don't tend to see much of from the Lion: slight embarrassment.

Lance: If we can get past the rather obvious riff on my nickname? Simply put, it means that I am allowed to dictate the stipulations of the match. What I decide, goes.

Heath: So you could make it a "one hand tied to her ankle, I only have to get a one count" match? That's pretty awesome.

Pierce looks up slightly, her dark gaze narrow behind a much-thinner version of the curtain of bangs. Her voice is quiet, like death.

Desade: He would not do that. I venture there's something disgustingly noble in store for me. Perhaps tiny cages for all of my Hand, suspended around the ring?

Lance chuckles darkly at this.

Lance: While I admit the visual does have its appeal...no, not even close. And as to your earlier question, Ken...yes, I could choose to make the stipulations for this match ridiculously one-sided. I could ask to have the bell rung in my favor simply for showing up.

There is the briefest of pauses, as if Lance is steeling himself for what is to come next.

Lance: But let me be honest. If there's some script that I'm supposed to be following, well...no one bothered sending it to me. So, after some deliberation between my wife and myself, we've both decided on a fairly straightforward solution.

Alanna: One I'm not completely sold on, if I'm honest...but Lance is and I'll go with my husband on this one.

Heath: Making people wait is good TV. We should go to a comm—

Kendall Heath talks with his hands. It's one of his things. He waves them, points, gestures... all of it.

When his hand gets too close to the Spider, however, her hand snatches out, grabbing Heath's ring finger and twisting it downwards back onto the table.

Desade: We are not here for good television. Lance has something on his mind. You should be polite.

Alanna glances towards Desade.

Alanna: He's just trying to do his job.

Lance: Let him go, Alex, and I'll finish.

Desade reacts with the same swiftness she displayed earlier, releasing Kendall Heath's ring finger and settling back into the position she was in earlier. If not for Heath's slight grimace of pain, it would be hard to tell that anything had happened at all.

Desade: Go on.

Lance: I have chosen one and only one stipulation for this match. It is to be applied equally to all parties in this match.

Heath: And that is...?

Lance: No disqualification.

Heath: Wait, what?

The Director sits up, straighter, and she leans forward. It takes a moment for a slow, serpentine smile to spread across her thin lips.

Desade: Nicely done.

Heath: I'm not following. You're dealing from a position of strength, Lancey. You're, like, as big as four of her. You can actively keep the Hand from interfering. We can get a replay of what happened with Desade and BloodAngel at All-In. You can be all...

He smacks one fist into his other palm. Trouble is, he uses the same hand Alex just grabbed, and he winces, but he toughs it out with a grin.

Heath: Eh? Eh?

Alanna: You weren't the only one wondering about that, believe me.

Lance shakes his head.

Lance: I don't want a repeat of what happened at All-In. I gain nothing by either literally or metaphorically binding Desade's hands for this match. We're both best served by simply laying everything out on the table.

Lance glances over at Desade, an unreadable expression crossing his face.

Lance: And if I'm being honest...I feel like I owe Desade that much.

That draws a surprised blink from the marble-like features of the Spider.

Desade: You owe me?

It's a dangerous whisper, surprise and sudden anger mixed as one.

Desade: How on Earth, after all we have been through, all I have put you through, do you think you owe me that?

Lance doesn't blink in the face of Desade's anger.

Lance: There is a lesson I learned a very long time ago, Alex. One that a lot of folks don't tend to get.

If Desade has any reaction at Lance switching to a more familiar state of address, she doesn't show it.

Lance: The lesson being that there is a very big difference between like and respect. I don't like you, Alex. Never have and I can't imagine circumstances under which I ever will.

Lance pauses, clears his throat. This next bit is going to be a bit of a stunner, folks.

Lance: But I do respect you as an adversary. You are who you are, without feeling the need for justifications or excuses. You own your actions, no matter how reprehensible they may be. So I will not deal with you from a position of manipulation or false strength. I will not cower behind the protection of stipulations. I know full well that you will bring all that you have to bear against me.

A smile crosses Lance's face. It is small, tight and far friendlier than it really should be given the circumstances.

Lance: In fact, I'd consider it an insult if you didn't. I'm just saving you the effort of trying to hide it.

Desade: If you are hoping to play me into leaving them in the locker room, you are sorely—

The Lion shakes his head.

Lance: Far from it.

Desade: I will not be shamed, Lance. Not by you, not by Phillip Kennedy. We have known each other for... eight years? Nine? I remember when I first heard the name "Lance Marshall," right after Christopher beat me to gain control of the Council. You were a bight light, a shining star. A perfectly reasonable sap. It is good to see some things have not changed.

Lance: Shame was never the intention, Alex. And as for being the same person now that I was back then...thank you. I like to think that we've both been honest with each other about the type of people we are. No excuses, no apologies, no justifications.

Desade: For over a year now, since Edward called you from whatever hell you retreated to, you have stood in my path, impassable and incorruptible. You are a challenge that, had I known then what I know now, I would have taken a crowbar to your knee personally. You are the greatest physical specimen in this industry, and I am just a hundred and forty pound woman.

The smile that slips across her lips is small and dangerous.

Desade: Who has never been pinned or made to submit in fifteen months. I relish the challenge – I look forward to it. After the past few weeks, I am uncertain who will leap to my defense, but I will be there, Lance. I will be there and I promise you, it is me you need to worry about.

Lance: To the extent that I worry about the Dead Man's Hand, Alex, it has always been you that I have been worried about. The rest of the Hand...they're your tools, happy to serve but serving at your whim. It's never been the distractions around you that have bothered me, Alex...just you.

Desade: You are wiser than you let on, Mr. Marshall. On that night, five years ago, when Hunter and Wyatt and I performed the act for which I gained my moment of notoriety, it was you I was concerned with. In two weeks, we will climb into a ring for the first time without partners to stand at our sides. A great number of people – the woman who took your championship, for example – have questioned the intelligence of this move. I have been told I should go back on my word. That Lauren's actions perhaps technically do not hold, as she terminated her employment with me the moment she disobeyed me.

Her left hand tightens into a small ball on the armrest of her chair.

Desade: But I will come to Homecoming. I will bring the 42nd Airborne – the 43rd and the 44th, too, if I need them. And when I beat you. When I lay exhaustedly atop you, having felled a giant, and perhaps his wife, as well – no offense, Alanna. It will not be clean. It will not be pretty. People will accuse me of not earning it. I think the bathtub filled with ice will disagree with them.

Lance spreads his hands wide.

Lance: They say that you may judge a man from the quality of his enemies. If that is the case, Alex...then I am flattered that you think more highly of me than I would have ever imagined. It seems almost poetic that you and I should be the ones to stand against each other. And allow me to promise you this: if you come away with the victory at Homecoming, whatever voices may claim you did not earn your victory...mine will not be among them.

Marshall allows himself a small chuckle.

Lance: As for those voices whispering in your ear...for all the claims leveled at me over the years that I am predictable and boring, I would have imagined that there would be far fewer questions about my intentions. But I'm not entirely surprised that you would see shadows around every corner...especially given some of the counsel that you keep.

Pierce's brows beetle over that hard gray gaze; if there's a slight widening on the side, it's momentary and passes immediately.

Desade: The company I keep is not as concerning to me as the company I let go or that decides to step from my shadow. Simply know that I will not go away for you anymore than I did for Edward after our little tussle in Kentucky or for Jared in New York. You will still have to worry about me afterwards, and the "company I keep" as well. But you would expect nothing less, and nor I if I win. We will do this dance again. And again. And again. Until one of us grows too broken-down to complete it.

She leans into the chair again, but there's something about it that makes it different. Something defiant, a false calm.

Desade: And I have never thought you boring, Lance. Every Joker needs his Batman, every Luthor his Kal-El. If there have been concerns, they revolve around my ability – and willingness – to put my body through hell for that one perfect moment.

Lance: It's a risk that we run in this world that we live in, Alex. But like everything else, you just have to ask yourself: is the risk worth the reward?

With that question, something hangs in the air. Pierce tilts her head, her words careful.

Desade: Some rewards are worth any risk, are they not? There are some things you would sacrifice anything for the opportunity to have. Your wife, my daughter...

Lance nods at this.

Lance: My son...yes, there are some things that we would risk everything for. Because, in our hearts, we have judged those things to be worthy and deserving of everything we have to give.

Lance takes a deep breath.

Lance: But we know better than anyone how careful we must be in making that judgment...how careful we must be in determining who deserves that level of dedication.

Pierce narrows her eyes again, rocking forward like a viper striking from nowhere.

Desade: And sometimes – sometimes you take that chance, because there isn't anyone else who will take those kinds of chances but you. I know how you feel, Lance. I got myself into the bout at All-In because of that feeling, and I am sure to make mistakes in the name of it for some time to come.

There's a pause here, a breath – to gather herself, but whether it's for what they just discussed or what she says next is never clear.

Desade: It is why I make you a vow here, tonight. I want you to know I will never come for your son. My word is not worth very much, and you are unlikely to believe me, but I offer it nevertheless.

Lance shakes his head slightly. He seems almost...*amused*.

Lance: It's a crude analogy this, Alex, but it's the best I can do at the moment, so forgive me. It's one of the truisms in movies and television shows that depict prison life that people who can commit crimes against children are regarded as subhuman even by murderers and rapists.

Marshall pauses, looking sidelong at his wife. They share a small smile.

Lance: The reason why is because children are innocents. They cannot defend themselves; they cannot make the conscious choices that adults can. Some time ago, I promised you that neither my wife nor myself would come for your daughter...a promised, which we have kept to. So it may surprise you, Alex, but yes...I do believe you when you say you will never come after Zachary. Because you, me, Alanna...we have made our decisions, we have accepted the risks. Zach, Quinn...they have not. And they should not be made to pay for our decisions.

Desade: It has always amazed me how much you and I agree on, even if we do not – and perhaps never will – agree on methods or associates or, well, anything professionally. I always look forward to our battles, Lance – this one, and the rest yet to come.

Lance gives Alex a brief nod.

Lance: You force me to be a better warrior, you force me to be a stronger person, you help me reaffirm that man that I have become. It seems not only poetic that it should continue to be you and me, Alex...it seems right. As if it's what the universe itself demands.

Her smile is barely there on her lips, but it is there as she strips the glove from her left hand, extending a long-fingered hand across the table, one devoid of decoration or ornamentation sans a single black hairtie she wears as a bracelet.

Desade: Then I'll see you in Salt Lake, Mr. Marshall.

Lance extends his hand in turn across the table, taking Desade's hand in his. The handshake is very formal, very businesslike, almost completely devoid of feeling. The fact that it is happening at all is probably enough to be giving some people a stroke.

Lance: And I you, Ms. Pierce.

Kendall Heath looks between the two, his brows climbing upward.

Heath: And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Not the kind of fisticuffs you might imagine, but it'll be Lance Marshall and Desade, one-on-one for the very first time and under no disqualification, live Memorial Day weekend in Salt Lake City at Homecoming. We doubt that encounter will end with a handshake. We'll be back with more here at Sinner's Choice, including a face-to-face interview with Phillip Kennedy and Amy Campbell, still to come after these short messages.

As we fade to commercial, Alexandra Pierce has pivoted up to her feet, stepping briskly out of frame. Alanna and Lance are having a quiet conversation; the Hawaiian Lioness gestures to her own wrist as they speak.

Ken Heath? He's smoothing down that ridiculously douchey haircut.

Cut to commercial. Hey, we have this movie called Terminator: Salvation. We'd really like you to watch it!

All my life I've been searching for something
Something never comes never leads to nothing
Nothing satisfies but I'm getting close
Closer to the prize at the end of the rope

All night long I dream of the day
When it comes around and it's taken away
Leaves me with the feeling that I feel the most
Feel it come to life when I see your ghost

We've got a live feed to a house show here tonight, and that's where we're cutting now, as the fans start to boo as the name that accompanies “All My Life” by the Foo Fighters appears on the SinScreen. The name, which belongs to the 19 year old wearing aviator glasses, a black denim jacket, black boots and black trunks that makes his way onto the entrance stage, is Xander Searle. His new entrance video is darker than his previous “Happy-Go-Lucky” harbinger.

Gibson: Last week, this young man turned his back on the fans of SCCW.

Ware: Turned his back, he did what needed to be done. He told the fans the truth.

Searle continues to make his way to the ring.

Myers: Ladies and gentlemen, Xander Searle.

Searle enters the ring and pushes past Myers, taking his microphone.

Searle: Well, look at that. Again, you boo the man that comes to tell you the truth. A truth that no one in SCCW wants you to know. Every week, you pay to have the wool pulled over your eyes. Every week, you buy tickets, and you buy the t-shirts of those that SCCW wants you to cheer.

Searle looks right into the camera.

Searle: You are all sheep. Bah, bah. You fans do what you are told to do. Simple as that, end of story.

Seale takes his sunglasses off and puts them in his pocket.

Searle: That’s something that I’ve come to learn about you people. You can’t think for yourselves. You want to think that you’re free thinkers, but I look in the crowd, and I see Dusk hats. I see Aimz T-Shirts. There’s this kid in the front row with a foam finger for…..I can’t tell, but is that a BloodAngel foam finger? I have a finger for you.

A quick thinking censor blurs out what appears to be Xander Searle flipping the bird at the fan.

Gibson: Well, that was uncalled for.

Ware: I think that it’s great. The old Searle, we’ll call him Paul, would never have done this.

Gibson: I think this young man has lost sight of who got him here.

Ware: You’re right, he abandoned Xander when he left on his crusade to “rid” SCCW of Desade. Oh, by the way……where’s he been lately?

Fans: BOOOOOO

Searle: Yes, I know that you hate me. But, it’s not because you genuinely don’t like me. No, it’s because you’ve been conditioned not to like me. It’s because you’ve been conditioned only to like those that SCCW has put into the position to make them the most money. You see me, I’m 6’8 and 240 pounds, I’m not marketable.

Ware: If they released a Xander Searle T-Shirt, I would be the first one to buy one.

Gibson: We get all the merchandise for free.

Ware: And I would still buy one.

Searle: Later this week, you’re going to see those that make up the brain trust of SCCW deem to be “marketable” at SCCW Homecoming. Wow, I’m sure that each and every one of you is going to be calling up your cable or satellite providers to pay 40 bucks to watch it. Lemme give you a little secret. Don’t pay it. You’re bound to see the same matches within a month on Cinemax, or even this show if it’s picked up for syndication or somehow gets a network TV deal.

The fans start littering the ring with garbage. Apparently, that’s what they think about what’s spewing from Searle’s mouth. A cup that was once full of a frosty alcoholic beverage hits Xander in the chest.

Searle: Very, very mature. But then again, you are who SCCW caters to. You fans sicken me. You want to treat me with disrespect. That’s fine. Just remember this though, I am better than you.

Xander drops the mic in the middle of the ring, takes his sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them back on as “All My Life” starts to play and he exits the ring.

Heath: Coming up next we have a video sent to us just a few hours ago by the Livewire champion Legion concerning his past few months in Sin City…

We first see a caption show up on the screen:

Due to some of the images used in the video viewer discretion is advised…

(We see a logo of a snake wrapped around an upside down cross… to the viewers of ESEN television and New Frontier wrestling this is an all too familiar logo: the Rev 22:20 logo that is occasionally used by Legion and Luci when the need arises.)

(This is one of those times.)


The video now starts with an outside shot of the EnergySolutions Arena in Salt Lake with a graphic of 2/25/08 underneath with a LED screen saying SCCW First Show Tonight SOLD OUT in big letters.

We then cut to the main event of that evening in Cyrus Raynes Vs Jonathan Rhine or more specifically the aftermath…

Rhine's eyes flick to the entranceway; he's expecting someone else to come barreling down to ringside. After a moment, no one comes, and he turns back to look over his shoulder at his partner.

The SinScreen, granting the crowd the shot of Jonathan waiting for Desade's surprise, is the first to catch the chair as it lifts.

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


There's muted silence -- from the crowd and from the announcers -- after the wet smack of metal against bone.

Gibson: What the--?!

Ware: My dreams have been realized!

Her first shot knocked him to a knee, but when Amy Campbell follows up with a second shot with that chair, it catches Jonathan Rhine in the side of the head and sends the Universal Champion spinning to the mat.

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: AMY CAMPBELL! Amy just knocked Jonathan Rhine's head off!

On his side on the mat, Jonathan is insensate as Campbell rebounds off the rope, tucking her chair under her leg and dropping it --

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


-- across his head.

Gibson: What drove Aimz to this? What the hell has gotten into her!

Ware: I don't know but I like it!

Gibson: Aimz has the chair now and she's --

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: Amy's like a demon with that chair to the head and the neck and the side of Jonathan Rhine! I thought that was her friend! I thought Jon Rhine was her friend!

Ware: She told him she'd make it so his own mom wouldn't recognize him! She warned him!

Gibson: We need to get some help out here for the Universal Champion! Someone get down here!

Outside the ring, Desade and Hunter Sabuani are watching intently. The Spider in the Web's smile stretches, just a hint of amusement in her eyes. Hunter keeps glancing back for security.

But they're not important, not right now.

Gibson: Amy Campbell drags Jonathan Rhine into the corner! She sets him up, races across the ring and --

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


The footage of the chair drawing blood is then repeated thrice more then stops, we now hear a voice…

‘How weird that in Salt Lake City a veteran proved her true colours and created the new version of ‘the chairshot heard round the world’ and ever since she’s along with Alexandra began a reign of terror.’

We now cut to an outside shot of the same arena on this date with SCCW Homecoming SOLD OUT on the same LED screen.

Legion standing underneath the screen being another big difference of course.

Legion: I stepped into the battleground in January and decided to think let’s figure out which side wants it more, which side would be wanting to recruit myself and Luci in order to either fight the good fight or ride on the dark side and be dammed for all eternity?

My first encounter was with the ‘Lost Soul’ Dusk and despite a battle that could have gone either way he managed to make me tap out something that hadn’t happened before in my career and personally not the best start to my time here.

But you know what they say every cloud has a silver lining and maybe something wanted to forgive me…

(We cut to a flash of light and we hear the intensity of Gallows kick in with ‘The Great Forgiver’ as a montage of Legion’s wins between the man then known as Paul Searle and Jadian Bridden are shown. This is followed by the brief encounter with Wyatt at Sin On Spike with the song ending on the line ‘If God is a great forgiver then all the scum will be here with me’.)

Legion: In between I’ve had encounters with Dusk and Savant wanting to recruit me… more in Lauren’s case than Craig’s…

It also helps when you read the signals of your partner in crime too…

(The organ of Type O Negative’s My girlfriend’s Girlfriend kicks in as the instrumental plays over the footage from Rushmore of the kiss between Savant and Luci… along with the gift exchange a few weeks prior.)

Ware I did that montage for you pal… DVR it as you will. (Legion chuckles.)

Homecoming… the night whether I’m dammed either way I suppose, to be honest I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We’ll just have to see who’s going to be the one to do it… Dusk or Desade.

(Legion walks out of shot and we end as we began with a close up on the LED screen.)

Jackson: One of the biggest developments in recent weeks is the return of BloodAngel, who has picked up right where he left off--in a brutal war with the Decency Crusade. That war became a whole lot more personal on last week's Temptation, where it was revealed that the Prodigal Son, Wyatt Connors' newest convert, is actually the son of BloodAngel himself!

Heath: Don't buy it, Eds. I see this type of shit on Maury all the time.

Jackson: After learning this truth, BloodAngel made his presence known in the main event, brutally attacking the False Prophet--costing him both the Universal Title and a spot in the final match of the No Limits Tournament. We've received word that the match has been signed for Homecoming: "The False Prophet" Wyatt Connors will take on BloodAngel, in a rematch from Defiance II!

Heath: Big deal. Last time, Wyatt won without even having to throw one punch.

Jackson: He didn't. Six other people did--BloodAngel had to fight the whole Decency Crusade before the bell rang! You can bet that's not going to happen again--Edward may have been out of action for a while, but he's shaking off the ring rust as we speak, at the special SCCW house show that's running right now! Let's take a look!

Cut.

To the Qweest Arena we go, where a raucous crowd is watching two sizeable men pound the hell out of each other in the middle of the ring. The footage isn't the best, since there's no point in bringing the good equipment to a house show...especially one in Boise.

Upon closer inspection, we see that one of the men is completely handing the other his ass. The handee is William "Dolla Bill" Cash, proud member of SCCW's talent enhancement community. The hander is Edward Lambert, known throughout the wrestling world as the Hardcore Legend, BloodAngel. The crowd goes wild when he lifts Cash up in a crucifix powerbomb position, which is quickly turned into a jumping diamond cutter.

Jackson: There's the Blood Drop! Looks like Edward's back in fighting form!

Heath: Sure he is. Against the guy who sucks so bad, the Decency Crusade didn't even want him.

The three-count is academic, and the referee signals for the bell. Edward Lambert stands victorious in the ring...but it is not his music that plays.

Not unless he's using Reverend Horton Heat these days.

Heath: Hey, ain't that--

Jackson: That's the Decency Crusade's music! And here they come!

Here they come indeed, charging out of the entrance and toward the ring. Angel Verde and Illuminado lead the charge, their canteens of Holy 'Water' dangling from their necks. Seconds later, Caravan thunders his way down the ramp, and Jeremiah follows.

Heath: Los Luchadors Para Jesus have hit the ring!

Jackson: BloodAngel saw them coming, though--ooh! A big right hand drops Angel Verde! Illuminado leaps--caught! Slam!

It is only just after Illuminado has reached the apron that the final two members of the Crusade walk to the ring, wearing matching black robes. One of them has his hood pulled back, showing the stern face of "The False Prophet" Wyatt Connors. The other's face is still obscured, but there are few doubts to his identity.

Jackson: That must be the Prodigal Son...whose father is actually BloodAngel himself, as we learned on the last Temptation!

Heath: Just think about all the kids who are watching, and used to respect him. Some of them are probably mine!

Angel Verde has just enough time to stand up before he is knocked down again by a lariat from the Hardcore Legend. BA's momentum carries him into the ropes, where he is met with a clubbing forearm to the back.

Jackson: Caravan with the big hit! BA stumbles, right into a rising knee from Angel Verde! How'd he get back to his feet so fast?

Heath: The power of Christ compels him.

Jackson: Jeremiah in the ring now--oh, you bastard.

Heath: Don't blame me. You walked right into that one.

Jackson: Jeremiah is in the ring, and is giving some punishing blows to BloodAngel! Illuminado clips BA from behind, and he goes down!

Caravan lifts the fallen BloodAngel back to his feet, pinning back his arms. Los Luchadors immediately move into the sides and start working over BA's ribs. This leaves Jeremiah free to rear back with a big right hand and--

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Jackson: Mule kick on Caravan! BloodAngel goes low on Caravan, and that frees him up for Jeremiah--kick! DDT! BloodAngel back up--and another DDT to Caravan! The Crusade's muscle is down!

At this time, Los Luchadors move back in, trying to stage a rally. It doesn't go well, as BloodAngel grabs them both by their heads and forces them together.

Heath: Meeting of the minds!

Jackson: Angel Verde and Illuminado are dazed, and that's all the opportunity BloodAngel needs! He hooks them both--double DDT! The crowd is going wild!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Having laid waste to the Crusade, BloodAngel turns his attention to its leader, Wyatt Connors. The Hardcore Legend stares down at the False Prophet. He sees the look of righteous anger on his face. He sees the madness in his eyes. He sees the outstretched arms of the Crusade's leader; the right hand open, the left hand closed.

He doesn't see the Prodigal Son.

The fans scream out a warning as the black-robed figure rolls under the bottom rope behind BloodAngel. Slowly, he rises to his feet, as something slips out of his sleeve and into his hand...a lead pipe, two feet long. He pulls back the hood of his robe, showing his stark features and ice-blue eyes.

Jackson: The Prodigal Son is in the ring! Turn around, BloodAngel!

Heath: Totally can't hear you.

The fans continue to scream the same advice, but right now, BloodAngel can't hear them any more than he can Mary Jackson. So he has no way of knowing when the Prodigal Son silently creeps behind him, rears back with the pipe, and...

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Jackson: He caught it! I don't believe it! BloodAngel somehow knew it was coming, whipped around, and caught that pipe in his hands! And now he's staring the Prodigal Son--his OWN SON--dead in the face!

Edward Lambert almost doesn't know how to react, presented with a threat from his flesh and blood. He looks into his son's eyes and says something--they're saving the super-sensitive microphones for Homecoming, so we can't tell what it is--but it gets no response from his attacker. In the end, we'll never really know what would have happened next.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Jackson: Connors with a low blow! He snuck in while Lambert was preoccupied, and--

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Jackson: Prodigal Son with that lead pipe! He drives it right into Edward's face, just like he did at Defiance II! Lambert goes down to a knee--and now the others are on him!

By now, the rest of the Crusade has had time to recover, and they make the most of it. The five of them swarm on BloodAngel, driving him to the mat with repeated punches, kicks, and stomps. Lambert tries to fight back, but to no avail. As the Decency Crusade pound him into oblivion, Wyatt Connors calls for a microphone. He takes it in his right hand, but his left is still closed tight.

Connors: Brother Edward, I am very disappointed in you. I had hoped that you would follow your flesh and blood into the Lord's warm embrace...but instead, you tried to rip him from it. When you could not steal him from salvation, you exacted punishment on me. If wickedness were not the bane of my existence, I would be impressed by your capacity for it.

With Lambert now mostly unconscious, the Crusaders drag him toward the side of the ring. While Jeremiah and Caravan hold him up, arms outstretched, the others lift the middle rope over the top one and around his arms, leaving BloodAngel trapped.

Connors: I must now pass judgment upon you, Edward Lambert. Your involvement cost us one of our brethren, our cherished Neophyte. We might have had the chance to save him from the clutches of the Dark Ones, had we not been also concerned with you. Perhaps right now, he is experiencing horrors the likes of which no man can fathom. But I know that his heart is strong, and if he is not with us in body, he is at least here in spirit. Still, you have weakened the Crusade by your actions, and for this sin...I forgive you.

He gives a slight nod to Illuminado, who lightly slaps BloodAngel's face, trying to keep him conscious.

Jackson: He can't even defend himself, and Wyatt still has his lackeys slap him around. How disrespectful.

Heath: I know, right? Who falls asleep in the middle of a sermon, especially a personalized one?

Jackson: ...

Connors: Your vicious, brutal, and baseless attack on me at Temptation stole the glory from the Decency Crusade. We could have had our crowning moment--the Universal Title in the hands of the Crusade, defending it in His honor on the grand stage of Homecoming--but instead, that moment will belong to one of the devil's agents. I realize that I should not judge you, for it is your nature--you have always been little more than a beast, exacting your rage on whoever dares to be near you at the moment. But you are not a beast, you are a man--after a fashion--and should know better than to place your hands on an agent of salvation. For this sin...I forgive you.

BloodAngel struggles against his restraints, all the while staring bloody daggers at his captor. He tries to spit at Connors, and a mouthful of blood lands six inches from the False Prophet's boot.

Connors: And for that, as well.

He smiles kindly at his captive, who now struggles even harder to get free. But his arms are tied in the ropes, and Jeremiah makes sure that remains the case.

Connors: Finally, there is the matter of Brother Colt, the Prodigal Son. Your son. Your son, who you so desperately wish to take away from me. Your son, who you didn't even know about until a week ago.

This gets a substantial "ooh" from the crowd, and bitter cursing from BloodAngel.

Connors: And now, you're the devoted father. Now, you care. But...if you truly did care, you would understand the truth. Your son has been saved. He is guaranteed a place in heaven, where he shall bask eternally in His righteous glow. That would be enough, for most people--to know that their loved ones shall have eternal life. But you just won't accept it, will you. You are so desperate to feel anything, anything but rage, that you would deny him salvation. You are so conceited, so...so selfish, that you would cast your own flesh and blood into eternal damnation, just so that you would not have to face it alone. The shame of it, Edward! THE PALPABLE, PALPABLE SHAME!

Catchphrase pop, which Wyatt ignores. Instead, he turns his back on his prisoner, and hangs his head.

Connors: Moreso than I am ashamed of you, I am ashamed of myself. For the great Reverend Ibrahim Seck teaches us to be merciful. He teaches us to be forgiving. Indeed, His capacity for mercy and forgiveness are infinite.

Quickly, he whips his head around...and there, in his eyes, is the familiar madness. The kind that destroys everything it touches, despite its intention...but at this moment, destruction is most certainly its intention.

Connors: But mine is not.

At this time, Los Luchadors remove their canteens from their necks, and quickly unscrew the caps. Caravan and Jeremiah retrieve their own containers from under their robes, and do the same.

Jackson: What are they doing? Are they going to 'convert' BloodAngel right there in the ring?

Heath: Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Or, make 'em join you.

All four men begin pouring the contents of their canteens onto BloodAngel...and as the clear liquid splashes onto his face, he screams like a man possessed.

Jackson: Something's wrong...I know that they usually have Kool-Aid in those things, but that doesn't look like Kool-Aid.

Right you are, Ms. Jackson. For one, Kool-Aid generally isn't clear. For another, it doesn't sting like hell when it gets in your eyes.

You know what does?

Gasoline.

Connors: At this time, I must find wisdom in another great work of literature, wherein it is written: you can't be forgiven for evil like that.

It is only now that Wyatt Connors opens his left hand, the contents of which he shows to BloodAngel.

A steel Zippo lighter.

Connors: You've got to burn it out.

Jackson: Oh, Lord...he can't possibly...

Edward Lambert's eyes go wide...and although the audience can't see what is engraved on the lighter, Edward can read the three letters quite clearly. He struggles harder against his bonds, his anger now fueled by betrayal.

Connors: With heavenly fire, I shall cast you down, Edward Lambert. Where you are going, there is no comfort, so I shall allow you to take this with you: your actions have only damned yourself, but your loved ones will be saved. And I hope that with your final breath on this world, you will thank God for the Decent People.

Heath: Jesus...

Jackson: Go to commercial! Dammit, go to commercial!

The flame still burning, Wyatt raises his hand to the sky, ready to strike down his enemy with fire. With a scream of rage on his lips, he rears back, and...


[Cut to commercial Ron Howard brings you Tom Hanks in Angels & Demons – or, as we call it, the most inopportune commercial ever.]

When we return from commercial, your screen is illuminated in a bright white light. The sound of a walking stick hitting concrete is all that can be heard over the murmurs in the crowd.

“Amongst those that fight in the darkness are those that fight for the light. I am one of those fighters. I have seen in the eyes of those that are the purveyors of darkness, and I have seen the fear that they truly have. They don’t fear the strong, for they are few. They fear the meek, for if the meek were to rise up, that they will overpower them.”

Again, the sounds of the walking stick hitting concrete can be heard.

“While I may be physically and emotionally strong, I know that I am amongst the meek. That is why I have rededicated my life to fighting amongst the meek. That is why I have decided to fight for the pure and those that can’t fight for themselves.”

Again, the sounds of the walking stick can be heard. Finally, amongst the field of all white, a pair of green eyes open, and stare out into the crowd.

“Beati qui lugent quoniam ipsi consolabuntur.”

Folks watching Sinner's Choice at home will notice quickly that their screen has been split in half.
On the left half of the screen, in studio, sits "The Big Stack" Phillip Kennedy, SCCW Gateway Champion, and challenger for the richest prize in wrestling.

On the right half of the screen, on site at the house show in Boise, is the woman who has made the SCCW Universal Championship her own for months and months, Amy "Aimz" Campbell.

One man. One woman. And a more or less live mic between them. ESPN wanted to have a moderator, but really now, this is Phillip Kennedy and Amy Campbell. Moderation is sort of useless.

One rule, then. Champion goes first.

She's kicked back in a steel chair set up near a turnbuckle, turned sideways so she can rest tired legs up on the ropes and show off obnoxiously bright sneakers that peeked out from under faded jeans.

Aimz: Oh no, no, no. Phil gets to go first. I insist. Got a sore throat today, kinda been looking forward to hearing his 'Is that what you wanted, Amy? You made it personal, I did the same. How does it feel? Blahblahmostemocowboyonearth' speech.

Kennedy: If you insist. At the end of the day, this isn't personal, Amy. I didn't attack your husband because I enjoyed it. On the contrary, if anyone deserves not to be beaten up by me, it's Darcy Crisis. He has to deal with you at... *shudder*...home. I didn't chair Alexandra Pierce in the back of the head because it gave me pleasure, though that was a nice side benefit. This is about you, me, and that title you have on your shoulder. A title that you've retained through...I'd call it cheating, but that's insulting to people like me who cheat properly.

In the split screen, Amy's not smiling. It's rare.

Aimz: So you'll have your crusade about how I'm a bullshit champion, I don't deserve the title and you have no idea why I'm the apple of Alexandra's eye and not you. I'm tired of this song, so I'll tell you what; You were right, this isn't personal. At least, it wasn't. Up until last week, you did little more than amuse me. 'When he finishes wrestling school', I thought, 'He'll be pretty good'. So let me trump your transparent '101 Reasons Aimz Isn't Really The Champion' list before you get started...

She sighs, but brings her feet from the ropes to the ground, elbows on her knees while she leans to the camera.

Aimz: There's a reason I have this belt, and it goes beyond what Desade can do or how many near-falls I slip out of. I have pushed my body - a woman's body; small, supposedly so fragile - beyond the limits of most human beings. Beyond the limits of most men. I've gone places you wouldn't dare to, I've endured things half the roster couldn't imagine and even though I might not always be able to walk away from it all at first, I do eventually.

Kennedy makes a motion to speak, but she brushes it off using the strangely-appointed superpower of unending banter.

Aimz: There's one thing I won't stand up and step from, though, and that's this business. As much as anyone will ever hate me, as much as I hate ninety nine percent of the industry and everything that goes along with it, I will not back away or bow my head. I won't go gracefully because I'm not going anywhere, no matter how hard you push and no matter how many clips you play of so-and-so interfering or me thumbing some prick in the eye. I wake up every day with aches and pains that any other person halfway through their twenties would have to acredit to some sort of disease. I get out of bed and I walk it off. I can only push myself the way I do because of idiots like YOU who insist on shoving back, so keep these little spiels up and you'll get to see why I normally like taking the easy road. After last week, you're gonna see it anyway -- I can push farther than you, plain and simple.

Kennedy: You like preempting me, don't you? That's what makes you tick -- being a sarcastic smartass. Shit, Amy, you don't think I know what I've done? You're going to try and murder me dead, and if there's anything left of me, Alex has a shiny bracelet she can cash in on me after I beat you and pry the title from my barely twitching hands. I KNOW ALL OF THIS, Amy, and you know what? I don't care. This isn't about the title anymore. The title might be mine for three minutes, but it's what the match itself proves that I care about.

He smiles. It's not a nice one.

Kennedy: It's about showing the world that I'm better than you. That whyever Alexandra supports you over me, it is not because you are more talented than me. It is about proving that I AM what I say I am. I am the future of Sin City Championship Wrestling, and I will be that whether or not I'm Universal Champion for more than a cup of coffee. Because I've got the balls to put it all on the line for this shot, Amy.

The smile fades, replaced by quiet, intent focus.

Kennedy: I'm all in, Amy. If I lose this match...I'm fucked. I'm probably out of the Hand, and Alex Pierce will make my life as miserable as she can -- and she's quite capable at that art. But if I win...Hell, that makes all the abuse worth it. Anything she or you can dish out...all worth it for that moment Jason Myers says "Your winner, and NEW SCCW Universal Champion...PHILLIP KENNEDY!"

Campbell's laughing now.

Aimz: Oh man, you really believe that, don't you? Here's the truth, Phillip. You want the title? You can have it -- it always comes back home. When it comes down to it, what's going to happen between us has absolutely nothing to do with defense on my part. I won't be out there trying to keep mean ol' Kennedy from tricking anyone into thinking he's better than me, because the bottom line is that you made the biggest mistake of your career and actually went there. You're a fucking fool, and instead of getting a professional fighter with a company position and 'The Best' stamped on her forehead across from you in the ring, you're getting every one of my base instincts. I'm there for the single purpose of hurting you as badly as I can, for as long as I can.

The Red Raver stands up and the camera pans out as she folds the chair she'd been sitting on, using it to support her hands in front of her.

Aimz: Now... your thing is watching wrestling, observing and crafting an opinion, isn't it? I've got an assignment for you, then. What did you think of Katie Malick? Me, personally? I liked her. Nice girl. Never hurt me or mine. Never tried to take from me. Never pissed on my leg like a territorial poodle in a cowboy hat. If you've been true to your gimmick and really observed, you might remember the arena we'll be in. Hint, it's the same one I'm in now. The same one Katie's boyfriend was in a year ago a few weeks after I cracked her head open with a chair. I liked her, Phil.

The signature smirk's still missing. For lack of a better term, she's dead serious -- and the belt that had been notably missing is now seen around her waist. Upside down, of course.

Aimz: I'd suggest going home and actually doing your homework. Once you have, you'll set foot in this very arena fucking praying for me to start caring about the accessories, the labels and the egos again. I'd actually planned to be there tonight, y'know. I was gonna take this chair and put your head through it, but fair play is fair play, and I owed somebody else her very own Malick Moment.

There's that smile, and it's followed by a wink.

Aimz: It'll be too late, but I don't want to embarrass you by having Philly's Surprised Face all over YouTube tomorrow, so... you might wanna turn around.

Swallowing hard, Phillip Kennedy stood. Turning around, he figured, was pointless. And so instead, he spoke his mind.

Because there was only one person who could be behind him.

Kennedy: You'd better kill me, Alex, or I'm taking her title in two weeks.

There wasn't an answer from the redhead, who was, indeed, behind him, just the hard whack of a rattan fighting stick into his shoulderblades. It sent him stumbling forward into a light stanchion.

There wasn't any commentary from Dave or Eugene as Phillip turned around, the title belt leading. He wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Pierce smoothly ducked underneath the belt shot, spinning up and to the side with the weapons. Both of them came across her body, colliding hard with his ribcage. The blow doubled him over, and Pierce only paused for a moment before she spun in the opposite direction, the back of her leg coming across his head.

When she finally spoke, Pierce's deadly whisper was barely audible.

Desade: I have thought about this for nearly two weeks. I have—

Kennedy stomped a foot down, getting up to one knee. Pierce isn't going to monologue through this. She sweeps in front of him, hands clasped behind his neck, the fighting sticks crossed over his throat. With a sudden jump, she leaps backwards, both knees coming up against his chin and the sticks on his throat.

The Spider's Kiss is not something you stand back up from, not immediately, especially not with weapons. The hard wood snaps under the force of the blow, and Kennedy's throat pays the price. But she doesn't pose with her foot on his chest. That's from the Kennedy playbook; she plays by her own rules.

Alexandra bends down, she falls to a knee, and she whispers. These are usually the things that we don't hear.

Desade: Do you really think a cage can stop me, Phillip? The only thing that can stop me – the ONLY THING – is that woman in Idaho. If I wanted to, I would find my way into that cage. But Amy has asked that I watch. Amy has asked that I prevent Lauren or Kathryn from interjecting. I would love to see you added to the list. Because it would stick in your craw for Amy to beat you in that ring without any help. But if she stole it from you, it would keep you up at night.

She comes to her feet as he reaches out with a hand – a hand Phillip snatches back before she can stomp her foot into it.

Desade: So thank Amy when you see her. Pleasant dreams, Mr. Kennedy. Before the end of May, you'll be back trolling for ass at vending machines.

Pierce savagely jerks the tails of her jacket to straighten it, stepping over the fallen Gateway Champion and towards the security guards, who have orders to remove her from the building.

ESPN staff and technicians run to and from on the set, clearly in a panic. It is with this as a backdrop that slowly, ever so slowly, Phillip Kennedy sits up, pushing himself with his hands into a lopsided seated position, the chair that he was sitting in providing his support.

Kennedy's eyes are unfocused, rolling about in his head. A thin trail of blood drips from his mouth, courtesy of the deadliest kiss Desade knows how to give.

The challenger for the Universal Champion is barely coherent. Barely conscious, even. It is likely that paramedics will be at his side soon, to make sure no serious damage has done. On the other side of the screen, the champion's smiling and chuckling.

Aimz: Oh hey - camera guys over there. Is he awake? He doesn't look so great. If he isn't, just pass on the message that I accidentally broke my last punching bag this week, so I can't wait to see him at Homecoming.

For Phillip Kennedy, the flop was a killer.

But even so, he smiles, a twisted grin that shows one less tooth than there should be in his mouth.

Aimz: There he is! Phil! Am I loud enough for you? Hope they didn't shut the feed down. Just wanted to say hey again and, by the way...

It's Amy's turn to smile, even though the challenger can't see. This smile's full of teeth, bloodless and uncharacteristically dark.

And it fades as quickly as it came, replaced with a dead serious stare.

Aimz: Watch who you fuck with, because I've stopped kidding around.

The turn and river remain. And if Phillip Kennedy has anything to say about it, DNA will drown on it.