"Pain, Blood and War."

[Jace O'Brien]

The video opened on an ashtray sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. Many cigarettes curled, bunched down having been put out. A few of them stained with red lipstick. One was just freshly added into the mix, a trail of smoke coming off of the still hot ember. There’s a faint smell of perfume lingering in the air, but no sight of a woman. Even in the pitch black room you could see the bed was a mess, sheets and covers pushed to the side, balled up and discarded. The video followed the camera man around to show the RSW Bay Area Championship slung over the couch and then Jace O’Brien standing on the balcony. Even with his back to the camera, he began to speak.

“I bloody told ya’. Bryce Alright couldn’t handle my striking and that enabled me to become the first ever Bay Area Champion. I was given an opportunity and I took it. And now, I will do the same at Vendetta in the Supreme Championship tournament. Georgia DeLise lays it on pretty thick when she wants something, doesn’t she? Practically hands me the Bay Area championship and throws me into this tournament, all because she wants me to put down a couple a’ dames. Well, I’ll take this opportunity too..”

“First round I get this bloke named Archer. He beat up on a sleepin’ Arthur Thomas at Shoot Saturday, so it’s easy for me to say that I didn’t see anything that impressed me. He’s malicious, vicious and driven to cause pain. Sounds like a good time to me, don’t you think mate? Let’s make this a bloody fuckin’ brawl. Let’s fight all over San Francisco, up and down the hills – on the fuckin’ cable cars – everywhere.”

“You want pain, blood, and WAR? Mate, you fuckin’ got it.”

Slowly he turned around. The Bay Area champion, only illuminated by the moonlight that poured onto his half-naked body, casually walked into his apartment. His eyes remained focused on the camera.

“Dallas Blake, I buried the prat and he hasn’t been seen or heard of since. I don’t think Bryce Albright will quite be the same after I dislocated his jaw with that kick. And you? You’re victim number three. Victim number three for the Warlord. I’m putting bodies in the ground and continuing my path to the top of this company. You are you. You and your big scary approach in your videos, and you’re piss-poor “talent”. You can’t out wrestle me. Going fist to fist, kick for kick and shot for shot with me will be the biggest mistake of your career. I’m faster, stronger and smarter than you are. Bruv, this has been a mismatch since it was put onto paper.”

“Listen, mate. I don’t care that you were a GWC Commonwealth champion – or anything else you’ve done with your career. You could have given a “light tube shower” to Abdullah the Butcher and it wouldn’t mean a thing to me. This is RSW, and around here – I’ve become one of the men that lead this company. Around here, I’ve become the measuring stick. I’ve already claimed the Bay Area Championship for myself and next I’ve set my sights on the Supreme championship. I’m looking past you because you’re a nothin’. A nobody. You beat a sleeping buffoon, how does that make you a credible opponent? If that is what we’re resorting to as ‘credibility’, bring in ZERO and Walter Hobbs too – they both beat Arthur Thomas.”

Jace brought a hand up to his jaw, his hand running smoothly over his beard.

“But there’s a reason they’re not in this tournament. They’re just not good enough to potentially wear the Supreme Championship. You? You’re only here because options were limited. You were included because the list of qualified individuals start and finishes with Jace O’Brien. Everyone else? Place holders. Lord, Aaron, Jackson, Raven – all people included just to fill brackets. Georgia DeLise knew what she had when she signed me to the RSW contract. She knew what she was getting when she asked me to be her bodyguard – for lack of a better term.”

“She got a man who is going to break through each and every person standing in his way.”

He picked up his championship. End.

[Jace O'Brien]

Georgia DeLise.

The name appeared as Jace scrolled through the text messages on his phone. Pushing the conversation open, all that shows is a number.

#1237

It was the room number she wanted him to meet her in. So, flicking the cigarette - that previously hung between his lips - to the side, Jace reached for the door and gave the knob a twist. He pushed the door open to find his boss sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room. In her hands, she clutched a white envelope, which she would place down. Her eyes immediately locked on the Bay Area Champion as he entered, closing the door behind him. Just as the door clicked closed and Jace turned around, Georgia stood and extended her free hand.

"Thank you for meeting me. How are things going?"

"Just fuckin' peachy love. What's with the secrecy bollocks? Couldn't meet me at the arena?"

"With my brother lurking around The Arena? No." Georgia forced a smile and slipped her hands in the pockets of her jeans. "Arianny Blake went to visit my father at the hospital. I have a feeling that things are going to continue to deteriorate. I read what Shawn wrote to you on the timeline. I'm a little worried."

"Worried about what? Your twit of a brother making an arse of himself on social media, projecting claims he can't back up? Or the terrible twosome, tart and twit? You have nothing to worry about. There's a reason I'm standing here, innit?"

"About everything." Georgia sighed and raked her fingers through her long, dark locks. "Archer sent me a letter. I found it on my desk this morning. Do you want to read it?" She nodded her head to the letter she left laying.

Jace's eyes follow her nod before he moved toward the letter. He pulled out the paper from the envelope, and scanned over it. His face remained stone as he did. Eyes darting left to right, then back again. After reading his eyes moved up to Georgia, who still was a nervous wreck.

"This is what has ya' shakin', love? The jumbled thoughts of someone as delusional as your brother? Archer is an annoying little prat, trying to intimidate you, me, whoever else. It isn't going to work, love. He can pen his threatening letters all he wants, but let's be realists here. The only thing he has to show for himself is a win over a man who can barely stay awake long enough to tie his boots. I may have been handed the Bay Area Championship after two matches against lackluster opponents, but at least I beat those blokes while they were conscious. I didn't need a "big break" like Archer, I didn't need them to fall asleep to capitalize. Archer has focused on the wrong part of the story, and is missin' the bigger picture.

I'm un-fuckin-touchable."

Georgia sighed, slinking back down into the chair where she once sat. Jace's eyes never left her.

"The sod can see what is happening around this place, love. He can see your brother aligning himself with the insane asylum castaways. He can see that your father is on his death bed. And he's using all of this for fuel to launch a mental assault on you, to try and make you regret decisions you've made. 

One thing you don't have to regret is the decision to bring me into the picture. I'm better than this bloke, hands down. This is the same bloke who was run out of his last company because he talked a big game, and couldn't back it up. So his threats of blood, pain and death? They do not phase me. This letter?"

Jace held out in front of him, his right hand squeezing it a little harder. "Does not phase me." Bringing up his left hand to meet his right on the note, he proceeds to rip and tear it into pieces. "Spencer Archer is a fuckin' idjit and it will be my pleasure to beat the bloke bloody at Vendetta. The only thing dying this week is the muppet's career."

She listened to every word that Jace said and it didn't take long after that for her to stand back up to her feet. Pushing her dark locks out of her face, she seemed a little more confident now. Less panicky. Her lips spread with a genuine smile, "Thanks, Jace. I needed to hear that."

[Jace O'Brien]

Do me a favor. 

Take a look in the mirror for a second and tell me what you see.

Me? I see the RSW Bay Area Champion. I see a man who stepped up and not only put Dallas Blake down, but also made an example out of Bryce Albright in order to secure this championship as my own. Yes, I don't think much of those two muppets, but when you look at everyone on the roster in comparison to me, it's a pretty shallow pool to be pickin' talent out of.

I see a man that can, and will, step into the ring with whatever leeches and bottom feeders are at the bottom of the barrel in RSW - and will break every single bone in their face. I see a man that, as his opponents scream in pure and utter agony, would smile - finding the greatest joy in life in the pain and misfortune of those stupid enough to step into the ring against him.

At first glance, do you see the same thing?

That's what I thought of you, mate. I thought you were a mirrored image of me. The same vicious, destroy anyone at any cost mentality.  I thought we were cut from the same cloth, Archer. That you would rip and tear this company apart just like I have thus far. 

And then you spoke. Or wrote.

You made it easy for me to see you differently. You made it easy for me to think of you as the scared little boy who's trying to play mind games. You know, the type of bloke in a school yard trying to give himself the illusion of something he's not, so the bigger kids won't bully him.

You're not a tough as nails, blood-thirsty killer as you portray yourself to be.

You're the kid sitting in the corner of the classroom eating glue.

I stand by my word, Archer. You're past means nothing to me or anyone else here, but that doesn't mean I'm ignorant as to what you've done. I've done my research, I've found your strengths, you're weaknesses and I've noted the accomplishments that you have. And the point I make in bringing it up to Georgia? It is to show her that she made a mistake.

Putting faith in you in this tournament was a mistake.

I hope you enjoyed the times you had in the ring in the past, Archer, because I can assure you that it won't be the same. Nothing you have done has prepared you for what you're going to step into the ring with at Vendetta. You know that blood-thirsty killer that you want people to think of you as? 

You're lookin' at the real deal, mate.

I don't need to break light tubes over people's heads in order to establish myself as a violent individual, Archer. See, there you go again, stupid little kid in the yard trying too hard to be something he's not. Me? I step into the ring and with fists clenched and mercilessly beat your face to a bloody pulp until all I'm feeling is the mixture of broken bones and blood every time my fist hits the mat.

Like I said to that prat Albright before Shoot Saturday; my kicks kill, elbows decapitate, and punches execute. You, with all of your mind games and one-up's-manship are just another victim lead to the ring for me to slaughter in front of everyone in San Francisco. To further establish myself as the best in this company. 

So, like that school yard reject who turned into an over emotional agnsty teenager, write another letter. Spill your heart and emotions into it. Write yourself up and tear me down. But before you go, while I still have you there in front of your mirror; ask yourself...

Am I really ready to step into the ring with someone who doesn't care about my well being?

Call me a pup if you wish, but if we're going with the analogy - I'm more like a Rottweiler. A Rottweiler who's tracking down to attack his latest victim. You. 

And I hate to be the one to tell you this, mate, but the only act of euthanasia happening at Vendetta is on you, and your career.

Look in the mirror, Archer, and see that you will never better than Jace O'Brien. In fact, you will never even be "as good as". 

All you are is another body to be added to the pile.