No talk, even less action...

Scene fades in on the arena parking lot outside the venue for PWN Chapter 8, where the Horrorcore Openweight Champion Ian Dickenson can be seen leaning against the hood of a black Dodge Charger. The Horrorcore Championship belt itself can be seen behind the windshield, placed where the lights from the parking lot can reflect against the belt’s plates, highlighting every detail. Ian leans against the car with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his faded jeans, but pulls one hand out to brush the hair out of his face as he faces the camera.

Ian: There’s an old expression: Those that don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that someone who shall remain nameless decided to harp on me for using hyperbole, and followed it up with vowing to make me scream and bleed before taking my championship from me…

Ian gestures toward the Horrorcore Championship belt with a mild smirk on his face.

Ian: Guess what? I’m still the champion, and that individual is no longer on PWN’s payroll.

He chuckles as he shifts position slightly, bringing a denim-clad thigh up over the fender as he rests his foot on the bumper.

Ian: Now, with yet another title defense under my belt, it’s time for me to team up with my wife Ebony in a match that could very well get Onslaught that much closer to being double champions.

He scratches his bearded chin, narrowing his eyes as he ponders that thought.

Ian: Not to get too far ahead of myself, but that puts a nice mental image into my head. You know what else puts a nice mental image into my head? The look on my opponents’ faces after I’ve handed them their asses and they wind up staring at the arena lights. You know how that feels, don’t you, Graham?

He lets out a dark chuckle, his face taking on an expression that was halfway between a smirk and a sneer.

Ian: I’ve already kicked your ass once before, and on top of that, I’ve left you lying in a pool of your own fluids mixed with shame, so in a way, I guess I can’t blame you for setting your mind on a little measure of payback. The thing is, this time, I’ve got someone watching my back. But what about you, Baker? Can you even count on the other half of Deliverance to keep you from getting your face caved in yet again? Or could it be that he may be harboring a little bit of professional jealousy over the fact that you’ve managed to snag the number one contendership for the very championship he failed to claim for himself, despite boasting that he was the only one worthy of being the first champion.

He rests an arm on his thigh, shaking his head.

Ian: You can crow about how you’re going to lay us out and leave us for dead, but where did all of that boasting get you last time, Baker? Oh yeah… ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY NOWHERE!

As he bellows those last few words, his face flushes red. He pauses, taking a moment to compose himself before an eerie calm takes over.

Ian: Time will tell if you actually learned anything from our last encounter, or if history will repeat itself. As for Jacob Knight…

Ian shakes his head, slightly dismayed.

Ian: I have a much harder time wrapping my head around the fact that the RWL’s first, last and only top champion doesn’t seem to give a shit about this match. Funny… it wasn’t that long ago that you and the not-so-fabulous Baker boy were telling anyone who’d listen that Deliverance was going to “save” PWN, and so far, the only thing you’ve saved PWN from is excitement, or even quality entertainment.

So, if you wanna give us the silent treatment, that’s fine. Once that bell rings, your screams will ring loud enough…

Scene fades out as the camera slowly zooms in on the growing scowl on the Horrorcore Champion’s face.