[Baker] Regicide.

We enter on Graham Baker, who has himself set up in a lounging chair, his feet kicked up while his championships decorate the area around him. His SSW Heritage Championship sits front and center, while his IBW Collision and SINISTER Heavyweight championships sit on either shoulder. A cigarette burns out in an ash tray next to Graham, who sports bandages from his match in Japan the night prior, but his fire doesn’t seem to burn any less. He wears a black two-piece suit with a black tie, the jacket undone to more clearly show his Heritage Championship. Baker begins speaking, and his voice is filled with fire despite his exhaustion.

“This weekend was one of the most immense, most important conquests of my entire career-nay, my fucking life to this point. I went into this weekend with two belts, one of which was on the line, and I came out with three. I flew from Ohio to Japan to Atlanta, and now, here, where I make my mark on the pro-wrestling landscape once again. I defended my IBW Collision Championship against world champion Ana Somnia, making my mark on this belt as the most important belt in the company. I bested Wil Pierce and came out with the SSW Heritage Championship, the championship waiting in the wings for me since I was considered for it just under three months ago. I destroyed the maniac Flop one more fucking time, sealing my place in the Action Wrestling CruiserClash main event one more time, giving me one more chance to claim the Cruiserweight Championship-and my rightful place as King of the Cruiserweights.

That all matters so, so much to me, as does every contract I sign, but this Challenge of the Immortals, my chance to take on Talyn Beoulve, that means much, much more.”

Baker chuckles, and looks dead into the camera.

“The chance to become the first-ever PWN Champion? That’s an accolade that would cap off the impressive resume I’ve built thus far. I may compete around the world, people may call me careless or impulsive, telling me that I’m going too far too fast, that I’m gonna burn out, but the crowds don’t care. The crowds scream my name every time I come out, they cheer when I win the fuckin’ gold, they chant ‘Gra-ham Ba-ker’ when I step through the curtains, when that fuckin’ guitar hits, when that ‘tron lights up with my fuckin’ name, and they show the world what a motherfucker like me can do, what I mean to all of them, and they show the impact, I’ve had on this sport just two years in. They show that the name Graham Baker has transcended professional wrestling, that houses know who I am when I walk on TV, that all the hard work and days i’ve wrestled mean so, so much because I’m able to bring that feeling anywhere I go.

Talyn, new-blood. From what I can tell, less a veteran, more a greenhorn. A man who’s looking to get a meal ticket off me, but he can get in line with everyone else who’s looking to make a name. Really, you’re already a statistic-I’m three for three in the last 72 hours. You’ll make four for four, and while you might not feel important, know that you’ll be dead middle of the pack when I head to CCW this Friday and crush three poor bastards in my fucking way on the path to winning that Platinum Championship. Know that your name is made infamous by association-and hell, I’ll shake that hand of yours after the match if you try hard enough, make you look like a good ol’ boy.”

Baker chuckles again, shaking his head.

“Pickman’s Pupil-like the Lovecraft artist, right? I’ve read a book or two, so if you think mythology is gonna scare me, you’ve got another thing coming. When I look at you, I don’t see legitimate competitor, I see some fuckin’ wannabe hiding behind a mask that he thinks is gonna exist forever, I see some kid trying to carve his name into the annals of history by making it through the number one choice to win the whole Challenge of the fuckin’ Immortals, and I see through your ruse. You may think you’ve got a fighting chance to come out swinging, that you might score a lucky little knock-out blow on GB, that you might knock the king off, but you won’t. This match was fated from the start-I’m on a fucking roll, and no deadbeat artist is gonna stall me out.

That doesn’t mean you roll over and die, though, Talyn. You bring your A-Game. You show the world that you can impress, that you can leave a mark on me, even if you don’t gun me down, you can still shoot straight. People might take notice when you land a few glancing blows, and even if they can’t see your face when I hook your leg and hold you down for the three, even if your visage is obscured by blood after I break your nose with a little P-Twenty-Three action, they’ll still know your name. They’ll still know I gave you the good ol’ golden sticker when I shake your hand, when I throw you a point for being the boy to take Graham Baker to his limit.

You just, uh, won’t get much further than that.”

Baker leaves a smile on his face as he leans back in the chair.

“When I step out into the ring, Nova Faithful, make sure you chant my name loud and clear so Talyn Beoulve knows exactly who he’s fucking with. When I hold my hand out, make sure you slap that shit back. When I offer you my jacket, make sure you take it. And when I give you the showcase of a lifetime, when I batter Talyn so hard that Pickman’s Pupil forgets his fucking curriculum, make sure you give him a hand for a good try. I know I will.”

Baker leans back and picks his cigarette up, taking a long pull from it as the camera fades to black...