[The screen flickers and bursts into static. We hear the sound of a shifting object, a rustling cable, some brilliantly colorful language. Finally, the static settles and gives way to the image of Python sitting alone in the kitchen of his apartment in a pair of dark, tattered skinny jeans and a black Rolling Stones t-shirt with nothing on his feet. He is perched atop the backrest of a solid wooden chair, teetering comfortably with a full beer bottle in his hands as he speaks into the webcam.]

Python:

Hi, Tom. My name is Matt. They call me Python.

[He smiles warmly.]

Python:

I hear you're a huge wrestling fan. Me too! Have been my whole life. Grew up watching my dad in the ring. I never considered doing anything else.

[The young highflyer takes a thoughtful sip of his drink and scratches his brow before continuing.]

Python:

Tom, I want to share something funny and kind of embarrassing with you. Well, two things, both of them sports-related beliefs that I used to have. And they'll give you a bit of insight into what kind of kid I was. First of all, when I was really really young, I was completely positive that umpires used magic to conjure up another baseball in their hands after the players lost one into the stands or something. That seemed like the only explanation. Just never occurred to me that it could be in their pockets. Second, I had a couple of evolving theories on the nature of pro wrestling booking and why each guy faced who they faced on each card. These included randomly throwing darts at a big chart of names, a sheet where all the guys could sign up for where they wanted to be in advance like we could sign up for which recess activities we wanted in first grade, and some sort of magical box with a question mark on it like the "random" box on the character select  screen of every fighting video game ever. It just never occurred to me that there was a person or a team of people who put a great deal of thought and purpose into selecting matches every week. I was pretty surprised when I found out it wasn't random, after all. There's always a reason.

[He shifts the beer bottle from one hand to the other.]

Python:

I think there a lot of reasons I'm your opponent this week, Tom. Sure, there's the obvious one. We're a great match on paper! Similar in age, size, style. But it goes a little further than that.

You see, I used to be a lot like you. Hell, when I first started out in the big leagues, I basically WAS you. Now, don't take that the wrong way, I know you're no rookie. I just mean that I had a similar attitude. Boundless youth and aimless energy, ready to take on a world of evil with my bare hands.

[Python grins and takes another quick swig. He gestures toward the bottle with his head as he swallows and then spreads his arms wide, referring to himself.]

Python:

So, fast forward to half a decade later. Who am I now? Still bits and pieces of that person, sure. But better. Smarter. Over the years, I moved up the ranks on luck and raw talent, and it wasn't until I learned a few other important things that I actually reached the top. But I learned those things alone, man. And that sucked. The process was... difficult. It was damned near impossible. I learned from my mistakes and from heart-stopping disappointments and from nights wracked with pain. Pain in all shapes, sizes, and flavors. And I don't regret any of it, but... there are definitely certain things I wish somebody had told me a long time ago. I just didn't have anybody.

[A longer drink this time. He lowers his eyes, considers for a moment, and refocuses on the camera with his jaw set like stone.]

Python:

Please keep in mind that these are my opinions and mine alone. Feel free to take them, leave them, or hurl them back into my face. You're a great guy and a hell of a wrestler, Tom. You may feel that you don't need any advice, and you certainly may feel that I'm not qualified to be the one giving it to you. That's fine. I'm just going to tell you some things that I think you need to hear.   

[He takes a moment, then blurts out the rest in rapid, steady but passionate succession as if the words have been waiting an eternity to tumble out all at once.]

Python:

If you want to be taken seriously in this world, you do not ask for respect, Tom. You take it. You do not beg for acceptance. You fight for what's important to you and you fight hard, regardless of whether or the fuck not you're accepted for it. Team Danger won't let you play on their team? Find another way to get into the game. That's what puts any one person head and shoulders above the rest, man. The ability to create an opportunity. And if it doesn't work out, the ability to create a second opportunity. And a third. I've seen you in the ring and I've listened to what you have to say, dude. You probably work harder than 90% of the guys in this company, and what has it gotten you? Beatings. Rejections. A flattened coin and a shattered perception of self-worth. It took me a long time to learn this one, and I learned it the hard way, but sometimes it just isn't enough to work hard and have a good heart. You have to know where to aim it all. You need to know who you are, what you're capable of, what you want, and how to get the ends without losing yourself in the means.

[Python takes a breath, realizes he's been rambling. Takes a swig of beer and nods, proceeding a little more deliberately.]

Python:

Before you expect anyone else to respect you, Tom, you need to learn to respect yourself. I know it's been a long time since you had a chance to just be comfortable and cut loose in the ring without having to worry about getting ambushed or double teamed or whacked with a shovel. Here's your chance, dude. If the Untouchables so much as entertain the thought of coming near that ring while I'm in it this weekend, I swear to god I will turn into Keanu Reeves in that scene in The Matrix: Reloaded where he's fighting off that huge army of Agent Smiths and he's just indestructible and he's stopping bullets with his mind and his punches and kicks are basically coming out of nowhere and no matter what they throw or shoot at him it just doesn't fucking matter because he's The Chosen One and he destroys every last one of them.

[...that awkward moment when you're mentally playing back what you just said out loud and you haven't really judged it yet.]

[Finally he nods, ultimately pleased with the comparison.]

Python:

Yeah. Rented that shit on Redbox this past weekend. It was... ok. But my point is, this match is your chance to shine, man! Go ahead and show the world what it needs to see. Go ahead and show yourself what you need to see. I know you've got it in you. And honestly, I can't remember the last time I was in the ring one-on-one with an opponent who wasn't a strong candidate to be the next mayor of Shitheadsville, so I'm really stoked for this match, too. Regardless of whether or not my hand is raised at the end of the day, it's going to be a fucking blast and we're going to blow the roof off the place. And when the night is over, if you aren't battered beyond recognition, too exhausted to stand, and completely fucking thrilled to be who you are and doing what you're doing, then I will consider myself to have failed that night. But you know what?

[He spins the empty beer bottle in his hand and tosses it coolly offscreen without looking. We hear a soft clunk as it lands, presumably in a recycling bin across the room.]

Python:

I don't fail real often, Tom.

[He grins and leans forward, sticking his face right into the camera.]

Python:

See you in the ring.   

[Power off. Blackness.]        

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