[The webcam cuts upward to reveal Python sitting alone in the plainly furnished living room of an apartment. He speaks slowly but firmly, choosing his words with deliberate care.]

Python:

You know how they say "money can't buy happiness"? I'm not sure I believe that. I think that happiness is different things to different people, and if a yacht and a Lamborghini truly, genuinely make you happy, then fuck yeah, money can buy happiness. But it can only buy you so much else. It can buy you obedience, but not respect. Allies, but not friends. Fear, but not love. You can buy a career, but not a legacy. You see, I'm rich in every way you can never be, Edward White. Because no matter what happens when we set foot in the ring this week, I know the world of wrestling will remember me and respect me twenty years from now, and they'll miss me when I'm gone. Tell me honestly, Ed... can you say the same thing?   

[He shrugs with a shake of his head]

Python:

Let me answer that question for you. There's not a god damn memorable thing about you. You're as efficient a wrestler as Donald Trump. Bill Gates. Warren Buffett. Any geyser with a fortune can throw money at their problems until they disappear. That may work alright for you nine times out of ten, but I'm that one terrible bump in the road you come across every now and then. I'm your conscience whispering in your ear, reminding you you're no more a man than you are a walking sum of dollars and cents. And you can sink every penny you've got into dealing with me, close your eyes, and hope for the best. But I'm warning you now... I don't fucking disappear.

[Python leans in toward the camera]

Python:

You may have all the money your pockets can hold, Ed. But gold is heavy, and it's made stronger men than you hunch. The way I see it, you don't even stand tall enough for me to look you in the eye and spit in your god damn, gorilla-bearded, caviar-eating face.

[He pauses, drums a couples times on his lap]

Python:

Speaking of strung-together insults...

Bronson Box, you fucking lunatic two-bit Mr. Clean with a mustache possessed by Fat Bastard with a god complex and sent through a time machine. We get it, you are a gigantic Scottish asshole with muscles who would suck his own glorious dick if gigantic Scottish assholes with muscles had dicks. I haven't seen someone worship himself to such an embarrassing extent since... well, since Jeff Andrews was in charge here, I guess.  I could not possibly be looking any more forward to reminding you that you're not a god. You are a warped, troubled, and severely out-of-context little man with a temper and (I'm guessing) stress-related heart problems in the not so distant future.

If you're the "Personification of Defiance", then I guess Defiance is an old timey traveling big top circus. You want to personify a wrestling company? Master the craft. It turns out there's more to wrestling than yelling  "alleyoop!" and throwing your opponent twenty feet in the air. Pay attention this week when you're in the ring with Dan Ryan and I, maybe you'll learn a thing or two.

[Despite the sting of his passionate words, the young superstar's voice is as steady as ever as he hops to his feet and strolls over to the camera]

Python:
Oh yeah... and you can tell Little Red Riding Hood and Frankenstein to think twice about making an appearance to save your ass while we're out there. As you clearly learned last week, that numbers game you guys love so much... well, it's not quite in your favor anymore. So you'll either have to dig a little deeper in that bag of tricks of yours, or step the fuck up, hit the gym, and pray for the best.

[He leans in and lifts his wrist to display a black watch strapped around the edge of the enormous green and black snake tattooed around the entirety of his arm]

Python:
Better figure it out soon, gents.  We get to party real soon.      

[Blackout.]

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