A single lightbulb hangs by a thin, rusty-looking pull chain. Having been recently pulled given the manner in which the bulb sways from left to right, this newfound luminosity reveals a drop ceiling damaged from storm leakage as evident by the remnants of brown-colored stains everywhere.  

In this poorly lit room is a podium. Taped to the podium is a sheet of paper with the DEFIANCE Wrestling graphic on it. A middle finger has been digitally added onto the fist, making it seem like the Fist is actually flipping us all off. Metaphors and shit.

Arthur Pleasant:
[Yelling off camera] For fuck’s SAKE, Jack. You couldn’t find a better location for this shit?! This is supposed to be our goddamn state of the union address! Instead we’re looking like amateur hour at the American Legion. Surprised there’s no pig on a spit or Toothless Tammy serving skunk piss to a bunch of other dentally distressed yokels! Fucking embarrassing, guys. C’mon, now..

Someone whispers to Arthur that the camera is recording. The graininess of the film overlay seems to suggest that it is being filmed on an old VHS tape. 

Arthur Pleasant:
[Yelling off camera] What?! [Looking at the camera.] Oh.

He clears his throat and smiles ahead rather disingenuously

Arthur Pleasant:
Greetings and fermentations, oh fickle DEFIANCE Recreants! It’s your friendly neighborhood Provocateur, PURE Wrestler, Denizen of Decay, Master of Malevolence, Sovereign of Sin, VIOLENCE of DEFIANCE, Sultan of Salaciousness, Warlord of Wanton Wickedness, Father of Fear, Cardinal of Carnage, Tillingfat’s Nutritionist, Creator of Calamity, Victim of Bad Officiating, and last but certainly not least… DEFIANCE Wrestling CHAMPION speaking! 

The Grandmaster of Cheese-Graters to the Fucking Forehead looks on at his audience proudly and confidently.

Arthur Pleasant:
That’s right, you heard me correctly. Say it with me now: CHAMPION. This, despite what the nameplate may say on the faceplate of this here championship belt; no thanks to the erroneous, nonsensical spelling of someone whose name shall remain anonymous… but does, in fact, rhyme with “Baron Ding”.

Pleasant rolls his eyes with much disdain. Looking at the “DEFINANCE” WRASSLIN’” Championship in his possession-- which remains snapped shut and curled on the edge of the podium-- Pleasant continues. 

Arthur Pleasant:
So with that said, do yourselves a favor by shutting your stupid mouths, de-waxing your unwashed ear holes, and just absorb what I’m about to tell you. Because in the end? You’ll all be better for it.

Arthur adjusts the tattered black tie from a distinct, tailored white suit that caught speckles of light from the undulating bulb up above. Said suit portends explicit implications of violence as it consists of a blood-spattered design up, down, and around the jacket, trousers, and contrasting black waistcoat. Matted black dress shoes have what look to be morsels of flesh and hair caked to the front, visibly jutting out from the sole. 

Arthur Pleasant:
Folks, this is a long time coming. Something… ugh, something I should have addressed a long, looong time ago if I’m being perfectly honest. To which point, let it be known that I ALWAYS AM! Nevertheless, for months on end I have been the victim of a conspiracy. A conspiracy involving the quote, unquote FAITHFUL, the Favoured Saints, and a DEFIANCE Wrestling official who goes by the name of Carla Ferrari.

Arthur Pleasant:
This fucking useless bitch… she has had it in for me since day one of my arrival here in DEFIANCE. Just about every, IF not EVERY match that I, the Mighty Slayer of Slut Dragons like Lindsay Troy, have lost here can be directly attributed to Carla’s unmitigated negligence. And given the history of this establishment? This desperately in-need-of-a-reboot-for-a-promotion has tried to sweep her inability to call a match down the middle time and time again.

The Tormentor of Tweetcore pauses to look around the phantom audience. 

Arthur Pleasant:
And you know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if that filthy fuck wagon was the one who shut off the lights during the Southern Heritage Championship match that I was about to win. Sadly, that will only sound like conjecture on my part. So despite the inadmissible, yet clearly damning evidence piling up that I should be awarded the Southern Heritage Championship, I have no choice but to move on. 

Our Golden-Goose of Grapplestuffs looks down for a moment and heaves a frustrated sigh.

Arthur Pleasant:
The bottom goddamn line is THIS: we, The Scourge, demand that Carla Ferrari be removed from her position as a DEFIANCE Wrestling official, effectively immediately, and fined retroactively for each egregious three-count she has registered within the annals of my storied and Hall of Fame worthy career. IMMEDIATELY I SAY!

He shakes his fist to emphasize this even after yelling.
 
Arthur Pleasant:
Because if you don’t? Oh Favoured Saints Committee or whatever the flying fuck you call yourselves that are in a position of power and make the decisions for this crumbling blackhole of wrestling and worthy competitors? We, the Scourge, will take it upon ourselves to do something… drastic. We… will take matters into our own hands and make sure Carla "Fuck Arthur" Ferrari is removed ourselves. Without the courtesy of due process or signatures on official forms. We will just… 

The video feed seems to be having tracking issues as the picture becomes heavily off-centered. Only half of Pleasant's face can be seen on the screen. Uh oh.

Arthur Pleasant:
Son of a- JACK. What the fucking shit are you doing over there?! I can see myself askew in the TV! I’M ASKEW, JACK. I DON’T LIKE BEING ASKEW.

In a fit of rage, the Harbinger of Headlocks and Hip Tosses pushes over the podium, spilling his DEFINANCE WRASSLIN’ championship onto the floor of… wherever it is the Scourge decided to film this shit show.

Arthur Pleasant[Barely Audible]: To be fucking continued. [Off-Camera/BarelyAudible] Someone tell me why the f-

Before the Benevolent Ballin' Bastard of Barbed-Wire Bedlam can even finish his sentence, the camera cuts to black.

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