Post by King on Mar 18, 2021 19:43:35 GMT
The camera opens backstage at a recent Sacrifice, in a small room with a closed door, where Stephen Terrella and Portia have agreed to sit down with IWF interviewer Ella Kelley ahead of the Roulette to discuss their feelings on the event.
Ella sits in a chair, positioned across from a black leather couch where Portia and Terrella are sitting side-by-side, close to each other.
Ella greets them by saying, "Thank you both for sitting down and taking some time with me today ahead of the Roulette. If you don't mind, I'd love to dive right in to some topics for our fans."
Portia fiddles with her nails as she replies, "Really? Is that honestly how you envisioned this going, Emma?"
Ella interjects, "It's Ella."
"Whatever, it doesn't matter," Portia fires back. "You're disposable, honey. They could literally have anyone fill that seat you're in... because the true stars here are Stephen and me. We're not here for the fans though. We're here for the check that Verona promised us for wasting our time here with you. So let's just cut the time with the pleasantries and the false pretenses, and why don't you ask the only question that really matters: Why is Stephen Terrella going to win the Roulette?"
"Ok," Ella says, clearly annoyed now. "Why should anyone believe Stephen Terrella is going to win the Roulette when there are numerous former World Champions in it?"
Portia smirks, incredulously stating, "There it is... the delusion that seems to run rampant around this place."
"This match," Portia explains, "is designed for Stephen. He stands six feet and two inches tall; and thanks to an intensive weight training program he's been on, weighed in this morning at three hundred and seven pounds. He's adding size. He's adding strength. He has been training hard around the clock specifically for this match."
"When you look at those former World Champions, how do they stack up size-wise? Gilmore is what, two hundred pounds? Lockwood and Harper, what, not even that? I'm not going to sit here and tell you that in a match where they could go in-and-out of the ring on a whim, use the ropes and bounce around like a rubber ball that they wouldn't be formidable challengers... because they would. If they do that here though, amidst the chaos, they risk elimination. Those championship dreams... gone, up in smoke."
"So every man in that match is going to have a choice to make: either they risk it all and take that chance, or they try to stand toe-to-toe with my man. When you stack them up physically, there is no comparison. Abraxes, maybe... but does anyone believe he's sane enough to piece it all together and win this?"
Portia crosses her legs, leaning back into Stephen for support.
"Fuck no," Terrella states rather gruffly. "He's just some asshole that wants the world to fucking fear him 'cause he chatters his fucking teeth. Shit don't scare me, boy. I'll take this left hand," he continues, holding up his fist, "punch that motherfucker straight in his mouth... let him pick those fucking pearls of his up off that canvas."
Ella asks, "You may not be facing any of these men one-on-one, though? You alluded to it earlier, Portia, when you said this match was chaos. What if you're matched up against Abraxes and Locke, Marchand and Reinhart, or some makeshift alliance we often see in these?"
"Locke," Terrella says, almost in the form of a question. "The little cowboy motherfucker running around here that wants everyone to believe he has magical fucking powers or something? Get the fuck outta here with that shit."
"Okay," Ella counters, adding, "you're not buying Locke is what he says he is, and I won't argue it. You're entitled to your opinion there. You side-stepped the question, though. How will you- a lone man, without any friends it seems to speak of here aside from Chris Diamond- counter the alliances that will be formed to counter you?"
"Fuck," Terrella grumbles. "This shit is about how I cut through everyone in the TV title battle royal, but those two little motherfuckers knocked me out, that fucking it?!" Visibily agitated, Terrella leans forward. "You see what the fuck I did before that? Fuck you, you stup-"
"Baby," Portia says, trying to calm him down, "it's okay. I got this." She runs her hand along his chin as he slides back on the couch.
"Emma," Portia says to Ella, deliberately trying to dig at the interviewer a bit more out of spite, "that's really the question you have? Let's be honest, you probably looked cute at least once in your life, too- it doesn't mean it's an everyday occurrence. Lightning strikes every day somewhere, but it doesn't strike twice in the same place."
"We have some new tricks up our sleeve, too. And please, don't make yourself look like the idiot we know you to be and ask, because I am NOT going to tell you. You'll see on Sunday, in London, at the Roulette, same as everyone else."
"You want to talk about friends, though," Portia continues, "then let's... Why don't we examine who wouldn't sell out their friend for a chance to win the Roulette? Jessé Marchand, maybe, with his sob story? Gilmore because he wants to do the right thing now? Nick Danger because he doesn't even have enough sense to not want to enter first? It's a short list, and when push comes to shove, I'm not convinced anyone wouldn't to be the one standing in that ring at the end."
"Yes, the match will be filled with shifting dynamics. Chaos isn't a pit though... chaos is a ladder. There will be one constant, one unchangeable, indisputable fact... my man's sheer physical presence will loom large from the time he enters until he stands victorious."
Ella sits in a chair, positioned across from a black leather couch where Portia and Terrella are sitting side-by-side, close to each other.
Ella greets them by saying, "Thank you both for sitting down and taking some time with me today ahead of the Roulette. If you don't mind, I'd love to dive right in to some topics for our fans."
Portia fiddles with her nails as she replies, "Really? Is that honestly how you envisioned this going, Emma?"
Ella interjects, "It's Ella."
"Whatever, it doesn't matter," Portia fires back. "You're disposable, honey. They could literally have anyone fill that seat you're in... because the true stars here are Stephen and me. We're not here for the fans though. We're here for the check that Verona promised us for wasting our time here with you. So let's just cut the time with the pleasantries and the false pretenses, and why don't you ask the only question that really matters: Why is Stephen Terrella going to win the Roulette?"
"Ok," Ella says, clearly annoyed now. "Why should anyone believe Stephen Terrella is going to win the Roulette when there are numerous former World Champions in it?"
Portia smirks, incredulously stating, "There it is... the delusion that seems to run rampant around this place."
"This match," Portia explains, "is designed for Stephen. He stands six feet and two inches tall; and thanks to an intensive weight training program he's been on, weighed in this morning at three hundred and seven pounds. He's adding size. He's adding strength. He has been training hard around the clock specifically for this match."
"When you look at those former World Champions, how do they stack up size-wise? Gilmore is what, two hundred pounds? Lockwood and Harper, what, not even that? I'm not going to sit here and tell you that in a match where they could go in-and-out of the ring on a whim, use the ropes and bounce around like a rubber ball that they wouldn't be formidable challengers... because they would. If they do that here though, amidst the chaos, they risk elimination. Those championship dreams... gone, up in smoke."
"So every man in that match is going to have a choice to make: either they risk it all and take that chance, or they try to stand toe-to-toe with my man. When you stack them up physically, there is no comparison. Abraxes, maybe... but does anyone believe he's sane enough to piece it all together and win this?"
Portia crosses her legs, leaning back into Stephen for support.
"Fuck no," Terrella states rather gruffly. "He's just some asshole that wants the world to fucking fear him 'cause he chatters his fucking teeth. Shit don't scare me, boy. I'll take this left hand," he continues, holding up his fist, "punch that motherfucker straight in his mouth... let him pick those fucking pearls of his up off that canvas."
Ella asks, "You may not be facing any of these men one-on-one, though? You alluded to it earlier, Portia, when you said this match was chaos. What if you're matched up against Abraxes and Locke, Marchand and Reinhart, or some makeshift alliance we often see in these?"
"Locke," Terrella says, almost in the form of a question. "The little cowboy motherfucker running around here that wants everyone to believe he has magical fucking powers or something? Get the fuck outta here with that shit."
"Okay," Ella counters, adding, "you're not buying Locke is what he says he is, and I won't argue it. You're entitled to your opinion there. You side-stepped the question, though. How will you- a lone man, without any friends it seems to speak of here aside from Chris Diamond- counter the alliances that will be formed to counter you?"
"Fuck," Terrella grumbles. "This shit is about how I cut through everyone in the TV title battle royal, but those two little motherfuckers knocked me out, that fucking it?!" Visibily agitated, Terrella leans forward. "You see what the fuck I did before that? Fuck you, you stup-"
"Baby," Portia says, trying to calm him down, "it's okay. I got this." She runs her hand along his chin as he slides back on the couch.
"Emma," Portia says to Ella, deliberately trying to dig at the interviewer a bit more out of spite, "that's really the question you have? Let's be honest, you probably looked cute at least once in your life, too- it doesn't mean it's an everyday occurrence. Lightning strikes every day somewhere, but it doesn't strike twice in the same place."
"We have some new tricks up our sleeve, too. And please, don't make yourself look like the idiot we know you to be and ask, because I am NOT going to tell you. You'll see on Sunday, in London, at the Roulette, same as everyone else."
"You want to talk about friends, though," Portia continues, "then let's... Why don't we examine who wouldn't sell out their friend for a chance to win the Roulette? Jessé Marchand, maybe, with his sob story? Gilmore because he wants to do the right thing now? Nick Danger because he doesn't even have enough sense to not want to enter first? It's a short list, and when push comes to shove, I'm not convinced anyone wouldn't to be the one standing in that ring at the end."
"Yes, the match will be filled with shifting dynamics. Chaos isn't a pit though... chaos is a ladder. There will be one constant, one unchangeable, indisputable fact... my man's sheer physical presence will loom large from the time he enters until he stands victorious."
Well howdy there pardner.