Nicky's Playground

[Nick Knight]

{Nick Knight is sitting in his electric chair in the darkened room, lit only by a single naked bulb. He is dressed in his pin strip suit with matching waistcoat, and he is twirling the plague doctor mask around by one strap.}

The last six months, I’ve spent every waking moment trying to save professional wrestling. You have no fucking clue how hard this for me. It’s damaged the relationships with the people that I love the most to the point where I’ve been kicked out of my own house more than once. I’ve lost control of my mental health to the point that I’m probably one fucked up burrito away from being locked back up. Every single time I look into the mirror, I see the veneer that is Nick Knight cracking and falling away to reveal Nicky Nightmare.

Legacy was supposed to be the next step on my journey towards saving this business once and for all. Winning the Invictus Proelium Regium and then going on to become the first Invictus Champion that anyone has given a shit about was going to be the way that I was going to begin to topple the House of Blake once and for all. Unfortunately, something happened on my way to beating Alexandra Callaway, and that something is you, HIJOU.

HIJOU, I wish with every ounce of my being that I could say that our match is about saving wrestling, but I just can’t. No matter how significant you think that you are in the world of professional wrestling, you aren’t. I mean, you’ve never so much as been in the ring with a World Champion, and the only time you’ve been to a hall of fame ceremony you had to buy a ticket. You are a tiny fish in a huge pond, and I didn’t even know that you existed until we were in the same ring at Legacy. That’s just how little you mean to this business in the grand scheme of things.

Do you see why I’m more than a little bit pissed off to even be having this match? I thought I was done with you at Legacy when I spiked you cranium first on the apron to win the battle royal. This week, I should be facing Alexandra Callaway for the Invictus Championship. I should be leaving Vancouver with gold around my waist as I start the most dominant championship reign this company has ever seen. Instead, I’m rehashing some pay-per-view pre-show clusterfuck against a wrestler that brings nothing more to the table than fucking potential.

I mean, IWF is a company overflowing with potential with men and women like Nick Danger, RAM, Caroline Machado, Emmanuelle, and Dhillon Michaels running around. I could’ve been booked against any one of them, and it would have done more to prepare me to face Alexandra. Hell, if the front office had insisted that my next match be intergender, I would have rather it been against someone like Charlotte Shimizu or Shea O’Hara because they wrestle way more like the champ. Let’s face it, the only thing that Alexandra and HIJOU have in common are bad attitudes and nipples, and everyone’s born with nipples.

{Knight lets out a long sigh, and runs his hand over his freshly buzzed head.}

I guess I just have to accept the fact that there are people with some stroke that are afraid of me becoming Invictus Champion. What other reason could there possibly be for them to not book the title match? They’re obviously scared that I’m going to strap this entire company on my back and carry it, just like I did as TV Champ. I made people forget all about the World Championship because I was putting my ass on the line every fucking week, while they only wrestled on pay-per-view. When I beat Dane Preston last year at Legacy, I spent the next four months breaking the fucking mold of what a champion should be in this company, and they know that I’ll do it all over again.

They can put any fucking road block they want in my way, and I’m going to knock it down. I don’t care if they make me beat Pax Stormcrow, Wraith, Alexandra Calaway, win another battle royal, or kicking the shit out of a five-foot nothing Japanese chick with a Napoleon complex. I am sick and fucking tired of being overlooked by everyone, from the boys in back to the fucking dirt sheets, who want to leave me off of their lists of the best wrestlers in the world. Well fuck them because I know that I am the baddest motherfucker in this valley and ain’t no one in this company that can prove to me any different.

That brings me to you, HIJOU. You think that you can get somewhere in this company by being nothing more than a fucking bully. You think that throwing your weight around and scaring people is the way to get somewhere in this business, which is just fucking pathetic. It wouldn’t be so bad if you just talked shit about your opponents, that would just make you Caleb Cannin with a vagina, but instead you think that you need to treat people like dog shit.

Trust me, we’ve seen the way that you scare poor Maria Iniests when she’s just trying to do her damn job. I don’t know how the rest of this company feels about it, but it royally pisses me off. That poor woman is trying to do her best to make you look good, and you’ve got her out there stuttering and stammering like a fourth grader giving their very first book report.

It doesn't stop at Maria, though, does it? I bet if I ask, I’ll find a story of you making some poor kid in catering piss himself because they don’t have Kewpie. I know for a fact that you scare the shit out of the trainers, and they draw straws to see who has to deal with your psycho ass. I’ve even heard a rumor that Dr. McGinnis is a little leery around you, and I didn’t think that woman was scared of anything.

Tuesday night your bullying ends one way or another.

It doesn’t matter how talented of a wrestler you are, and I’m not going to deny it. You hit like a fucking Mack truck, and you’ve got the kind of mean streak that could quite honestly take you to the top. I could easily see you one day being the Women’s World Champion, except you don’t belong in IWF. This is the best professional wrestling company in the world, not a playground for petulant children.

{Knight pauses to very carefully come up with his next words.}

I have some people in my life that really push me to want to be a better human being, which is good for you, HIJOU. Ten years ago I would have painted the canvas with your blood like some macabre Jackson Pollack painting with a grin on my face. They would have been finding pieces of you three rows deep in the crowd, and I wouldn’t have given a flying fuck at a rolling donut. I’m trying really damn hard not to be that man anymore, so I’m going to give you one way out; fuck off back to whatever sandbox you climbed out and don’t show up Tuesday night. If you don’t take my advice and you step one foot onto my playground, I am going to fucking end you.

Maybe that doesn’t make me any better than you, but I can live with that. I learned a long time ago that sometimes you have no choice but a little blood on your hands. Once in a while, you have to do the things that other people think are wrong for the greater good. Sometimes you just have to be the villain if you’re going to get something done around here. HIJOU if you show up Tuesday night I will have zero problem with being the villain.

{A pleading look comes onto the face of ‘The Hollywood Butcher.’}

Please don’t show up.

{The scene fades to black}