Fade in
Fade in on Freakshow dressed up in a hideous, pastel colored jumpsuit. He's standing in front of a bar, with a suitcase in his hand. Most of the injuries inflicted upon him at the last PPV had been healed up, with the exception of a strip of medical tape across the bridge of his nose. His hair, normally a little black at the roots, has been freshly bleached. Deeply he inhales his cigarette, letting out a deep "Aaaaaaah," Before putting it into the ashtray, he straightens up his clothes a little bit and looks towards the camera.
"Ehem.. Last week, I had some freetime on my hands.. No matches, no publicity showings, no autograph signings, nothin'," He rubs at his scruffy jaw, showing a twinge of irritation at the fact that he isn't, and never has been, seen fit as a good public relations guy. "So what do I do? I go down to Atlantic City, just a few hours drive, no biggie. I hit the slots," He sniffs, his nose twitching a little as he makes a little clicking noise at the back of his throat. "A little black jack, some poker, roulette, nothing out of the ordinary. I'm sippin' Manhattans, talking to some of the nice women. They know me there, I get free drinks, nice rooms, the works.."
He rubs his hands together, nodding to himself, "Just a little fun, that's all I'm looking for. My luck? Normally not so great, right? I win some, I lose some.." He rocks in his seat a little bit, eyes darting around the bar, which judging by the sound, or lack of, was empty. "But this time, this time baby, I'm on a roll. Movin' and shaking, a hustle here a hustle there, and by the time I step outta that place, I'm up to my throat in chips, ya feel me? And not the kinda chips you slobs at home are eatin' right now, "
Freak presses his thumb and index finger together, rubbing them, "I'm talking, condo-in-Florida-chips. I'm talking, vacation-in-Bermuda-chips. More chips than a hobo's got in his teeth, unda'stand?" Freakshow almost has a look of disbelief on his face, "And it's more than I know what do with. I mean, no joke fella's, I gotta get help, I call my friend Byer's," He makes a phone motion at his ear, "I ask him, Jason, whattya think I should do with this cash? He tells me I aughta donate it to charity," Freak looks into the camera for a moment before cracking a grin, "And I almost believed him for a second. We have a good laugh, he doesn't know much more about it then me, so he tells me, Freak, buddy, you should call Summers.."
The new yorker shrugs, "So I take his advice. I ring up my amigo Summers. He picks up, I explain the predicament to the man. We workshop it for a little while, before he tells me.. Freak, spend it on something that makes you happy.."
Freakshow juggles a shot glass around in his hands "Something that makes me happy.." He repeats to himself, as if trying to process it, what it meant. "That really sends my brain for a whirl ,ya dig? I mean, too many damn things make me happy. Fast cars," He nods his head as he makes the list, "Good food, a cuban cigar, girls with big tits and low self esteem, custom suits, the smell of gasoline, Kayla King, shrimp cocktail, the cool ocean breeze." Freakshows canine teeth show themselves gradually as he fires off the items, "Too many goddamn things make me happy,"
"So I figures.. Why not narrow it down some? Why not spend it on something, that doesn't make me happy," He fingers curl around the edge of the bar, "Something I can't stand, something that keeps me awake a night, something that, frankly, this world could stand to be without.. And you know what? I could only think of one thing. One thing that I'm willing to put my hard earned cash into eradicating." Grinning with his eyes and frowning with his mouth, he turns away from the camera.
"And that's you, Croft,"
He reaches over and puts his hand on top of the leather briefcase. "I know we got a contract kiddo. You can't touch me, I can't touch you. But the more I think about it, the more I realize, that paper? It's protecting you just as much as it is protecting me. You hit me, your out on the streets, fired from this place. But so what? That's not enough," He fans smoke from his eyes, "I don't wanna see you fired, especially not from this hell hole, that'd do you more good than bad. I wanna see you crippled. I wanna see you taken out, and I mean for good. That's what I wanna see, that's what would make me happy. And nuthin' is gunna stop that.. Not even a contract,"
Freakshow cracks open the briefcase. What had to amount to around $20,000 was packed into the container, neatly arranged, like some kind of high end drug lord. He looks at the case, his eyes lighting up, it pained him to part with it, even it it was preemptively.
"Croft, I'm putting a bounty on your head. Any man, woman, child, desperado or vigilante who feels they can take out this piece of garbage for good will be rewarded handsomely. I can't get you a title shot, I can't win you your next match, I depending on who ya' are, I might not even be your friend. But what I can promise you is cash, cold cash. $20,000 dollars in cash." Freak reaches down for his shot glass and spins it around a little.
"Salem, you best be prepared for this, 'cause as of right now, you're a wanted man. I advise you to look over you shoulder, consider you friends, I mean your real friends, if I was you, I wouldn't even trust my own grandmother.. And hunters, please, don't be gentle. I would end with a cliche and say that I'll take him dead or alive.. But this ain't the west, we're civilized. You can't make him dead, but I implore you.. To try your hardest to make him wish he was.."
Freakshow reaches towards one of the dollars in the case, a twenty, and holds it limply between his fingers in the air, motioning for the bartender. The man pours something clear and brown into his cup before walking away. The corner of his mouth twitches up.
"Happy hunting.."
Fade out
