"Bored" - Death Angel (:00 - 1:52)
After sixteen seconds of the unfamiliar tune being echoed throughout the arena, out came seventy-eight inches of muscle, ego, and pride. Jake Roman wore those aspects of his character better than the ink that flooded his arms. The white t-shirt that was too big for him with dried blood stains and holes from cigarette burns reflected his personality well. His short black hair was gelled flat, except the front of his hair had sloped up from the rest of his skull. The dark jeans he wore had covered the flaps of his steel toe boots, in case of emergency, and the dark shades could hide any potential fear he might face after his opening words. Around Jake's wrist was a white watch that contrasted his arm, which was pitch black from the tattoos that covered them. The recently-turned 21-year-old had a beard that was limited to a scruff spread across his face and neck. They had booed Jake for the violence that was committed towards their beloved Suplex Shooter. After all, AJ was a man who had spent years in drowning in a pool of cynicism until he learned how to swim and came back with an unforgettable, vicious match with Blackjack. Warner had found gratitude and a newfound pip in his step at the age of thirty-nine, and very few veterans could relate to that sentiment. But louder than the boos was the silence from the audience. That may have been a culmination of how unfamiliar the audience was to Jake Roman, or how they were simply fascinated in the "why's" of the situation from last week. The last thing they saw on their screen was Jake choking a bruised and battered war hero unconscious. Nobody respected their elders less than the one they called "the Kid." Go figure.
Jake Roman marched down the ramp slowly, soaking in each second of attention and television time he could get without abusing his time restraints on the microphone. After all, he didn't owe an explanation to the fans or to that God-awful bum AJ Warner. In his eyes, Jake Roman was long overdue the time he deserved to speak his mind. He showed no empathy and no emotion to the fans, although some could see a tint of uneasiness he carried. Pride was a common denominator both him and his newfound nemesis had shared. Jake had constantly denied the fact that he would ever stand toe-to-toe with the Suplex Shooter, and why wouldn't he? The damage done was not enough to kill a man, but it may have destroyed AJ's will to fight another day. Why would he anyways? He was a loser, thought Jake Roman. It was the Kid's duty to put the old dog out of his misery. Jake had snarled at the fans near ringside, showing slight disgust for them. How dare they not cheer a self-made man. Roman had hopped onto the apron and lip synched with the simple chorus of the song, looking into the camera with now unreadable body language and a masked facial expression.
"I'm bored."
Jake walked over to the ring announcer and snatched the microphone away from his hands, motioning the silver-tongued man to get out of his ring. There was no fight that followed; the announcer hurriedly got out of the squared circle and walked towards the chair next to the time-keeper without looking back. The music had slowly faded away into oblivion and the lights were back to their original setting. There weren't many boos; most of the arena was silent, anticipating an answer they had waited seven days for. Twirling the microphone in his hands a few times, Jake finally found the words to begin his speech-of-the-week.
"It wasn't too long ago... that I found myself sharing the same feelings as each and every single one of you fans. I remember watching monsters and kings fighting to the death, I remember being glued to the television, witnessing wars between two men that weren't just for pay raises and shiny belts. I remember practicing piledrivers and powerbombs on my couch cushions at six-years-old, because this is what I wanted to do. This was always what I was going to do."
Very few fans applauded Jake Roman for what appeared to be the beginning of a babyface promo, a message from the heart. His heart was black; his ego was the most colorful of all. The Kid took a temporary pause to pace himself and get all these resentments off his chest in a timely manner. Jake was the most flawed perfectionist there was, he just didn't see it for himself.
"When I was in middle school, I surrounded myself with a few people who were fans. They liked all the John Wayne's of this sport, standing up for America, and going to church, and fighting off evil spirits, or whatever the Hell good guys do. But me? I could only relate to one wrestler. He came out every week, and talked about how he was dealt a bad hand in life, and even though his cards didn't look that good, he still had his chips, and he was going all in each and every time, and he dared someone to call his bluff. He was just like me: simply put... a bad child."
A spontaneous roar escaped the crowd, each of them knowing exactly who Roman was referring to. A chant for AJ Warner began instantaneously, and Jake had to lower the mic and hold his jaw for a second.
AJ's GONNA KILLLLLL YOU!
AJ's GONNA KILLLLLL YOU!
AJ's GONNA KILLLLLL YOU!
It was all starting to hit him at once. He had started an all-out war with someone he had once called a hero. Jake was just hoping that he had done enough to end it before things got worse -- for him. After a few rounds of that chant went around, he brought the mic up to his lips and began to speak once more.
"But then you left, AJ. You came and went as you pleased, you fell into addiction because you weren't strong enough to handle life on life's terms. You fell into the Midnight Marauders because your purpose had something to do with money and cars and all that materialistic bullshit. The only resentment you should have is with yourself, because YOU LIED TO ME. You made me lose a lot of hope in you, and when you came back over, and over, and over, to re-establish yourself? It was to make a quick paycheck and get the Hell out of town."
"One year ago... one year ago, AJ, you came back with a vengeance, you demanded a title shot after finally, after fiiiiiinally seeing the light. You took another rookie under your wing, because you saw more potential in him than you saw in me. And I'm happy that you lost, and you got screwed out of your hunt for your hidden agenda, because I got screwed out of my series with Aiden that was supposed to put me on the map, and the only thing he seemed to learn from you was how to vanish without a trace. Well I'm sick of hearing war stories about what odds you had to overcome, or what accomplishments you had, because I have made it my mission to be the honest living example of everything you said you were. I don't want a belt, and I don't want this company's filthy money! I DON'T WANT ANYTHING! Warner..."
"It's about time someone put the Suplex Shooter to sleep. AJ? I'm gonna make you choke at the hands of defeat -- once, and for all."
No music played, no unanoimous reactions from the crowd. Jake threw his microphone down and fled the ring, eventually marching up the ramp and towards the back. He was filled with hatred and anger towards AJ Warner long before the Suplex Shooter knew the kid's name. It made the weekly viewer speculate who really had the advantage: the experienced fighter, or the fighter with a purpose. Only time would tell, but Warner could only watch from a hospital bed in New Orleans, Louisiana, counting down the days until he was healed -- whenever that may be.
