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DRIP..... DRIP...... DRIP....

The sound of a lone drop of water leaking from a pipe in the upstairs of an abandoned meat processing plant near the arena reverberates throughout the site of the sit down. Several lawn chairs surround a ping pong table with playing cards littered about it, at the head of the table is none other than Staffmember Russo. With a cell phone held to his ear, he speaks in hushed tones.

'Uhhh yeah look, Mick... I uh... *COUGH*... I just figured, you know, I didn't want to get everyone sick... I gotta doctors note and everything!! My hands are all clammy... Yeah... Yeah I know I looked fine last night... But uh... *COUGH COUGH*.... I think there's some kinda of a bug going around, ya know?! Wha... Whaddyamean?!! No it doesn't have ANYTHING to do with the stuff with--Mick... How long have we known each other bro?!! Bro... I would NE-VER... Just... Just hold it down for me there ok?!"

Russo puts the phone down, letting out a groan. To his right, David Otunga, still wearing a neckbrace, his classic coffee thermos clutched in his left hand, "You think he buys it, boss?!" Narrowing his eyes at David, he sinks into his chair without an answer folding his hands against the table. Things hadn't broken quite the way they were expected to with Cartwright out of power and Foley taking the reigns, that was for sure. He was supposed to be their ace in the hole, they always had one in the office and who better than the former SWA commissioner. But last week their so called point man made one critical mistake: He failed to give Brantley Summers preferential treatment over the rest of the roster.

"Hey where is this guy anyways, the boss I mean? I've been working on this game plan all week, X's and O's type stuff ya know? I mean, a concession stand brawl, that's no joke. He's gotta know where to find the mustard, the butter, the hot dogs, the onions.... If we're not going over the gameplan, I'd just as soon be back in LA, what gives? Bringing us all the way out here? I mean I get the stuff with Blackjack--"

The sound of growling emits from the stomach of newly recruited offensive coordinator to Paul Summers, Jack James, seated to the left of Russo. He'd spent the last week mapping out every nook and cranny of the concession stand that their boss would be fighting in. The schematics were strewn all along the table, detailed breakdowns and analysis not only of the great concession stand brawls of the past, but projections of where they would be going 5 years, ten years down the line. But instead of getting to go over the game plan, the newest member of the team had been dragged to a meeting the significance of which he was unsure of. The Hollywood Hitter runs a fine tooth comb through his hair as he gets to his final point and is cut off by Russo--

"Look... Look... LOOK. BRO. This has NOTHING to do with Blackjack and I don't even want to HEAR that NAME OK?! A... As far as I can tell, besides the thing with Warner, he's got no beef with us, alright?!! The security... It's just security , ok?! We've had a lot of issues with these guys, the Damones, and I just want to be Switzerland about this got it, Jack?! I mean.. Look, we all saw what happened to Rosario... It's a terrible thing.. It... It is what it is.. It's got nothing to do with us. Understand?!"

Reassuring himself more than anyone, the creative genius flinches at the drop of the water upstairs, "And can someone fix that ******** PIPE?! Ughhhhh BROOOOO..." Burying his head in his hands, the head of the Summers camp closes his eyes trying to imagine he was somewhere else while Otunga lifts his coffee to his lips, trying to drink it without making any sound and James scribbles on his whiteboard. The trio sit their waiting for their guests of the evening, a creeping dread settling in as they hope for no surprises.

Leaning back in his chair, Russo takes a deep breath. Wrapping his knuckles on the table a few times, he watches the clan for a few moments before reaching into his chest pocket for a wrinkled up note. Opening it up, he starts to read:

"Our leader, may God rest his soul, did not always have the most constructive relationship with you , your people and their friends. It started with Snypa in SWA and ended with Jarel in EEW. It came at enormous personal and professional expense to Freakshow, but it was something he inherited, never wanted. Right Jack?"

Jack James, the new kid on the block, leans forward. Holding his hands out amicably, he elaborates:

"You remember the Laurel Canyon Killer in NSFW? That's my daddy. See, they say it's all about connections in this business, but sometimes all that does is put a big red X on your back. A stigma, if you will."

Russo reaches over into a McDonalds back nearby, reaching in and grabbing a handful of fries. He shovels them into his mouth, they were right out the fryers.

"It was never personal with us, and always something we wanted to avoid rehashing. So when Cartwright wanted to do business with us to squeeze XLL out of the picture and put WWFG back on the map, it put us in a tough spot. But now that he's out of the picture, we've found ourselves dealing with a little bit of instability."

Putting the note down, Vince Russo reaches back into his coat pocket to pull out an envelope.

" I like you as champion, bro. And I want to make sure that we stay out of each other's way. I know you don't need our help, so I want to offer to reset our working relationship. A blank slate bro. And in return?"

Putting the envelope down on the table, the Staffmember turns to David Otunga, who takes a deep inhale of the coffee in his thermos, swirling it around in his mouth before speaking.

"In return we offer you full transparency, Drako. As part of my responsibility as Network representative, one of my first jobs was conducting a full audit of our payables. We found some in-discrepancies that I think could be material to your interests..."

Russo watches Adrian, he could tell that this was his kind of guy. A legitimate businessman such as himself. Something about his presence made the New Yorker a little more forthcoming in his actions. Easing up, he folds his arms across his chest.

"Of course bro, we'd love to see Summers as champion." Russo laughs in a rare moment of honesty. "To be honest, the only reason we're here is because as soon as Foley got in office we thought he'd fast track us to the same titles you're fighting for tonight. Instead, he wanted us to get in the rat race with everyone else--"

Scrunching up his face, imitating the voice of a childish, impotent man. "Climb up the ranks... Win the #1 contendership.. Work all the B-shows, and for what? The opportunity at a shot? We've had what you have twice in this company and you know how we got it? Giftwrapped from the bosses bro." Reaching into his mouth, Russo pauses to pick the McDonalds from his mouth.

"As of right now? I don't see it happening. Until it does, better you than the Hiro Shin-Mozas and Ryback's of the world." Wiping his hands on the napkin, Russo grabs the envelope tearing the top open. "So why don't we talk business..'

"Well, right now the ball is in our court, isn't it bro? I mean, I could offer our services. Tell you that we'll back you up in your match tonight. And if you want that, we'll be happy to oblige..."

Trailing off, floating an idea that he was less than willing to follow through on, he quickly pivots, "But I prefer to broker in information, bro. Because after I saw the pretape of Drako's interview with JR, he talked about how it wasn't personal. And I know that you're friends with the guy, how you won't let that get in the way of competition yadda yadda yadda. Well, I figure it wouldn't hurt to have some clarity on past events.. And on that nature of our entanglements with your friend.."

Reaching into the envelope, Russo brandishes a police report. Tossing it across the table in front of both men. Looking over at Otunga, he nudges him preferring the lawyer get into the weeds of the details.

"July of 2022. Ring any bells?"

"You were surprised bro? Bro, you should have seen my face when you got out of that stinker. I mean, after all the hard work of finding the thugs. Paying off the cops. Do you know how hard it is to find good, non-woke cops in this country? Guys that aren't afraid to bust a few heads?"

Otunga interjects just as Russo is about to recite statistics he'd heard from Josh Donaldson last year. Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a check.

"See Mr. Damone, one reason Vince brought me on board was to sort through our financials. See this check? It's a residual check. One reason that we're able to pay for operations like the one in July is because of the massive backlog of these that we've retained per the Ethics clause in our talent contracts. Don't worry, technically the funds belong to the workers, we just hold onto them for safe keeping in our emergency investment fund. Here, take a look."

Placing the check on the table, Otunga slowly and deliberately slides it over to the man sitting across from him lifting his hand to reveal a check issued to Salem Croft, made payable to the local bail bondsman.

"You did know that he used to work with us, bro? I mean, he must have told you, right, being his best friend and whatnot? I hope I'm not telling any tales out of school here.."

Motioning for a chicken nugget, Otunga hands it to Russo who pops it into his mouth talking while chewing. Shrugging his shoulders, frowning a bit, genuinely surprised at Drako's unawareness.. He grabs the check back, staining it with grease.

"I.. Uh.. I was kind of hoping you'd know that yourself. My guess is that we've got a rat in our ship. Someone knew the two of you could be a bigger headache to us on the outside, and sent this for bail on his behalf. A disgruntled grunt." Leaning, lowering his voice. "Isn't it funny how that works bro? In this business, it's always the people you think you can trust? They smile in your face, all the time they wanna take your place... Not that you have to worry about that, right?"

After a long, thoughtful silence, Jack James speaks up.

"Delabonte."

"Delabonte?"

"It's gotta be Delabonte, boss."

Another long pause. Russo reaches into his pocket and pulls it up to his ear. He'd gotten exactly what he needed from Drake, he just needed to put the right spin on it to accomplish his goals. Taking a massive leap in deductive reasoning, the creative genius quickly dials the number of the man for whom the Midnight Maruders Universe circled around.

Drako grins again at the last question.

"Personally speaking, I'd hit them where it hurts the most. Sure, I could do what the Damones do and beat him bloody, but is that the effective way? Fun, yeah, but effective. Somewhat. but I'd go for what really hurts him. Is it money, is it status? Let's be real, based on who you named, it's probably money. Hit his pockets. Then afterwards have a giant kick his a**. Or maybe two. I happen to have two not counting my big brothers so it'd be a painful night. The important part would be to mess him up mentally. The physical is just therapeutic."

Drako shrugs.

"Now if one doesn't have the stomach for the violence, the mental could get you there. But even if you don't have the muscle currently, I'm sure you'd be able to find it."