“All right, so there’s me, TR Saxton. The top hardcore wrestler in LCW history. The guy who was in two hellacious career-versus-career deathmatches. The guy whose weapon of choice was brass knuckles. The guy who took the toughest world champs to their breaking point and sometimes won.”

Wind catches the flyer three cars down and pulls it out. TR shakes his fist at the… um… wind and keeps on going.

“There’s Blake Grumann, a guy who won’t hit anyone in the face, a guy who can’t take a punch himself, a guy who… didn’t he job to the new guy? Jake? And he pretty much lost because he got busted open.”

You can’t see it because you don’t know to look for it, but TR is used to this sort of thing now. A few years ago he’d have found some Guatemalans and paid them sub-minimum wage under the table. Now he’s doing it for free in the hopes that it generates revenue and trickles back to him.

“Maybe I’m missing something. Here I thought Davey was this grade-A do-no-wrong entrepreneur, but on his first show back he books a one-sided semi-main-event where one of his golden boys is set up to get creamed. Maybe he wants to showcase me in my big return, but I doubt it. Maybe he thinks Blake will beat me without weapons and look like a world-beater, erasing the stain of getting punked by a rookie, but that won’t happen.”

Nice cars, crap cars, clean cars, filthy cars. In Philly any of them can be wrestling fans, so there’s no discriminating.

“It doesn’t make sense, and that’s making me a lil’ bit paranoid and a lil’ bit pissed. I’m always pissed, but this is actually aimed at something. I don’t want to be disrespected, and it sure doesn’t seem like respect to me. Give me Slate so I can get revenge, give me Blaise so we can rip it up again, hell go dig up Dusk the Dreamslayer and let me kick his ass again. Screw it, give me Gravity and I’ll break his jaw and the next thing you know fans will be lining up around the block for my t-shirts. I’ll pay YOU to let me fight Gravity. By the way, burn in hell Tim.”

TR stops and throws the bird. He’s never been one for even a shred of subtlety. He continues looking at the camera for the close.

“So here’s where I’m at. Hardcore is what I do. Being the champ means fatter paychecks. Blake, I don’t have anything against you, but you’re between me and my legacy and you have no business in the tournament. You’re going down, I’m moving on, and Mercury is gonna see the best beating money can buy.”

Back to the grind. Lift the wiper, put the flyer down, move on. Lift, flyer, move.

“Um, is that still on?”

“Yeah.”

“I did the catchphrase. That means camera off. Maybe Beaumont really is incomp-“