Michael is sitting in his office, slouched back in his big leather chair. His silk sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his shirt is unbuttoned down to his chest. His hair is slicked back and his beard is stretching down to his Adam's apple. His table is completely clear of paper work, but a look of disgust and anger is present in his face. The camera slowly zooms up and he slowly slouches forward. Michael: So, we have 3 old hags running around claiming to be atom bombs, kings, dictators, leaders, gods, ponies, tampons and everything in-between. I'm pushed aside so we can have Alias, Kid and Aids jerking eachother to the rhythm of Kid's new theme. I'm pushed aside so we can have yet another generic Jack Forte feud for a title that's become a prop. It's not a symbol for excellence in the lowercard, it's a centerpiece for Forte's entrance. But I'll take another decade of Forte as Intercontinental Champion than another week of IW fucking 3. These motherfuckers come in and tear apart the IWT Champion, and have the fucking gall to say that I devalued the title? I didn't know having a pair of washed up drunks beating up the champion made it a fucking throne. I don't care how long this little gig has been in the works, it doesn't make me any less sick. Michael sarcastically chuckles before looking to side of the camera, seemingly, thinking about what next to say. Michael: Dat Kid, I had a lot of respect for him. Keyword - 'had'. He was hardworking, creative and entertaining. He was always one to pop the crowd with great moments. He was always one to put in the elbow grease to put on a show that we can remember. Keyword - 'was'. For the last 2 years he's been nothing but a useless old-timer. I buried this motherfucker alive and he has the chutzpah to claim that he's buried everyone? Last time I checked, we're 1-1. I would've loved to have faced you again, but knowing you aren't doing this because you love it, but because you want money, fame, gold and recognition makes me sick. You are what you hated. You are what you preached against. You're just another bandwagoner. Where were you when we fucking needed it? Retired? Where were you when IWT needed a jump start? Retired? But because I forged an empire of fucking sticks and stones, we have another pair of delusional fuckers coming in to announce their ascension to the fucking throne? Get in line, Kid. This king has a lot of years left in his reign. Michael sits back and admires his work before wincing and leaning forward again. Michael: Then we have Alias Antonio. Arguably, the most talented of the 3. The most successful of the 3. The only one of the 3 to beat me more than once and to never face a loss, at my hands, and I give him props for it. Anywho, he is probably the most likable of the 3, but the most unloyal of the 3. He no-showed 3 different main events. This guy has the nerve to consider himself one of the greatest? I don't award the Hall of Fame to unloyal cucks. I don't recognize treasonous slugs. And you're all of the above. You aren't a company man, you're in here for 1 fucking thing and that's to reek the rewards. Chris Kaizer may be a lazy bum, but I respect him much more than I respect you. Why? Because unlike you, he returned and wanted to give back to the fucking company. He came back and headed the Training Gym, helped out the staff, coached the young stars and did a service. You never did nor have you ever done anything for this company other than no-show when it mattered most. You aren't unstoppable nor are you a fucking god, you're an insecure waste of skin that has to depend on screwing this company in the asshole to get his self-esteem up. Michael's face is a pulsing red and the veins in his forehead and neck pop out. He calms himself down, but is, undoubtedly, furious. Michael: Finally, we have Aids Johnson. Where do I begin with this guy? Mr. I Forgot to book SummerSlam 2015 thinks he's fit to be a leader, a ruler, a god and a king? Mr. I can't go 3 sentence without ending up drunk wants to be recognized as a GOAT. Why do you think you deserve to be champion? If you had a dime for putting on a good match, you would be a poor motherfuker. But that doesn't matter, and it never has to you. You care about numbers. You care about attendance, buy-rates, paychecks and ratings. Fair enough. You care about yourself more than this company, and there isn't anything wrong with that. Doesn't mean I can't hate you for it. I thought I had ridded the IWT of the cockroach and everyone and their mother mocked him for his retirement. It was expected that you'd return within a month after a retirement, because you don't make enough money without me signing your damn paychecks. You are the fucking yeast infection in IWT's thong. Sounds like a shitty metaphor, but I won't waste a goddamn moment thinking of a good one to describe your useless ass. That's exactly what you are, an irritating fungus in the lowest regions of IWT's being. I've sent you packing once, and I'll surely do it again. Michael rubs his face and lets out a painful sigh. Michael: Go ahead and enjoy the spotlight while you have it. I'm gonna tear your castle of plastic and mirrors down and show you the reality. I know Aids is gonna act like I'm "pissy and butthurt" but if that is your response to a guy fed up with your jank ass shit, then so be it. Because the reality is that none of you are important. None of your are marquee names, any longer. It's the age of the Ivy Hale's, Kelsey Taylor's, Schizo's, Guernica's and Bullad Club's. You are yesterdays news, and unfortunately we have to sit through another terrifying period of time where we see Aids and Co. run rough-shot, but I'd be damned if I were to let it happen again. You want a fucking war? I guarantee, that you've provoked the dragon within us all. You've provoked the heavy artillery and we're gonna take you down. You may be Stalin, Churchill and Roosevelt, but they all fell. So will you. Michael throws the portable mic off his shirt and stands up. He manually shoves the camera out of the room and slams the door.