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Chill Faktor: The Day After.


Wrex

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The camera pans into a room that appears to be a study. Black sabbath playing low on a speaker system. Bookcases filled with DVDs and old video tapes with different promotions and dates reaching as far back as the 70’s written on them. A liquor cabinet full of random whiskeys and bourbons, a television in the corner of the room, mounted high up onto the wall with a muted replay of Chill Faktor.

 

We turn and can see a trophy cabinet, inside, various awards and memorabilia, the most important looking being one half of the original 2018 CCW tag team titles, the other, the red leathered CCW championship, the scumciety logo still bolted onto the front.

 

It should be no surprise when the camera pans one more time to the desk, a simple computer, a cigar box, cutter and lighter and a tv remote. Of course the items don’t matter as much as the man sitting in the chair watching the repeat on the tv.

 

Alastair Ross, bartered, bruised and eight stapes still sitting in the back of his skull seems contempt with spending the rest of the day with a smoke in hand and a pack of zero percent beer by his feet. Of course that’s when the phone rings.

 

Ross: Bill for fuck sake I told you I don’t need another fucking guest coach this week!

 

Jim: Wrex?

 

*Sigh*

 

Wrex: …How did you get this number?

 

Jim: The phone book, are you available for a quick interview?

 

Wrex looks back up to the tv, the hacked feed of the Kumite just starting to begin.

 

Wrex: Depends. Does it pay?

 

Jim: No.. but!

 

*Click*

 

And this is where we would fade to black, if the phone didn’t continue to ring for another forty five minutes.

 

Wrex: Do you ever stop? For fuck sake I’m not working my time off for nothing.

 

Jim: I’ll PayPal you fifty bucks.

 

Wrex hovers over the end call button again. But his screen monitor catches his eye. The homepage for chungs chicken, one of the few takeaway places that are actually willing to drive into the middle of nowhere to deliver.

 

Wrex: ..Send it and you get five minutes.

 

Within seconds his phone buzzes and while he’s setting a timer Black immediately starts.

 

Jim: How are you feeling after that brutal ending to the Kumite.

 

Wrex: I feel like shit, what do you want me to say? He dropped me head first into the side of the ring but nothing a few days and some painkillers won’t stop.

 

Wrex: Look Jim. Let’s just skip the crap neither of us care about.. ask the question I know you’re dying to ask.

 

Jim: ...Last night you told me that Chill Faktor would be your make or break on your career.. so tell me, which is it?

 

Wrex: Depends one the time of night we’re talking about, after the match, break.

 

Wrex: Now? Make.

 

Jim: What changed.

 

He thinks back to the talk he had in the trainer's room.

 

Wrex: A deal with the devil.. which reminds me, you like your scoops, don’t you ya fuckin rat?

 

Wrex: Well here you go, from this moment onwards, for the indefinite future I’m no longer in contention for the CCW championship, no loopholes, no favours, no asks. I’m out!

 

Jim: But you’ve been a mainstay of the division for two and a half years.

 

Wrex: And maybe that’s why I’m where I am. For years all I’ve done is focus on one thing, one person, one goal. Win, defend, lose and win again. And now I’m not even in the stage where I can reach the win part. And it drove me to the edge.

 

Wrex: So now I’m going to do what I haven’t had the option to do in a long time. Pick my own battles, pick my own wars and my own goals.

 

Jim: So what comes first then?

 

Wrex: First? Well I’m glad you asked Jim…. first things first is that mother fu-

 

Beep! beep! beep!

 

Wrex: Would you look at that, times up. Talk soon.

 

Jim: Huh? Wait a min-

 

*Click.*

 

He looks back down at his phone. The timer app asking if he wants to reset the two and a half minute countdown.

 

Wrex: Sucker.

 

With a laugh he turns the music back on and gets on with placing his giant order as we now actually fade to black.

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