Zeven Zion [vs.] Roland Drax

The two impressive new superstars of IWF go head to head!

The camera catches Zion with an overhead shot, seconds after his win last week over Lluvia Luna. The artist formerly known as "The Killjoy" is inches away from the curtain separating the beautiful world of professional wrestling with the ruggid world of dusty backstage steel chairs and desks. Zion shoves the curtain away as the shot moves rightways, getting his profile and a hopeful look in his eyes.
 
His eyes dart across the room in desperate hope of catching someone who will look back at him and comment on his performance. Unfortunately, all the crew members are rushing left and right and the wrestlers are either warming up or enjoying a small chat. Whatever their current business is, no one backstage cared to even glance at Zion, let alone talk to him. Chances are no one even knew there was a match going on.
 
Zion's eyebrows slowly lower themselves in a natural state and his mouth shuts close as he realizes what has happened.
 
Zeven Zion: Great. Not only am I athletic, I'm also invisible. Gee, I have to go home now and make my suit. What's up with these people? I did … alright. I don't see them pulling off that Shooting Star press like a boss. Ugh … just mosey on, man.
 
After years of Zion getting his ass kissed by entire rosters and management for every single thing he does, now he finds himself in a company that really couldn't care less about what he did. Surely they know who he is, Zion was a big player in the industry, but he is far from the status he had back when he was a big deal. At this point, he's yet another has-been who's trying to relive his glory days, and people see right through that. Zion does too, make no mistake about it. The silver lining in his struggle is that Zion's not in his mid 40's. Zion is in his early 20's and his body can still go. All he needs is his mind to start working as it used to and his heart in the right place.
 
We switch to a shot of the parking lot outside of the Energy Solutions Arena in Utah. Most of the cars have already come and gone and the only vehicle standing there all alone is Zion's good 'ol Ducati Diavel. The only piece of property he didn't get taken away or set on fire. As he makes his way through the darkness, his eyes begin to adjust and his bike becomes more clear. As he finally gets to it, he notices that someone is leaning on it with his back turned to Zion.
 
Zeven Zion:  Who the hell is this?
 
Mysterious Man: You sound angry.
 
Zeven Zion:  It's because your ass is touching my bike. Tell me who you are …
 
Mysterious Man: Don't you mean, who we are?
 
Just then a bunch of men emerge from the surrounding darkness, making a circle around Zion. They're all wearing formal, white suits, however the one distinct feature they have is a mouthless and eyeless black mask covering their entire heads, with a white "?" question mark at the front.
 
Zeven Zion: What in the world?
 
Finally the mysterious man turns around and reveals his face and appearance. Unlike the rest, he is wearing a red suit and his mask has an exclamation mark on it, instead of a question mark.
 
Zeven Zion:  What is this? The Punctuation Gang? What are you gonna do? Throw commas at me?
 
Mysterious Man: Funny. You can simply call us … The Syndicate.
 
Zeven Zion:  Oh, great. Beautiful. First I lose everything I ever love, except for that bike you just covered with your ass print, and now I'm being chased around by a bunch of dorks. Look, I appreciate your sense for the dramatic but try the next wrestler that comes out that door. There is nothing you can offer me so keep it movin', alright?
 
Mysterious Man: We're not offering you anything. At least, not for free.
 
Zeven Zion:  … then spit it out! What are you selling? Bibles?
 
Mysterious Man: Not quite. We're offering you success. We're offering you connections, money, property. A lot of the things you used to have a while back. Instead of working for it again, we're willing to … lend them to you at a small price.
 
Zeven Zion: … what's the price?
 
Mysterious Man: The IWF World Heavyweight Championship.
 
Zeven Zion:  You're messing with me, right? An organization that has access to money and connections, wants a wrestling belt. This has to be the funniest thing I've heard in years.
 
Mysterious Man : The Syndicate has been … sponsoring talented fellows such as yourself for years. Don't think even for a second you're the only person on our list. You're not that special.
 
Zeven Zion:  So you go around doing … what exactly?
 
Mysterious Man: We handpick individuals from a plethora of wrestling companies and make sure they end up with World Championship gold around their waists, no matter what.
 
Zeven Zion:  What do you get out of it?
 
Mysterious Man: The lion's share of the money you earn. Media appearances, commercials, wages. Any revenue stream for you goes directly to us, with you getting only the scraps.
 
Zeven Zion:  PHA! Are you insane? Who would agree to all of this?
 
Mysterious Man: You would. You're not in It for the money or the houses. You're in it for your precious fans and for yourself. You want that Championship as much as we do because it'll help you live with yourself. Money has never been important to you. You've lived on the streets all your life and now you live in a dump. You couldn't care less. You want status and the World Championship brings just that.
 
We, on the other hand, want money. Lots of it. We help you get and keep the belt, you help us with our agenda. It's that simple, it works every time.
 
Zeven Zion:  "Every" time. Who the hell have you "sponsored"?
 
Mysterious Man: Who's the one man you dreamed of being? Who's the one man you dreamed of BEATing? Who's the one man who defined your existence in FCW? Who's the man whose stardom and status you rival? Think about it, and go ask him yourself.
 
Our offer stands if you change your mind.
 
Zeven Zion:  How the hell am I going to find you freaks if I do?
 
Mysterious Man: We'll find you.
 
A day has passed and Zion is already on his way to Arizona, speeding through the highway on his trusty bike. As the camera is following him tearing through the air, we get a few fast flash backs of the words of the alleged leader of "The Syndicate". Zion is thinking about what he said and how it sounds rather logical, while still remaining insane. He's starting to lose his grasp of the bike and the focus on the road and pulls over in order to gather his thoughts.
 
As soon as the Ducati comes to a stop, Zion hops off of it and takes off his helmet, dropping it on the ground. The camera shoots him from the back as he has his arms on his hip, looking into the distance.

Zeven Zion:  Why? Why is it that I always insert myself in these whacky situations which are seemingly for my best? What's this crazy luck that I have? All I want is to start over. All I want is to wrestle my way up the card, beat people and hopefully find "it" again. And you know what? Until 24 hours ago it all seemed perfect. Yes, I'm broke, yes I'm a shell of my former self but damn it, it made sense for just a second. Then the second went by and now I have The Syndicate after me.
 
Why am I worried? Well, let's just say I might have heard of them. Three years ago, Paul Hunter and I shut Fusion Championship Wrestling down after discovering their dirty laundry. Management had been striking deals with people. Deals they shouldn't have. The company was in the crapper yet the flow of cash continued. Where did it come from? I might have a guess now. People earned a lot of money back then for literally no reason. Something was rotten. Could it be them?
 
Who knows? All I know is that I have a choice to make now, and I fear for my decision. If I want to be a part of this "Syndicate", if I want to go back to the level that I used to be at, I might have to give them a chance and shake hands with the Devil. I certainly couldn't allow them to pick someone else and something tells me that turning them down might have the opposite effect. So, the best course of action from now on is to continue performing at the top of my game which means beating the piss out of Roland Drax.
 
Zeven turns around and slowly takes his jacket off, looking dead into the camera, and placing it on top of the bike.
 
Zeven Zion:  Drax, don't think even for a second that what's been going on with me is going to affect me in the slightest. While you were stuck in the indies, getting paid in hot dogs, I was eating lunch ten feet away from a roster of PROFESSIONAL wrestlers trained to cripple me. That's your thing, right? You're that indy sensation everyone's talking about. A hot signing. Or so they say. Looking at your track record in IWF, the only hot thing about you has been the steaming pile of cow shit you call hype. Let's review that for a second, let's anally probe your career. It won't take long.
 
Much like me, you have some useless victories over useless individuals with useless careers. Pinning their shoulders to the mat for three seconds means absolutely nothing. It means a lot to you since this is your first time performing in front of more than ten people at a Costco parking lot, but it means nothing to me. The other times you faced off against someone, you either ended up losing or earning a hardly fought cheap-ass win. You know what I'm talking about, Sally. You got your skinny little ass handed to you on a silver platter by Aries, and you managed to score a win in a tag match only because one of the team members decided to pick up his toys and high tail it out of there.
 
Other than that, the only "phenomenal" thing about you is the fact that your spine is still intact, because you would think some of these mighty PROFESSIONAL wrestlers would've snapped it like a twig by now. Silver lining for you, friend-o. There's still time.
 
And now you're put up against me in a match where I have a lot more on the line than you do, whether you realize it or not. I have a creepy organization to impress and a career to remake. You? What do you have on the line? Losing to me ain't gonna be as bad as you think it would. Believe me, many before you have and usually it has led them to live a better life. Outperforming people is my forte, and I do it so well that they rethink their entire strategy when it comes to life. There are plenty of car insurance salesmen out there who used to call themselves my enemy. You can be one of them, too! Imagine having the thrill of owning a semi-prosperous small business! World's your oyster, kid!
 
I'm sorry, Goomba, I can't allow you to squeeze a win over me. Not now, not ever. I've been to a place where few men have and I want to get back there. A lot of people yearn of "making it", but very few actually make it. Even fewer survive it. I survived it, I lived it and I want it again. Looking at you and your two dollar talent I can tell you right now that you're barking up the wrong tree. You're a dog chasing a car. Problem is, you're a mutt and that's a fucking Ferrari. You'll keep chasing, you'll keep running until your hairy little paws are raw, but you'll never catch it.
 
Better go back to the Indies, picklehead. You're someone there. You can entertain Internet fans around the country and make them spawn post after post in thread after thread about how awesome you could've been. Gather up a following of hipsters who won't like me just because I'm too mainstream, so they'll settle with the bum lookin' dude who does the flipz so well. Do whatever you want to do, but don't cross my path, don't try to stop me because there's a fine line between my good side and my bad side. In either occasion, you'll find yourself looking up at the lights trying to catch your breath as I stand tall with my hand raised in the air. It's just how it goes, it always happens, there are some things that even Indy Royalty can't stop.
 
I apologize in advance for ruining your little momentum and showing everyone that you're nothing but bush league trash. Actually, I don't. I'll be doing you a favor. Because I'm a swell fucking guy. Suck a pickle, sir.
 
Zeven smirks and salutes the camera before picking up his dusty helmet off the ground, putting it back on and starting the engine up again. The camera follows as Zion speeds away, leaving nothing but a trail of dust behind him.