I ain't Afraid of no Ghosts.

“Big Black Man”

[The Devil’s Own Hisself sits in a white room, an idea deftly stolen from one Kilroy Evans, well he sent Kilroy a royalty check just to be nice. The room as it’s name suggests is white, no other distinguishing features other than a simple metal folding chair that sits in the middle of it. Titus Black is dressed in a green track suit with three yellow stripes along the arms and down the legs, he’s bare foot and on his head are a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.]

Titus Black: Something that Shark sees himself as, now Sharky, I’ve been in the ring with Big Black Men before. He was street, he was tough, he was a bad ass mother--

[Shut your Mouth.]

Well, you get what I’m sayin’. Only thing was Sharkenstein, the dude I’m talkin’ about was a hair over seven feet tall, weighed in at over three hundred twenty five pounds and didn’t cry like a bitch, unlike a certain finned fish ‘round these parts. He just went to the ring, destroyed, and left, business as usual.

He didn’t worry about the White Man holding him down, and he could have, grew up in Compton, but instead of going all emo on everyone he just knocked the White Man the fuck out, win, or lose, he’d shrug his shoulders and move on knocking the next dude out. Me? I was one of them, so James, son. Your whole Angry Black Man isn’t impressive to me, your big ol’right hand, ain’t as big as ones I’ve seen before, and there is no way on this, God’s green Earth that you can hit as hard as I’ve been hit before.

But you ain’t never even heard of me before have you? Doesn’t matter, cause you’ll never forget my name when I drape your head over my shoulder and snap your neck with the Blacklist. And all that rage, all that hatred of the man that held you down, you can focus it, because it wasn’t society ganging up on you, it wasn’t “The Man” that led to your defeat, it was a guy who was just flat out better than you.

Because I am just, flat out better than you. Dot-dot-dot.

You want respect? Take your loses like a man, and go out and beat them next time. Learn from your mistakes, keep your head cool, and make people pay attention to you... or you can live your life like a paper tiger, a Chinese knock off of Clubber Lane with half the skills and a tenth of his charisma.

Just sit out there on that apron when I’m stretching Mercy like taffy, or tap dancing on Tyson’s face, watch and learn what a Prodigy can do. Watch, and learn how to grab people’s attention.

Just shut up and wrestle.

I might be new to this business, but I’ve run into too many Divas, and I don’t mean wrestlers of the fairer sex. I mean prissy little primadonnas that have to complain, and blame the referees, the crowd, their shitty home lives when they lose. No you lost because you weren’t focused enough, or you just ran into someone who was better than you that night.
Some punk cheats and steals a win? Don’t get into the position to get caught again. Someone runs down and distracts you? Don’t get distracted. You can only blame yourself.

Now Mercy Thompson showed up, and she’s got issues with people who aren’t me. I’d suggest Ms. Mercy that you look at the Devil in front of you, and not worry about someone else. Because I won’t hesitate to humiliate you, degrade you, and stomp your pretty little teeth right down your skinny little throat.

I don’t care who is put into that ring opposite me, man, woman, Down Syndrome baby, I’m going to compete at the highest level I can, and I’m going to win, more often than not. Nothing you three, or even my partners can say, or do, will change that fact.

I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.

[Titus cracks his best Stewart Smally smile, and gives the camera a corny thumbs up.]

At the end of the day, my hand will be raised, and one of you three will have a nice long gaze at the lights.

Then you’ll fade...

to...

black.

[Done.]