Voice: Such a clever bastard there has not been since Jim Black...

(The camera fades in to reveal Tracer Bullet sitting in a high-backed wicker chair near his indoor swimming pool. His fingers are steepled, and he has a very self-satisfied grin on his face.)

TB: Certainly, I went against my own convictions on this one, but there's no denying what works. I could have easily waited until the Rumble itself and gone for the trifecta of victories in that match, but I just couldn't wait until friggin' September to get the shot at what has eluded my grasp for the past two years... the WWA World Heavyweight title.

(Tracer picks a photo album up off the small wicker table to his left and begins flipping through it.)

TB: I've been to the top before. And once you reach the pinnacle of the profession, you just can't rest until you have tasted it again. Some people will do anything to obtain that... like Denrol. He's a good friend of mine, but I have to say that he was willing to stop at nothing if it meant getting another World Title shot. Me, I was usually content with waiting to earn my spots in things like the upcoming Independence Day Rumble, or the Birthday Brawl. Of course, I'm the perpetual bridesmaid in that Brawl. Two years in a row, I was forced to settle for number two. Two years in a row, I came in second. But last year... last year really took the cake. Not only did I come in second in that match, but it's a match I SHOULD have won.

(He puts the album down on his lap, open, to leave his hands free to gesticulate as he speaks fervently, eyes flashing with rage at certain points.)

TB: Not only was I the one to dislodge the belt... at least partially, before the last snap broke off from the weight of the belt itself... but I had been going full steam that entire match. The winner of it... that worthless cheat Ian Tense... hung around in his locker room doing nothing until halfway through. That's just plain cheap in my book, and in anyone else's book. And he STILL couldn't win that belt legitimately. It quite literally fell into his lap.

(Tracer calms down and picks the photo album up again.)

TB: Not that I'm bitter or anything. In a way, I should be grateful. That match let me know that even if I do get a shot at the belt through my normal routes, I'd still get screwed out of it. It was that, coupled with last year's Labor Day Brawl match against Craven Moore, that made me ask, "Just what the f*** have I been doing with myself?" I'd been screwing around a bit much, and I was sick of waiting, watching from the sidelines, seeing other, less talented people than I get shots before me. Damian Thorne... Wes Sanders... and most recently, Kash. Yeah, even our own little Wicked Witch of the West got a shot before me. All because I've preferred to wait for my shot to come to me. Well I've had it. I decided there would be no more waiting. There would be no more p*ssyfooting around. There would be... NO... MORE... TOMORROWS.

Tyler: Wrong guy. That's not your thing.

TB: My mistake. But still, I had come to the conclusion that I had to go out and just take what I wanted. And damned if I didn't do just that. I had my bases covered from Hell to breakfast. But, seeing as though Sabrina is the one who ended up winning the belt, my convincing Tense to give me a shot was kind of a moot point. Be that as it may, I cannot wait to feel Kash's bones crack in my hands... tap dance, indeed. He'll learn soon enough what true pain is. And speaking of...

(Tracer stands up and walks slightly off screen to the right. When the camera catches up to him, you can see a chart with pictures of nineteen superstars. Each of the ones that were invited to be in the Bourbon Street Brawl.)

TB: As you can see here, I still have only nineteen pictures on this thing. Well, I was in negotiations with someone to be number twenty, but they have since fallen through. I will be on the lookout for someone to fill his shoes, but that's not going to be easy. I wanted it to be a really big deal, but this guy had more pressing matters to attend to, and I can respect that. The only question is, who can I get on such short notice that would be as anticipated as my original plan? Actually, I have just the guy... though he may not be up for it, either. I will keep you all posted on the status of entrant #20. Until then, keep your feet on the ground, keep your head in the stars, and keep your filthy hands out of the mayonnaise jar.

(Tracer walks off screen again. The camera turns to look at the photo album lying open on the high-backed wicker chair. It is full of snapshots of Tracer, Missy, and acquaintances...)

Tyler: My name is Tyler.

(Whatever. The pictures are from when Tracer was holding the World Title. There are pictures of him wearing the belt, of him snapping it around Missy's waist at home, and even a gag shot of Tyler being clubbed with it.)

Tyler: Yeah... gag...

(But the last two shots on the page show the same scene. On the left, you see a shot of Tracer's mantelpiece, the WWA World Title resting comfortably on a wooden stand. The caption reads "Hope." On the right is the mantel again... and the stand is empty. The caption reads "Despair." Fade to black.)