the wild card. (CALL YOUR SHOT TOURNAMENT)

We open on a seemingly endless hallway. The floor is a polished grey concrete, the white washed walls are lit by bright, almost oppressively bright white halogen lights. This is almost, uncomfortably normal, clean and safe. But then we begin to hear movement, the faintest sound of footsteps walking toward the area where the camera is situated. And as the sound continues, still kind of quiet at this point but still, ominously, coming..

the lights start flickering.

The light at the end of the hallway is nearly blotted out by a human frame, but we're not sure that it's actually completely human. The arms and the legs suggest a meat-based lifeform but there is something different about this thing approaching us. There is a different aura about it, about him, that we're absolutely unsettled by. The black, wild hair now comes into focus and now we know who is here, especially because all of the halogen lights in this hallway have suddenly, rapidly died, save for one situated directly above him that has taken on a sickly, dark red.

Erik Holland has arrived in Pro Wrestling EXCELLENCE.  There is a solitary steel chair lying on the ground where Erik's journey finally ends, and after he picks it up and looks at it for a moment, admiring the steel, knowing the type of horrors he's inflicted with just such a device--he unfolds it, the steel making a cold metallic pang as it is unfolded and sat on the concrete, now being joined by Holland's 303-lb frame.

The red light above Holland creates a distorted, grotesque image of the Polish-American monster, as do the red lensed welder's goggles that decorate his face. He leans forward, almost bowing his head, then lifts that massive head towards us.

-I- am calling my shot.

The faintest lilt of an Eastern European accent fills our ears, the familiar commanding voice immediately grabbing our attention. His massive hands, more often than not seen these days cannoning off the hapless chests of his opponents are folded tightly together.

The Call Your Shot tournament is here, Pro Wrestling EXCELLENCE, and you all have been so gracious as to offer me an invitation to this battlefield. Somewhere where I am going to test myself in the oldest crucible of combat in the entire world. The human race has held tournaments since time immemorial, simply to gather the best, the absolute top of  the profession for -one- purpose. Who is the best of the best? Who can more skillfully ply their trade for the entertainment of the masses? No bread, no circuses to be found here, no... what will be found is COMPETITION. IMPACT. The brutality, and the necessity for survival that my MIND has been craving since I found my way back to my people and to my ring..

The four time World's Champion offers himself a self-assured smile.

Usually, in moments like this my mind, fragmented, only thinks of one thing - assault; accost; eliminate--whoever is in front of me when the match begins. Good plan, right? Because everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face. Haha...

But it's different this time. Pro Wrestling EXCELLENCE demands more preparation, more study, no resorting to my more...base instincts that have shaped my wrestling career. What now becomes the modeling clay of my success is that very brain that right now...ahahaha...is in more pieces than I care to count. All I can see, all I can perceive is the millions of strategies that could be employed to bring me victory. For each competitor in the tournament there are a hundred different ways to overcome them, and they'll all make sure to prevent at least ninety-nine of them.

As the lights begin to flicker slowly back to life, switching from that dark, evil red to white again...we begin to see, in focus, that Mr. Holland's got himself some new wrestling attire for starters - Heavy black leather boots and thick black kneepads accentuate a two-strapped, full length wrestling singlet that flows down into tights. Crimson in color, completely, the attire features HAUNTED written several thousand times in varying sizes, almost desperately scribbled into the gear in a bright white color, with a deep black drop shadow screened behind each, turning his gear into a swirling and chaotic mass of black, white and red all over. 

Especially importantly, where the walls were clean and unadorned, now appear pictures of each and every competitor in the tournament. Resplendent in each shot, Erik took special care to feature each in their top moment of glory--or showing their true power. Demonstrating that absolutely no one in this tournament is going to be what the pundits call an "easy out".

Look behind me. Take a good long look at my opponents. Each one, the absolute pinnacle of the industry. Each one, checked off in my books as a STATEMENT VICTORY once I pull it off. Each one, knowing that no excuses will be accepted in this competition, myself included. Yes, THESE are the fires that Erik Holland was forged in. These are the dark horrors that swirl in my brain, that lay dormant, but are ready to be unleashed at their full, terrible strength when the first opening bell rings! And we start with YOU, Savannah Sunshine, and I wouldn't have it any other way. WHY?

Erik hops up off the steel chair and LAUNCHES it down the hallway, shuddering as he grabs hold of his spiky black hair. He looses himself of his own grip and grimaces at the camera.

Because YOU love this business as much as I do! You owe EVERYTHING to the people, RIGHTFULLY, like I do! So there is no one that a tournament like this could start me off against that would be any more FITTING of an opponent! You understand what stepping inside that ring demands of you on a physical, on an EMOTIONAL level! But the advantage I'm holding now? Hah...it's that you, in fact that no one in the tournament including you has ever faced me before. I am the wild card in this equasion, I am the addition no one prepared for. And I think that's what is going to carry me to the end; the fact that you cannot prepare, as good as you are you CAN-NOT prepare for what I am bringing to the table! NONE of you can! Because it is FINALLY time for me to CALL MY SHOT...that I am going to win this tournament...and that none of you are going to stop me.

Erik lashes out, facepalming the camera and shoving it away. As the camera starts popping static and snow, the red oppressive light very suddenly appears again before the feed cuts to color bars and tone, then darkness and silence.