Duke Ranch outside of Dallas, Texas
Welcome to the home of Sean and Pamela Jackson. A large 48,000 square foot mansion on the Duke Ranch just outside of Dallas, Texas. With a reported building cost of $46 million dollars, the daughter of Oil Tycoon Cameron Duke finally moved into her dream home with her husband and son.
After panning the exterior of the multiple floored mansion, the shot shifts to inside the master bedroom where a strong French influence existed. Beside the large bed is a night stand with a digital clock that displays the time of 3:15 am.
Changing to 3:16 am.
Tossing and turning, Sean found himself unable to sleep. The benchmark overseas tour didn't end as planned, and even though he still possessed the Ace in the hole briefcase, he couldn't get over the back to back losses to Zhalia Fears and El Trebol. Turning his head in the opposite direction, the Dallas native observed his wife Pamela laying on her side, fast asleep.
The former Dynasty member slowly shifts his legs over the side of the bed, his feet barely touching the floor as the plan is to step out on the balcony, without disturbing his wife.
Taking one last glance, he pushes up from the bed and strolls quietly to the double French doors leading outside to the third floor balcony. After pushing them open, the Dallas native steps out and begins gazing at the star-filled sky.
"Congratulations Scott," Sean states dryly. "Beating Colton is never an easy task...."
It was a hard pill to swallow. Another poor performance, in another big venue, this time over-shadowed by the crowning of a new Wildfire Champion.
"Especially with a championship on the line..."
The bitter taste in his mouth prevented him from being sincere.
"So I commend you on being lucky..."
Slowly he begins to wipe at his eyes, indicating sleep deprivation.
"But eventually, the luck always runs out my man..."
Removing the fingers from his eyes, a determined gaze fixated on the night's brightest star.
The mind games begin, planting seeds of doubt in hopes it is enough to get Stevens off his game. An attempt at derailing a third straight Wrestleshow loss.
"Now don't get me wrong Scott, you are an awesome competitor, no doubt about it..."
Placing his hands on the metal railing, the Dallas native inhales deeply then releases before continuing.
"But I can't let you do it..."
What follows is a small shake of his head, his eyes staring ahead, cold and calculating.
"I can't let you beat me."
His gaze shifts from the night sky and back to the bedroom, where Pamela is still sleeping, her semi-nude body under the sheets, unaware of what is taking place.
"Not now, not ever."
The Dallas native tries to hide his frustrations, portraying a calm demeanor on the outside...
"Because by hook or crook, one way or the other..."
While just below the surface, he was a car wreck waiting to happen. He felt like a duck on the pond, above the water looking graceful...
"I am going to do whatever it takes to beat you."
While below the water, those little webbed feet were thrashing about, trying to keep him afloat.
"If I have to jump you in the parking lot, then so be it. If I have to target your knees with a baseball bat, then I will do so. Because unlike you, I don't care what the fans think..."
Leaning with his back against the railing, the holder of the Ace in the hole briefcase crosses his arms over his chest, still gazing at his sleeping wife.
"Because their opinion doesn't count..."
How many wins could Stevens directly attribute to the fans?
The former World Champion cocks an eyebrow.
"But true to form, you will listen to them anyway. You will cater to their needs and wants, hoping it makes them chant your name..."
That million dollar smirk begins to form.
"Just like La Flama Blanca, Madman Szalinski and Mikey Unlikely before you."
Sean fakes puzzlement, even following it up with a less than enthusiastic shrug.
"Well Scott, I hate being the bearer of bad news, but the fans will never truly accept you. Oh sure, they will love those holiday videos of you decorating the tree..."
The Former World Champion rolls his eyes.
"Making nice with the family while classical Christmas songs are playing in the background, but eventually it gets old and they will demand more."
They always want something more.
"Don't believe me, go ahead and invite the average fan back into your home. Remind them once again of their high expectations, while being saddled with less than ordinary means."
If you bleed two gallons of blood, the fans will want four. If you break a leg, the fans will expect you to hop. It is the way of their world, whether Stevens chose to believe it or not.
"That is why I have never cared for them, or their opinions. I have spent my entire career refusing to be their dupe, their puppet on a string..."
It is a world that the Mental Rapist understands all too well
"Who moves entirely for their enjoyment. No Scott, I think for myself, and as a result, have stood atop the mountain here twice..."
Sean holds up two fingers.
As his hand falls to the side, there is still the matter of losing at the last two Wrestleshows.
"But I know what you're going to say Scott. You are going to harp on and on about me losing to Zhalia and Trebol..."
Just thinking about it makes his blood boil.
"As if it proves I no longer belong in the ring with you."
Sean takes a deep breath, pissed that people are dismissing his chances of winning.
"All because you beat Colton for the Wildfire Championship."
The Dallas native bristles at the notion, even developing that go screw yourself mentality because time and time again, he has found himself as the forgotten star, only to turn it on and right the ship.
"Well go ahead and think that way Stevens. Fool yourself into believing I am past my prime, that there is no more magic left. That way, when I step into the Quicken Loans Arena and I dial my knee up..."
With the anger mounting, it takes everything for Mr. Jackson not to scream every expletive in the book. He is upset, no doubt about it, but startling his sleeping wife in the middle of the night, would not be a smart choice.
"I will deliver it with enough force to put that bull(redacted)it to rest and to re-establish myself as a legitimate threat to every title in this company."
The Mental Rapist has visions of the Wildfire Champion laying in the ring, blood flowing from a cracked skull, a victim in need of cosmetic surgery.
"Now before you get this twisted, I don't hate you. You are a fellow Texan with visions of doing something remarkable in this company, just like me. But if anyone thinks I'm just going to take these losses and be happy about it, then they are sadly mistaken. As far as I'm concerned, what happens to you in Cleveland can be blamed on Zhalia and Trebol. Because they dared to make me look bad in front of some low-class Vancouver and Chicago wrestling fans..."
And it draws that million dollar smirk, mixed in with a facial expression of evil intentions.
"I now have to pay it forward in Cleveland."
Back in the bedroom, Pamela begins to move her hand in the area of the bed once occupied by her husband. Unable to touch him, her eyes open to an empty bed. Dressed in a revealing white silk nightie, she raises up and starts scanning the room.
Noticing the open double French doors, Pamela shifts in the bed to see him standing on the balcony.
Slipping from the bed, she walks bare foot across the floor, the fabric caressing her bare legs with every step taken. Once at the doors, Sean notices that Pamela is no longer in bed and thinks something is wrong.
"Is everything alright?" he asks, giving a false smile in the process, allowing her the opportunity to respond.
"Yeah, I'm okay" she responds back, sensing something is bothering him. "You weren't in bed so..."
The Dallas native blinks, a bit distracted by the half-dressed woman in front of him.
"I...uh...needed to get some air."
He seemed to fumble with his words, not wanting his wife to stress over something beyond her control. She wanted to respond, but gets side-tracked by a short kiss on the lips. After their lips part, the former World Champion places his hands on her shoulders.
"And I'm fine now, I promise."
He brings his hand up to cover his mouth, faking a yawn.
"If you go back to bed, I promise to be right behind you."
Smiling, Pamela turns on her heels and heads back inside, leaving her husband on the balcony. After watching her seductive entrance back into the bedroom, the Mental Rapist takes a deep breath before delivering a complimentary smile.
Afterwards, he turns his attention back to the task at hand.
"Now then, where was I?"
A split second later, it comes back to him.
"Oh yeah, that's right. I was discussing you, Scott.
He winks at the camera.
"In Cleveland, the slide ends...and it ends at your expense. My New Year's Resolution is to make this all about me, to make this my time and not yours. In 2016, I get everything I want, when I want it..."
The Mental Rapist lets those words linger for a bit, before making his way towards those French doors and his semi-nude wife.
"And next Monday, I'm going to give myself your cracked skull on a silver platter."
And just like that, the bitter taste is gone.
"I can promise you that, champ."
"And oh, the mysterious indie trollop hiding behind her own skirts, the second coming of what, dear? Even the best in Chicago is still in a class below me, lass. That’s a confirmable fact."
- Bronson Box