Kid Dynamo vs Billy Mitchell

[Alex Smiley]

Reminder:

- Word limit for Group Stage matches is 1500.
- 1 RP per wrestler per match.
- Deadline: December 16, 2018, at 11:59PM Pacific.

[Kid Dynamo]

Time and time again, one thing is clear: I am playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers.

The man known as GOD MODE stands before a green screen, a screen that shows a video of a checkerboard where checkers pieces are intermittently moving along the board. It is like two computer AI's are playing each other in a game, but are choosing moves based on complete randomness rather than strategy.

In the first week, everyone comes out and acts like they are going to go 3-0 and dominate their block on the way to the tournament final which they'll supposedly win in less than five minutes because they're just such a damned badass.

And here I am playing the long game and schooling everyone.

Kid Dynamo has a satisfied look on his face, an odd thing to see for someone 0-1 in the Extreme Tournament.

Go back and look at the footage after the fight with Robina Hood. When the referee raised her hand, she was in SHOCK, completely unable to process the gift that had been given to her. And YES I am saying gift, because her win was a decision that I MADE.

Dynamo takes a moment to pause and let that confession sink in with the audience before continuing to ask the implied question...

Why? Because there is a truth that everyone INCLUDING HER knows that she is nowhere near my level, that she has no shot in HELL of making it anywhere in this tournament. She would be a disgrace of an entry into the Extreme Tournament final.

But luckily she isn't going to.

There's more than one way to skin a cat, boys and girls. I could have EASILY taken down Robina faster than Billy Mitchell defeated Adrianna Wilde and everyone in that arena knows it. But what good does that do me? That's one win, a win over someone me and everyone else on Earth knows is worthless. But in the process of getting that win, suddenly I would have drawn a giant target on my back to Billy Mitchell, a guy with whom I'm not as familiar. Crushing Robina means that Billy comes as me with 110% of his capabilities, and who knows? Maybe Billy's absolute best is enough to take me down if I'm having an off night.

The end result there is not only being 1-1, but with Billy being 2-0 AND having a tiebreaker over me, suddenly it's game over for me in this tournament, and the fans didn't unlock GOD MODE for me to be an early exit.

Dynamo shakes his head, clearly dissatisfied with a result that is anything less than his advancing out of the B Block. He holds up a finger as if to say "wait a second, I've got something".

So let's consider another scenario, why don't we? You see, in this scenario, the one where I remind all of you that I'm not only an amazing wrestler but fucking brilliant as well, I consider the fact that having a loss against Robina Hood doesn't have the same damning effect as if I let Billy Mitchell defeat me. Adrianna Wilde couldn't last 4 minutes in her first match and yet, according to the sportsbooks, she is STILL FAVORED TO WIN against Robina. The "purple haired spank thot" will crumble under pressure just as I prophecized and her 1-2 finish will render her irrelevant.

Meanwhile, Billy Mitchell is sitting there thinking he has this block in the bag. You see, I don't know the guy but I'm also a fucking professional so I looked into him and tried to find some evidence that he's special, that he's a threat, that he's not someone I can manipulate to my will for the sake of me advancing in this tournament.

I found NOTHING.

Dynamo swipes his arms across his body to emphasize "nothing".

Just like my daughter - and apparently my daughter-in-law as well, thanks for the wedding invite, guys! - Billy is a "second-generation wrestler", and so he sits on his couch and assumes that somehow his DNA has rendered him an amazing wrestler.

Billy, no. Just no. If you could stop being a total dumbass, that would be great.

You see, having a pro wrestler for a father doesn't mean a fucking thing. Go back and look at my last Promo; the accolades I can spit out that attest to my greatness are a very exhaustive list, but even just the sample I gave you is more than my daughter will ever be able to lay claim to. She has ME, GOD MODE, in her DNA and she's still nothing but an underachieving, choking attention whore.

Dynamo points a finger directly at the camera, suddenly now talking directly to his opponent.

So what does that make you Billy?

It makes you a complete waste of time, Billy, but you don't even have the self-awareness to realize it. The only shot you had was for you to get a wake-up call from seeing me eviscerate Robina Hood until her carcass could only be picked up by a vacuum cleaner. The only shot you had was me performing up to my level so that you would go out there and be so determined and so focused - because you knew anything less than your absolute best had no shot in Hell of beating me - that you might just get lucky.

The only shot you had was me not being me.

Kid Dynamo was a finger at the camera, reminiscent of Lee Corso saying "not so fast".

I'm too good, I'm too smart. I refuse to give you the motivation you need to be anywhere close to how good you think you are just because your name is Mitchell. And when you come out to the ring thinking that you are the better wrestler and you have the upper hand...

...that is when you fall, and you fall HARD.

And now look at how the leaderboard shapes up then? After Robina shows her true colors and gets decimated by Adrianna Wilde, and I defeat Billy Mitchell but how good he THINKS he is is way more than how good he actually is, suddenly everyone in the block is 1-1.

And suddenly I control my destiny.

Dynamo holds his hands up and makes the pose that resembles to everyone "TA-DAAAAAA!"

After that, I beat Adrianna Wilde and I'm the winner. I'll be 2-1 and have the tiebreaker over Billy Mitchell, who we all know will beat Robina Hood because, and I can't state this enough times, she's a piece of trash.

Game. Set. Match. You fucking dumbass.

I came here to the Extreme Tournament to make sure that everyone remembered who I am, Kid Dynamo, GOD MODE! Once my master plan comes to fruition, I will have earned exactly that. You will all realize that I am the genius, I am the wrestler so talented and so gifted that I can carry Robina Hood to a four-star match, and I am the mastermind who figured out how to take luck and risk out of the equation and win the B Block not just from being the best wrestler, but from also being the best strategist.

Behind Dynamo, the board changes, the red squares becoming white and the checker pieces becoming chess pieces.

Welcome to my world, Billy. Welcome to the word of putting away those checkers pieces, and pulling out the rooks and bishops. Don't forget the king, either. You see, that's the piece that represents ME.

Which one are you? That's simple. You're the pawn.

Good luck.

You'll need it.

I won't.

Dynamo exits the scene stage left and behind where he was, the screen shows a king piece right as it moves over and kills an opposing pawn. After that, the scene fades.

[Hyde]

Sunday. Dec. 16. 21:37 PST
Barcelona, Spain, Europe
Camp Nou Stadium – Main Field

Mitchell's pulse pounded in his ears like concussive blasts. Each beat louder than the last as the blood rushed through his system, burning hot just beneath his skin, causing it to steam in the fifty-degree temperature. The cool, light drizzle did little to ease the ache in his muscles as he forced himself into another lunging step, almost collapsing under the combined weight of the tractor tires on his shoulders.

His eyes never broke from what lie ahead. As always, the ring had been the first thing completed once the trucks arrived. It stood like a silent sentinel, surrounded by the countless empty seats waiting to be filled in less than twenty-four hours. Men, women and children would fill every possible inch, their voices rising and falling over the course of a three-hour roller coaster exclusively designed to cap one of the biggest years in EWC history. Titles would change hands. Careers would be made – or ended – in the space of three seconds. Some would see their legacies set in stone – while others would see it crumble into dust.

Mitchell would see none of that.

There was no gold in his future. Not yet. Instead, he would find himself in that same ring with twenty other men and women who'd failed to prove themselves worthy of representing the company. Some were too new to be given the spotlight, while others had simply lost the graces of the Front Office. Almost as if he intended to live up to his namesake, 'The Outlaw' found himself part of the latter group. The past six months had been a disgrace. On all counts. To his name. To his profession. To the few people who'd stood by him from the beginning. He didn't deserve to hear any of those voices calling his name tomorrow night.

At least – not yet.

Not until he'd righted the wrongs. Until he'd pulled his reputation free and clear of the mud it had been buried in for the past half a year. The first steps had already been taken, thanks to a quick win over Wilde in the Experts tournament. Sure – to the EWC suits, it wouldn't mean jack shit – but to Mitchell, it was the catalyst. The fork in the road he'd needed to finally swing things back around in the right direction. A direction that would send him crashing through anyone and everyone dumb enough to get in front of him.

Like a runaway freight train.

Reaching the goal line, Mitchell stooped into a squat and adjust the bar. Shifting his grip, he exploded upward and launched the tires forward with a bestial roar. Fire lanced through his back and shoulders before searing down into his legs, causing the muscles to quiver as he let his head fall back, mouth opening to catch a bit of the rain in the hopes of wetting his parched throat while reaching up to scrub at his face.

"That'll do for now, kid. Catch your breath and c'mere, I got somethin' to show you."

Blinking through the drops, Mitchell dropped his eyes to where T stood off on the sideline, peering down at his phone. From the short distance away, Billy could hear a tinny voice screaming through the speakers.

Crossing the distance, he moved to get a better view at whatever the old man was watching. It reminded him of one of those 'found footage' horror movies – all the shaky shots and shitty acting, that is. Still, he paid close attention to the man that eventually showed himself. Kid Dynamo. The next stop on his way to staring down Ace and Georgie in the Expert Finals – hopefully. Ace was down a point from the leaders in his group, but a win over Lester Only would have 'The Gambler' breaking even and back in the black again.

Beside him, T scoffed. "Kid likes to hear himself talk."

Mitchell said nothing and turned his attention back to the video. One thing was crystal clear - Dynamo did his homework. For the better part of five minutes, he verbally picked Robina clean - down to the bones.

So what happened?

If Megan was so far beneath the 'Fourth Best Wrestler on Earth' why did she end up with her hand raised?

"Pompous little prick." Irritation tinged T's croaky tone as he closed out the video. The wheel behinds his steel-gray eyes turned a bit before he shifted his attention to Mitchell. "Somethin' about him I don't like."

Billy nodded. "Same, but it is what it is. Either he was lookin' to run some kind of scam on Treamon, or his mouth outran his skill. Doesn't matter which in the end, 'cause it backfired, so now he needs a new plan."

"Con man or not, he's a thinker, and you don't go sellin' one of those short, you hear me?" Turning, T brought a finger up square with his chest. "He talks. But he knows what he's talkin' about. He ate that girl up, and he'll be lookin' to do the same with you. Ain't like you've been ridin' high lately, kid, so keep your head straight and your eyes forward, 'cause a guy like this'll come at you a dozen different ways, got it?"

In more ways than one.

Loss or not, Dynamo had run Robina ragged in that match. Especially during the first half. Turned out his feet were as quick as his mouth – maybe even quicker. That meant a lot of catch up to be played, and Mitchell'd never been too good at the game. Dynamo wouldn't even need to crack a book to know that.

Billy nodded his understanding. "So what's the plan?"

"You tell me." Drawing back the finger, T moved his arms to a waiting fold across his chest. "You were all gung-ho about chargin' in against the girl. You could just do that again." There was an obvious draw out.

And go running blind into Dynamo's trap.

Strategy and the mental chess game had never been one of Mitchell's strong suits. No. He wasn't stupid, but at the same time, he wasn't the smartest guy in the ring, either. He was a little bigger and stronger than most, and in the end, that was usually enough to settle the issue. Dynamo had a decade of experience on him, at the very least. Arrogance aside, that counted for something. Maybe not a lot, but more than he was willing to turn a blind eye to. Luckily – all that experience had festered into just as much egotism.

"I need to fall back."

Watching him, T simply arched a brow. "Fall back how?"

"Give him room to do his thing. Let him set the pace. Get in his groove. Let him start thinkin' he's got it in the bag." A wry smile shifted at the corner of his mouth. "Let him land a few hits. Maybe even draw some blood. Let his swollen little head blow up a couple sizes – then take the air right out of him with one shot."

Now both of T's brows went up. "That easy, huh?"

"No - that simple." Letting the smile melt away, Mitchell folded his own arms and let his eyes move back to the ring. "Like you said. He's a thinker. I'm not. So thinkin' too much isn't somethin' I need to worry about – but he does. He'll be so busy plannin' things out to the 'T', he won't be able to change directions. He'll hit that fork in the road and stand there like deer in the headlights – right up 'til the train runs him down."

Because this train wasn't stopping anymore.

Slowly, T's brows fell, as his eyes hardened with focus. After a few seconds, he offered a nod. "Ok. That works for me. But you best keep on your toes if you plan on stringin' him along. You hear me?" As before, the lone finger rose in emphasis. "Don't go lookin' past him thinkin' it's all said and done. Don't be sittin' in that ring worryin' about King or the Nickles girl or anythin' other than layin' that boy flat, you hear me?"

"Heard." A single word, as Mitchell nodded.

A hand came up to slap the back of his shoulder, T's fingers digging deep into the flesh with a squeeze.

Mitchell didn't feel it. His attention was still on the ring. In less than twenty-four hours, he'd be the last man standing, surrounded by twenty bodies. Twenty attempts to stop him. Twenty attempts to end his father's legacy. Twenty attempts that fell short. And to those twenty bodies, he would add one more ...

Twenty Men and Women.

And a God.