EWC RP (fills in the gap between Super6 Weeks 1 and 3)

[Hyde]

OOC: Wanted to post this just as a small CD style piece to bridge the gap, since Mitchell is currently active in both the Super6 and his home promotion, with the Week 3 Group Show and the EWC Pay-Per-View happening within days of each other. While not an official Experts piece, it does make mention of the tournament and continues to build his motivations for participating. Plus it just gives anyone interested the character another look into how his mind works.


Thursday. Dec. 06. 22:31 CST
O'Hare Airport, Chicago IL
Stanley's Blackhawk Kitchen


Leaning back against the ratty vinyl cover of the booth bench seat, Mitchell thumbed through the endless parade of tweets, posts and pop-ups bearing the EWC or WrestleFest tags. There'd been no shortage of hype for the show back at the start of the month, but with the countdown clock now hitting single digits, it seemed like all hell had finally broken loose. Debates over possible returns – with Drake and Luke Wolfe being at the forefront – warred with rampant predictions over things like title changes and sleeper upsets. One of the few constants was the support for NSFW. Another was the army of loyalists rallying behind Candy as she went into yet another defense against Dominic Sanders. Not to take anything away from anyone involved, but neither match had been a major focus for him. If anything, outside his own, the only one that warranted Mitchell's attention was the US Title match.

King v. Nickles. Round 2.

Besides the obvious reason, Mitchell planned on watching that match very closely. Sure, he had something of a personal stake in the outcome, but more than that, he intended to find himself standing across from one or both of them in the Finals of the Experts Tournament. He'd already picked up his first win tonight over the Wilde woman. Ace hadn't fared as well, pulling a draw with the reigning champ, but the past year under the green banner had taught him not to deal 'The Gambler' out too soon. And as for Georgie? Well, the woman wasn't afraid of getting rough. That much was for certain. And once she set her mind to a goal, there wasn't much hope of stopping her short of knocking the girl out cold.

Good luck and heaven's help to anyone who wanted to try.

The snap of fingers pulled him out of his head and into the moment. Blinking free of his thoughts, he glanced up to find T sliding onto the bench opposite while thudding two bottles of Dos Equis on the table.

"Rise and shine, Sleepin' Beauty," the old man croaked. "Plane's supposed to be ready to go in 'bout a half hour, so suck it down fast." Scooping up his beer, he tapped the neck off Mitchell's and pulled a long draw before letting out a satisfied exhale. "Not too bad." Setting the bottle aside, he stared at the yet untouched one in front of Mitchell. "Hey!" He reached out to snap his fingers again, a bit more agitated this time. "Bring it back to Earth, kid. Where the hell are you?"

"Spain." Mitchell answered with a single word, not even bothering to glance up as he stared at the bottle in front of him, eyes following a thick drop as it slid down the glass. "Ace and Georgie's fight."

T scoffed, though in good nature. "I could've figured. Every time I turn around, you're readin' up on one of 'em or the other." He shrugged and tapped a gnarled knuckle on the table. "That's for then though, Billy. You got more pressin' matters here and now. This whole Experts deal is fine and dandy for clearin' your head, but you got to focus on clearin' your name, too." Lifting the tapping digit, he aimed it squarely at Mitchell's chest. "You talked a big game about honorin' what your father left you. But knockin' some twig of a girl six ways from Sunday don't mean spit to the suits back home. Not when you been ridin' the pine pony the better part of the year. This whole rumble thing? Best idea you've had so far. May not be some free for all against Happy or Garcia or anyone worth a damn, but it's still a chance to make a statement. And a big one, if you play your cards right." Lowering the finger, T reached for his beer and took another pull.

The old man wasn't wrong.

Save for one thing – there were one or two people waiting for him at WrestleFest that had most, if not all the momentum. Sure, a good portion of the lineup were indie stars off Prime or FSW. Others were fresh through the doors, the ink on their contracts still wet. But he could think of a select few that demanded a little more attention than what T seemed willing to admit. Kross, for example, obviously had his supporters. Former Television Champion. Twice, in fact. All thanks to a series of matches against Ruthann Hunter that were sure to be extra features on the woman's eventual DVD set. Then there was Kelsey. The returning Bullfrog. He'd only hit the kid up once or twice on social media, but there was something about him he liked. A kind of honesty you didn't see too much anymore. Especially in this business. Granted, it wouldn't stop him from snapping a leg to keep the guy grounded if push came to shove, but at least it wouldn't be anything personal. To be fair, though, he'd need to catch the son of a bitch, first, and what little tape he'd found on the guy made it clear Kelsey would be giving the likes of Kross and El Pablo a run for the money in terms of quickness. Best chance he had with any of them was catching them out of the air or knocking them off the ropes once they'd hit the well too many times.

Then there was the elephant in the room.

The hands down favorite. The returning champion, so to speak. Sebastian Conner. Last year, Conner had gone into the thing faceless and nameless. Not unlike some of the new recruits coming into this thing – Maverick, Pump, Ayres – Conner had been nobody. That changed when he wound up alone in the middle of the ring, having dumped out the likes of Melinda Rhodes, Ruthann Hunter and Nostalgia. In one single second, Conner went from being faceless, to being the face of the next generation in EWC. It didn't matter what brand he competed on – FSW or Rampage – the man made one thing crystal clear: that he was there to dominate. And he had, for the most part, at least until Cottoneye Joe got to him.

Yo Joe ... you got a problem, son.

Hopefully the wannabe 'Hustler' could manage to clear his vision before it was too late. But, Conner wouldn't stop at Joe. It wasn't his way. Not when he'd stood over the most dominant champion in the company.

The Ace wasn't the high card that night.

Now, Conner was coming back to do what he did best – conquer.

A sudden sting exploded through the side of his head, as T's palm cuffed his ear and sent him jerking back against the seat. Immediately, Mitchell's own hand came up to cup his throbbing temple. "Jesus Christ, T!" Colors danced a bit behind his eyes, but eventually both they and the ringing in his ears ebbed away. "The hell was that for?" The question lacked any vehemence, since he already knew the answer.

T offered it anyway, his blue-gray eyes having hardened to steel as he stared across at him. "For makin' me look like a damned idiot." Despite the earlier violence, the old man's gruff voice was low and calm, at least as much as his gravel tone would allow. "Been sittin' here jawin' for the better part of ten minutes only to realize I'm talkin' to a brick wall. Thought I told you to keep your feet on the ground!"

Mitchell nodded. "Yeah, you did. But you also told me to focus, and that's what I was doin'. Might be hard to believe, old man, but there's one or two guys in this thing worth thinkin' about." Reaching for his bottle, he drained it down to half with a couple of long draws, using the back of his hand to wipe his lips clean of residue. "As for the rest ... don't know 'em from Adam, so not much I can do outside of knuckle up and knock 'em down. Same as usual." Lifting the bottle in mock salute, he flashed a somewhat sardonic smile at the old man. In the same motion, he checked his watch for the time. There was still fifteen minutes before they needed to be at the gate. Upturning the beer, he polished it off and thumped the empty bottle to the tabletop. "C'mon. Time to go get what I got to say said and done."



"Let's make this short and simple, shall we? There ain't a damned one of you that expects me to be the last man standing come Sunday night. Not against the likes of Kendrick Kross, Sebastian Conner, El Pablo or any of the mainstays that got shoved into this thing. And honestly? I'm A-ok with that. That suits me fine and dandy, 'cause let me make something clear to you. I'm done settlin' for second best. I'm done actin' like bein' the better man is good enough. I'm sick of swallowin' my pride and walkin' back through that curtain while some other jackass's music is boomin' in my ears. You hear me? Sick of it.

And when I'm sick of somethin', I don't sit around pissin' and moanin'. I go, and I do somethin' about it.

So, when we all get to Spain, and we're all standin' in that ring eyein' each other up and down, left and right and pickin' out the easy targets, I'm goin' to haul off and break the jaw of whoever's in front of me. I don't care who it is. It can be Malcom Myers, it can be Arsenal, it can be Gabby V, or any other snot nosed little shit lookin' to stand out quick and easy. I'll be happy to put your ass in the dirt and say, 'Welcome to EWC!', before moving on to the next sad sack. If that means dumpin' a pile of paperwork a mile high on the medic's lap, then so be it. And yeah, call this whatever you like. Call it a bunch of tough talk. Call it braggin'. Call it blowin' smoke and hot air. Call it what you like, 'cause every single word out of every single one of your mouths just pisses me off more, so I'm lettin' loose on every ass in reach!

I've spent the last six months havin' to pick myself up out of the dirt, week in and week out. I've spent the last half year draggin' my name – my father's name – through the damned mud, when it used to be worth it's weight in gold in this business. So help me God, it will be again. By the new year, I'll be the new True Champion of the Experts. The newest Mitchell to etch himself into the history and heritage of this business. But before that – I'm going to climb into the ring at WrestleFest, and I'm going to stand in the dead damned center and watch as twenty men and women do their damndest to put me down.

They won't.

Not in Spain. Not in Chicago. Not in EWC or the Experts. I'm drawin' my line in the sand, and anyone who feels they've got what it takes is more than welcome to step to it. Man. Woman. Rookie. Veteran or Legend. I'll drop 'em all. Every last one of 'em. One shot after another, until there's no one left to bring this outlaw to justice.

You got my damned word on that!"