As the video screen comes to life, the sold-out crowd in the Verizon Center is treated to an image of Brett Conwell, geared up for his match against Adam Hurst later tonight. Brett sits on a bench in the main locker room, a towel hanging over his head, his face soaked with water. Conwell looks right into the camera, beginning what's sure to be an interesting monologue. "Nah it'll probably suck" FUCK YOU, RICK. Ahem. Brett Conwell: It's probably fitting that I'm facing Adam Hurst on a show based around voting... it's fitting because the man's whole goddamn career is nothing but a popularity contest. With that biting opening line, Conwell spits on the floor in front of him. He rips the towel off his head and throws it to the side, then shakes his head like a dog, expelling whatever water he can in the process. He runs his hands through his short hair and continues. Brett Conwell: In this business, you got all kinds: you got the sadistic monsters, the purist athletes, the rednecks, the bluebloods, the millionaires, the thugs, the cynics, the paranoid schizophrenics, the babies, the superstars, the rotten bastards, the cowards... I could go on and on. There's a reason every once in a while some jerkoff shows up talking about pro wrestling like it's nothing but a fucking circus, and it's because of all the bizarre types of people this sport attracts. I got no problem with any of that... ... but I do have a problem with one particular type of scumbag that you see all too often... the Adam Hursts. He spits on the floor again, apparently viscerally disgusted by the mere MENTION of his opponent tonight. Brett Conwell: I look at a man like Adam Hurst and I see somebody who's a sad, pathetic little man, a guy who's been around this merry-go-round again and again, yet doesn't have the fucking self-respect to just be himself. Instead he's gone through name change after name change, tacked on about a thousand stupid nicknames like "The Ninety-Minute Man", and wears sunglasses pretty much everywhere he goes. I look at Adam Hurst and for a second, for a moment, a mere instant in time I actually feel bad for the guy, because he actually shows up to work every single week thinking that these people in the back respect and admire him, look up to him. He's started inhaling the smoke he blows up everybody else's ass, and he thinks he's what? A legend? A superstar? A... champion!? Nah, what Adam Hurst is... is the fucking problem with this business, end of story. Conwell slowly gets up from the bench and starts walking around the locker room, the camera following him as he does so. Brett Conwell: The way I was brought up, you work hard at your job, you bust your ass, you show that you've got the skill and the determination, and maybe one day, if the universe isn't out to screw you, you'll get what you've always wanted. But no matter where you look, you can always find these assholes, these punks who walk around acting like they're the greatest damn thing in the world, but they haven't done a thing to earn it. It doesn't matter if it's some CEO cutting in front of you in line at Starbucks, the needledick trying to hit on your girl right in front of you, or some Hollywood wannabe piece of shit who talks about himself in the third person, it's not hard to find them. That's how I know that the people watching at home or in the arena tonight know exactly where I'm coming from when I tell them I want to snap Hurst's neck like a twig. Funny thing is, not long ago, there was a moment where I actually stepped up to defend the guy, avenge him. One of the assholes in House Midnight decided to wrap razor wire around Hurst's neck and put him out of commission in a big way, and after he got sidelined, Hurst had "Blood and Bones" stepping up to say how fucked up the situation was. It's not because I felt bad for Adam Hurst... but in that rare situation, he was actually the guy getting victimized, the guy in the room who wasn't the least professional piece of trash around. Because at the end of the day, as much as I might brag and bluster about how badass I am, I'm a nice guy and I don't like seeing my co-workers, guys I share a locker room with, getting brutalized for no fucking reason. I don't like the sport of kings, the business I love because it's like a gladiator's arena for me, getting turned into some bullshitstorm of the century by guys like Adam Hurst -- or even the guy that put him on the shelf. But that's the thing, ain't it? For someone like Adam Hurst, there's no such thing as being a man and earning your way. Fighting like a warrior, going toe-to-toe and leaving the ego at the door... that's just a waste of his precious goddamn time, time better spent patting himself on the back for weaseling his way to a win that just makes him look like a pussy. Adam Hurst doesn't know what the hell it means to be a competitor or an athlete... and maybe he could teach me a thing or two about being a "winner", I dunno. But I'd rather be a full-time loser than even a half-time pussy, and I'll go to the grave saying that shit... because I gotta look myself in the mirror EVERY DAMN DAY, and if I can't say that I'm a guy worth respecting, then this? All of it? I'm just spittin' in the wind. So when I go up against Adam Hurst tonight, it doesn't matter what embarrassing little option gets chosen. All that you need to know is that Brett Conwell's bringing a new class of pain to some stuck-up little bitch, and at the end of the day, I might be shooting myself in the foot. Because I can't make Hurst sing me a song if I rip out his vocal chords, I can't make him wrestle an opponent I choose if I break his legs, and I can't make him throw some embarrassing crap on and wear it to the ring if I leave him so disfigured that nobody would even NOTICE. I am the Detroit Destroyer, and I will break you in half, Adam. Ninety-Minute Man? Hell, just give me a tenth of that, and I'll put you in the morgue. With that, Conwell walks off, and the video ends... OOC: Sup.