The Great Muta vs Dude McSweetpants

[The Great Muta (T)]

“ON THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN”

The pitter-patter sound of ashen raindrops echoes through blackness with a muffled wind sound, coupled with soft rolling thunder in the background. The scene flashes for a split second, highlighting the inner parts of a tall chain link fence with razor wire tangled around the top. Rust hugs against some of the meshed metal that separates the battered concrete flooring on the inside from the pale brown gravel that has gained a substantial amount of moisture from the rainfall on the outside. Thunder sounds again with another crack of lightning as a symphony of footsteps coming from screen left. The beige trench coat paired with a deep brown fedora is sitting comfortably on the dark-skinned frame of Slick, the manager of The Great Muta.

A toothy smirk is drawn across the now pudgy face of the sensei of style, positioned in front of a black umbrella that sits behind his head, being twirled by his hands in a smooth, clockwise motion, like a professional. Slick faces the camera, tilting his distinguished jaw in the air as beads of rainwater run down his face, his brown eyes set on the camera as he looks down his nose in a superior manner. He bows his head towards his feet, chuckling before tossing his head up again, licking his top lip, flashing his pearly-white teeth on both sides before recoiling his tongue back in his mouth, bringing his lips back together, closing them flush before addressing the DHWA Universe.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Escape. Escape was the theme of the program last week, this week, it is very much the same. DHWA superstars, from the left, from the right, from the north, from the south; all of ‘em, wanting a chance to escape the title of ‘DHWA superstar’, entering the title of DHWA CHAMPION. Last week, The Great Muta escaped the towering steel giant to secure a win, to secure a place, to secure his RIGHTFUL SPOT –haha – as being ONE-STEP-CLOSER to being awarded that very title: DHWA CHAMPION. Derick.. Moris… You stepped, not only into that ring, but INTO THAT STEEL CAGE knowing full well that you were putting your wellbeing on the line with my client, my investment, my human wrecking machine, the pearl of the orient, The Great Muta.

Slick snickers, drawing the umbrella from his broad shoulder like a huntsman drawing an arrow from his quiver, holding it in front of his face, pulling on the latch, bringing down the black plastic fabric down to a flaccid state. He grabs the umbrella near the top with his left hand, bringing it down to his side like a cane, pressing the curved and lacquered wood handle onto the cold and wet pavement which the Slickster stands on.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
You mocked The Great Muta’s ability from the minute your ill-painted face reared itself up on the titantron that looms over the entrance way. Pfft. Brotha, you are just like the rest, just like all those who fell to The Great Muta in AJPW, NJPW, NWA, WWC, WCW, and many others including the now home of the Pearl of the Ortient: DHWA. All those that fell to The Great Muta in the past and the ones who are bound to fall to him in the very near future, you, Moris, you’ve all got something in common: You’re all losers and you CEMENTED that fact last week when you were left in that ring covered in a bitter green stain that choked and blinded you from the second it was blasted square in your face! You’re a loser just like the ones from before and you’re just like the ones to come. You all doubt the ability of The Great Muta, whether it be his age, his nationality or his CHOICE to be silent when he feels the need. All of you fell and are bound to fall to the PEARL of the Orient…

Slick adjusts his fedora, latching on the center of it with his thumb, index and middle fingers jarring it back and forth until it is more comfortable on his round head. White, orange and red lights travel in the far off background behind the fencing, insinuating traffic on a distant highway.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
So many have fell to The Great Muta’s sheer strength and impressive athletic ability; Sting, Hiroshi Hase, EVERYONE at one point or the other, in and out of Japan, felt every bet of The Great Muta’s wrath and Diego Cortez was no different, YOU, Derick Moris was no different and TONIGHT Dude McSweetpants will be no different.

Slick takes a few steps forward before transitioning into a full on walk as the camera pans backwards, widening the background with the fence growing with ever frame, separating the inside from the outside. Lightning makes it’s presence known again with another flash, shortly followed by a booming sound of thunder, still with the heavy raindrops falling from the dark heavens overhead.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
I’ve seen ‘em all come and go. The Hogans, the Andres, the Backlunds, the Warriors, the Hitmans… Look at the names, brothas, and connect the dots. Hogan, Andre, Backlund, Warrior, Hart… It got too hot in the kitchen so they got on out of there. Hogan was a gold digger who felt the financial wellbeing of the McMahons was not good enough, got a little hot underneath the collar afraid that he’s not going to get what he’s worth, and quit and started to beat around Ted Turner’s bush. Andre, tallest jabroni brotha in the business. Couldn’t work, couldn’t stay SOBER, but he could draw. HE COULD DRAW BROTHA, HA. But just because you bring in the bucks doesn’t mean you’re “the guy”. A lot of guys drew in this business but a lot of them were flashes in the pan, right Jim? Hahaha.. Just hold on, little brothas and let the Slickster get to it when the Slickster is reeaaddyyyyyy. In short” Andre, he could draw, couldn’t work, and left when there was no beer and there was no hope for him in this business so the brotha laid down and DIED…

Jim Ross chimes in from the announcement table, dubbing over the rain that emanates from the video via the P.A. system of the venue.

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
This is disgusting, get this guy off the screen! None of this is true, Andre was a good man, he’s ruining his image!

-x[Jerry Lawler | The King]x-
Face it, J.R., Slick is going to say what he wants to say, whether it is right or wrong. That’s how he made a name for himself in this business: slandering the good name of all the greats that came before him, whether it be the talent or the managers who built up so many stars over the years. Slick is a evil man and he wants to get under peoples skin and piss them off, he lives and breathes off it J.R.. It’s what he needs to live.

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
It’s not fair to these great athletes, King!

-x[Jerry Lawler | The King]x-
I understand, J.R., it’s tearing me up inside too, and I truly hope it does the same to the fans at home and those here in attendance. A despicable display of freedom of speech.

Slick snickers at the camera before continuing spitting his slander and dirt that he’s accumulated over the years, whether it be fact or fiction. Slick stops walking towards the camera still with his wide smile drawn across his face.

-x[Slick |The Sensei of Style]x-
Backlund was WWF champion for six years and everything from that point on for Bob was nothing more than a joke. He had pitiful matches, lost his mind and now he’s selling heating oil to little old ladies who’ve never heard of electric heating! Backlund was one of the best in this business, but the towel was thrown in as he was in the process of having his back broken while being humbled by the ever so iconic and impressive Iron Sheik. Six years, SIX YEARS, BOB. You were the top guy in the World Wrestling Federation… You let it all go, you let it all go like you let you did with your excuse for a life. A great inring technician who worked around the squared circle to a beggar for money, working around people’s pockets just to make a buck for those who live in the past and can’t get on with the future. Warrior got into the WWF because his partner was a star, but he wasn’t his partner was he? Ha, you weren’t THE STINGER were you, Jim? No. You never were and you never WILL BE, so don’t play it up like you’re some big superstar, the biggest of them all, that you’re bigger than Hogan, bigger than Sting, bigger than Mach, ‘cause you’re not. You’re just an investment gone wrong. Vince saw you for something you were not and he got what you weren’t. A small guy with big muscles who got blown up running down to ringside. Pitiful. You didn’t know the business, you didn’t respect the business and you should have never been broken in.

Slick raises his right arm, rubbing his slightly running nose with his beige trench coat sleeve before continuing to speak. He sniffs hard, making sure his nose is clear.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
I’m not going to even RAG on Bret because we ALL know that story. But right about now, you’re probably looking at me with your brow raised, wanting to know what the hell does that have to do with Dude McSweetpants. What all that has to do with The Great Muta… I’ll tell you.

-x[Director]x-
CUT!

Suddenly, the rain stops and the scene in the background explodes into a vibrant green color. Slick smirks, undoing his trench coat, first the beige leather belt first, then the large tan buttons, exposing a white dress shirt matched with a black tie. He slides the heavy coat off of his back and arms, showing red suspenders that connect to a dark gray pair of dress pants. He pulls the signature fedora off of his skull with ease, handing it to a woman standing to his right with a smile before looking into the camera, the cocky, arrogant, sure-of-himself grin that we’re all too used to at this point.

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
W- What..?

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
All the names I mentioned, all the things I said, exaggerated personalities and exaggerated truths. All that you saw here, all that you heard was nothing more than an illusion. A cover up. You were simply on the outside looking in and everything on the inside is not always as it seems. I know, my motto, I only tell the truth, honesty is the best policy, but brotha, in this business, you sometimes need to exaggerate that gimmick, you need to exaggerate yourself. EXHAGGERATING, however, is not hiding behind a false face and a false truth. Bret, the best there was, maybe, but I don’t think the best there was would have been forced out of the company he slaved for to gain that name in a foolish game of “he said, she said”. Andre wasn’t a giant, he was a mouse compared to so many for his ego and his disrespect for the fans, Jim wasn’t a warrior and he SURE AS HELL wasn’t ULTIMATE. Jim was nothing more than a human, no better than you or me.. Well, maybe only you. The Great Muta, ladies and gentlemen, Dude, The Great Muta is everything that he has portrayed himself to be over all these years: A monster, not a man, a ruthless, unforgiving animal who’s DETERMINED to get into that ring and tear each and every one of his foes apart as violent and as torturing as he can before decapitating them with the dreaded Shining Wizard.

Slick starts to walk forward, the large green sheet is soon filled with personnel, talking to each other with papers and scripts in their hands, laden with cues and directions. Someone to Slick’s left hands him a coffee, gladly taken by the sensei of style, who almost instantly takes a sip. With a node and a subtle smile, Slick sticks his dark thumb upward for a quick second before facing the camera gain, the paper cup around chest level.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Dude, what are you? Are you nothing more than a Warrior? A Hart? A Hogan? Someone who lies behind false truths, and more importantly, a false face? What do you have to hide, McSweetpants? Dignity? Are you that upset with yourself and who you really are, that you need to hide behind a mask and be something that you’re not, just like all the mainstream stars that transcended this business on child’s games? I don’t hide behind a mask, I don’t hide behind a lie, presenting myself as something that I’m not. You’re not a super hero, you’re not a super villain, you sir, are no more human than me and you have no more potential than The Great Muta. You’re nothing more than a child stuck in a man’s body, a child stuck in a man’s world with a towel tied around your neck, a mask on your face hiding your identity because you cannot and will not come to terms with how this world and this business works. We all need to show our face sometime, and we all need to be truthful to ourselves and these people who have supported us as pro wrestling personalities for all these years. I tell the truth, because HONESTY is the best policy. You wear that mask as a symbol, a symbol of disdain for yourself, just like how guys like Shawn Michaels wear the cross to make people forget how much of an ass he is.. You’re nothing more than a liar and you ARE NOT an honest man…

Slick looks over his left shoulder before flashing a smile.

A black-booted foot rips through the green screen, sending the people who were standing in front of it away in a flurry of screams and flailing arms like a flock of seagulls being scared off by a loud noise. The tear gets bigger with a hand coming through. The Great Muta protrudes himself from the tear he had made in his entrance robe and entrance headgear that brushes against his exposed throat.

Muta looks to his left, then to his right before looking towards the camera from behind Slick.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
And the dishonest shall be silenced... Permanently.

Muta rips his headgear off, showing his open faced mask that he had chosen for tonight’s match with an emotionless stare paired with green-stained lips. Slick maniacally laughs as Muta's brown, almost black eyes scan his surroundings like a ravaged animal.

We fade to black before heading to commercial.

-EORP-

[The Great Muta (T)]

“FOOT IN THE DOOR”

DHWA Friday Night Massacre fades in from commercial break, instantly focusing on the blue, thick and heavy metal door that is indented into the white brick walls of the arena’s backstage area. On the door reads “STONE COLD STEVE AUSTIN : GM”, which instantly brings the low hiss of the crowd to a booming cheer of applause for the Bionic Redneck, who’s not only the owner of the Die-Hard Wrestling Alliance, but the General Manager of Friday Night Massacre, the flagship program for the wrestling organization. A metallic rattling is heard for a quick second before the door opens slowly just slightly, only to be forced the whole way open in a quick thrust.

The fans in attendance boo loudly as the smiling face of the Sensei of Style rears itself from inside the GM’s office, stepping out with a slight laugh. Slick now wears a solid black kimono as opposed to his suit from earlier tonight in front of the green screen when he berated Dude McSweetpants. Slick’s laugh fades to a chuckle then to nothing, the smile hiding itself behind a sly grimace of sorts peering to his left, then his right with his dark brown eyes. Slick pulls the door shut behind him, pressing his back against the cold metal door. An arrogant and sure-of-himself smile comes through again with his pink tongue protruding slightly between his middle top and bottom teeth. His lips are curled upward as he pushes himself off the door, walking out of the shot, the fans now silent.

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
T’hell was that about?

We transition to a shot of Jim Ross and Jerry “The King” Lawler at ringside, sitting comfortably behind the announcement table that bears the DHWA logo on the plastic shell that protects the monitors in which the two commentators can get a better shot of the matches taking place while the commentate.

-x[Jerry Lawler | The King]x-
I don’t know, J.R., but when it comes to Slick, as we saw earlier tonight, anything is possible when it comes to that man.

Jerry Lawler looks into the camera with a mild smile on his face, his wrists crossed in front of him on the white hollow table as the iconic voice of J.R. is heard loudly through the television sets in which the fans at home enjoy the weekly program on via his headset which sits underneath his cowboy hat, the headrest touching the back of his thick neck.

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
Speaking of anything happening here tonight, ladies and gentlemen, that statement personifies the idea of our main event, a ladder match for the DHWA Intercontinental Championship. Derick Moris, Slim Pickens, both men reaching for that brass ring tonight, LIVE, from the Big Sandy Superstore Arena here in Huntington, West Virginia!

-x[Jerry Lawler | The King]x-
Absolutely, J.R., these two athletes are nothing more than impressive. There’s nothing like a main event for a championship title between two deserving competitors, let alone a ladder match with the Intercontinental Championship hanging over the r-!

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
JIVE SOUL BROTHAS AND SISTAS!

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
Oh jeez, not this guy!

The sensei formerly, doctor, of style struts out onto the stage through the curtain which hangs in two pieces several feet under underneath the large titantron. The fans seem to boo louder towards Slick, now with mic in hand, even though the boos from when he appeared backstage were quite deafening.

-x[Jerry Lawler | The King]x-
Maybe Stone Cold told Slick: “hey, Slick, here’s a microphone, leave me alone and play with this,” to get him out of his office.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Stand up on your feet and direct your attention, affection and absolute RESPECT towards the single most feared man in the history of not only the DHWA, but the entire world: The Greeaatt MUUUUTTTAAAA!!



The lights in the venue instantly go out to a bleak black, only illuminated by the light of the flashing titantron and the purple-coloured fog that creeps it’s way out from under the curtain. The Slickster, who is slightly visible now, holds his right hand towards the curtain in a presenting motion, his cane held tightly upward in his left hand.

The curtain bursts open with The Great Muta holding his throat, slightly crouched with his left arm extended horizontally behind his back. He slowly crawls in this position to the edge of the ramp, straightening himself, ever so slightly, knees still bent and shoulders raised. Pyro explodes silently from underneath the titantron, swirling around in a circular motion, almost like a fan, the yellow and white sparks flying every which way, sizzling out into smoke on the steel stage.

The Great Muta briskly walks down the ramp, his entrance music still playing, followed by Slick who holds his microphone in the same hand as his cane. Muta’s ring attire is black and red with gold designs and Japanese lettering down the legs. His entrance robe is red with a black center with gold straps keeping it shut, aided by the thick, gold-studded cloth belt around his waist. His entrance headgear is red as well, though black slivers of cloth caresses his shoulders, bearing gold Japanese writing, much like his pants. The two enter the squared circle, the lights fading to a normal hue. Muta falls back into one of the corners, holding the middle rope with his taped fingers as Slick, in the center of the ring, continues to run his mouth.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Ladies and gentlemen, revel in the pure glory and impressiveness of the one and only pearl of the Orient, the man, who tonight, will add another name to his list of victims in the form of “Dude McSweetpants”. Everyone here, and everyone at home, know all too well about what this man, this monster, this beast, The Great Muta is capable of. He’s seen and done it all. He’s faced the best and he’s beaten the best and now you DARE insult the credibility of the Japanese legend by tossing him into a match against a man who can’t let go of his childhood!? The audacity of not only the booking team who were foolish enough to set up Dude McSweetpants’ FATE here tonight, but the sheer dimwittedness that Dude has expressed by even showing up here tonight. There’ve been a lot of men who have let their guard down in the past, and even here in the DHWA while stepping into the ring with The Great Muta, namely the estranged woman-abusing husband Diego Cortez and the in-over-his-head Derick Moris, who’ve both at one point felt the wrath of the choking mists and the versatile shining wizards this man possesses.

Slick lowers his mic slightly, letting the fans’ overall opinion of his ramblings sink in in the form of heavy, resounding boos. We see a quick shot of Muta, still crouched in the corner, now with his headgear removed showing his facemask he will wear for his match against McSweetpants in the upper-mid card. His eyes peer through the black eye paint he wears under the mask as we shoot back to Slick who continues to speak.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Dude, I don’t see how, or even why upper management see you as a valuable asset to the Friday Night Massacre roster. You’re just a child stuck inside a man’s body, stuck into a man’s world and brotha, you stick out like a sore thumb. You claim to be a Super Hero, a Super Villain.. Pfft, and I’m the tooth fairy. An imagination is a good thing, brotha, I’ll give you JUST THAT MUCH because a good imagination keeps this business alive. A good imagination goes hand in hand, works side by side with the ability to captivate the audiences, the ability to make things believable and to make people want to drive across the country and fly around the world to see you perform at the top of your game and express that creativity you possess… Look at this place, McSweetpants… Take a good, long and hard look around. These people are not children, the viewers at home are not children and I am not a child, neither is The Great Muta. You’re not impressing us at all. These people don’t like you, the people at home don’t like you and by now, if you can’t already tell, I don’t like you and because of that, instead of holding a potential spot as world champion, you will be holding you head in your hands as The Great Muta takes it off in one swift motion with a leg lariat in the form of his lethal shining wizard, a move he has not only created himself, but one that has given him wins and achievements all over the world…

Slick brushes his goatee with his index finger and thumb. Muta is now standing on his feet, slightly out of the corner, clutching the top rope this time.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Look me in the eyes McSweetpants. Look yourself in the mirror. You can’t. Heh, maybe when you’re finished playing in your batcave you’ve made from the cardboard box your daddy came in, you can step into reality, step into the man’s world as a MAN and not A CHILD and do so. Look at the walking thriller, the ice cold killer, the most ravishin’, damagin’ international world champion that’s this business has ever seen. LOOK AT HIM. He’s not fake, he doesn’t wear a false-face, he doesn’t hide behind lies and a secret identity because he can’t come to terms with who he is and has to pretend to be something he’s not. What you see and what you feel when you’re standing across the ring with The Great Muta is one hundred percent legitimate. From his fiery eyes to the fiery burning that ensues when you’re marred with his deadly red mist, everything is real and not a fairy tale or a hoax like the one you live.

The fans boo louder as Slick cockily smiles again, The Great Muta looking around in the background.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
There’s no other man in the WORLD who can ever do what this man does mentally and physically.. Dude McSweetpants, tonight, you meet your d-!



The fans uproar into an almost endless see of cheers as the music of Stone Cold Steve Austin blasts through the P.A. system!

We see a shot of Slick in the ring who looks around with a shocked expression on his face. The Great Muta still clutches the top rope, staring at the entrance way, attracted by the music off the Texas Rattlesnake.

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
STONE COLD! STONE COLD! STONE COLD!

-x[Jerry Lawler | The King]x-
HA! Look at Slick, J.R.!

Stone Cold walks out onto the stage with his signature swagger. His arms sway back and forth in front of his lower torso as his head bobs back and forth to the beat of his iconic entrance music. We see a quick shot of several Austin-directed signs, reading things like “GM 3:16” and “STUNNER SLIM PICKENS”. When we cut back to Austin, he’s already in the ring, scaling to the second rope launching two middle fingers in the air. Austin wears a black polo shirt with the letters “SCSA” on the upper left pectoral in a bold, short gray font over a pair of light blue jeans. He drops from the corner, cutting diagonally across the ring, his vision locked on the two heels, climbing to the next turnbuckle to flip another pair of birds. He does the same for the final two turnbuckles before settling down to the mat, pacing back and forth, still focusing on Slick and Muta, this time with a mic in hand.

The music dies down and “Austin” chants boom through the area. Stone Cold holds out his left and before speaking.

-x[Stole Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
Everyone in this arena right now who thinks that the doctor, sensei or whatever-he-wants-to-be-called of style should shut his damn mouth before ol’ Stone Cold stuns him halfway back to the batcave gimme a hell yeah!

A loud “HELL YEAH!” over powers Jerry Lawler’s giggling at ringside as Slick’s eyes bug out, obviously shocked to see Stone Cold out in the ring.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Austin, I-!

-x[Stole Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
What?

The King giggles again at ringside as Slick drops his mic conveying an annoyed expression on his face.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
I-!

-x[Stole Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
(with crowd in unison)
What?

Austin smiles as Slick expresses his frustration with Austin’s games with unheard words not picked up by his lowered mic.

-x[Stone Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
Naw, naw, go ahead, Stone Cold won’t do it again, I promise..

Slick takes a sigh of relief.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Steve, please, not here. This could wait. Please, let’s discuss this later al-!

-x[Stone Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
(with crowd in unison)
What?

Slick puts his hands on his hips while Austin flashes a wide smile, the sold out crowd chiming in with another “Austin” chant.

-x[Stone Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
Y’know, Slick, I’m not going to do what you say ‘cause this is Stone Cold’s company and this is Stone Cold’s show. I’m not going to operate on your time ‘cause it’s because of Stone Cold that you have any time at all here on Friday Night Massacre. Stone Cold is going to do what Stone Cold wants to and Stone Cold is going to do things the way Stone Cold wants to do them. So you’re not going to look down your jive soul bro nose at the Texas rattlesnake and tell him he can’t do what he wants to do ‘cause you’re going to be out cold in this ring.

Stone Cold rubs his goatee before continuing.

-x[Stone Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
I thought about what you said to me in the back earlier, in my office…

The Great Muta’s dark eyes instantly focus on his manager, Slick who is back on to Muta. His eyes squint slightly, looking back at Austin who continues his speech.

-x[Stone Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
(continued)
… n’ Stone Cold gotta say that you made a very good business position ‘cause Stone Cold isn’t a wrestler here in DHWA, he is a businessman, I’m a promoter and I need a profit and your idea brings in profit, not only to me and the DHWA as a whole, but you as well. It’s a good, profitable idea but there’s a problem with your idea that needs to be addressed. Y’see, Stone Cold is a business man, but Stone Cold worked the better part of his adult life as a professional wrestler and I’ve seen the ins and outs of the business and I know how this business works and your idea is the exact opposite of how it should work.

Slick’s hand flies up with his mic.

-x[Slick | The Sensei of Style]x-
Please, Austin, brotha, please don’t do it. Not here. Let’s go in the back, let’s go in your office. Not here, not in front of these people. Please. I’ll give you anything, please.

Austin’s blue eyes stare into Slick’s shiny face marked with a worried, embarrassed and pleading expression.

-x[Stone Cold Steve Austin | The Texas Rattlesnake]x-
That’s the problem. You claim to give ol’ Stone Cold anything just like you did in the back. I’m not going to take your money and I’m not going to take your excuses and that’s the bottom line! You’re not better than anyone else in this company and neither is The Great Muta, and judging by your evaluation and proposition you brought to me moments ago, you think he is much less than that.

Muta’s eyes widen at Austin’s words, leaping forward, blowing a cloud of red mist into the GM’s face, making him fall to the mat with a yelp of agony.

-x[Jim Ross | Good ol’ J.R.]x-
MUTA! MUTA SPIT THE MIST IN AUSTIN’S FACE!

Muta measures Austin up for a shining wizard and the Massacre GM gets to one knee but Slick intervenes, pulling him away looking into his enraged eyes before pushing him into the lower turnbuckle with force shouting at him in a negative tone. Muta looks into Slick’s eyes with visible anger before rolling out of the ring.

Slick turns around and is met with a Stone Cold Stunner from the red-faced GM who wipes the red power from his face following the maneuver, the fans going nuts. Austin calls for a beer as he climbs to the turnbuckle, cracking two open, pouring them down his face and chest as we fade to commercial.

-EORP-

OOC: I've contacted Stone Cold and he has granted me permission to include him in my RP and to even use Muta's Asian mist. Very much appreciated.