From the Desk of Bob Mitchell:
(We come back to find Bob Mitchell sitting at his desk on the phone.)
BM: Yeah that's right, so just send your stuff over and I'll take a look at it.
(Unintelligible mumblings from the other side.)
BM: All of it. Head shots, glamour shots, tape, magazine clippings, anything you got. If it's impressive I'll fly you over here to get in the ring with my boys for a tryout.
BM: The sooner I get it the better. If you're as good as they say then it'll be worth your while and I'll make sure you get comped for anything out-of-pocket.
(Mumble, mumble, mumble.)
BM: Hey, you gotta spend money to make money. Just get it done and if you're good enough you wont have to worry about it.
BM: Fine, I'll be looking for it.
(He hangs up the phone and notices the IIW camera has re-entered his office followed closely by The Commander.)
BM: What do you guys want? You want this on tape? Fine. Get a good look. Go on, turn that thing around and get a good look at The Commander.
(They turn and get a shot of the massive IIW wrestler. He's big and imposing and looks like he'd win a fist fight with an alligator, but he's also shabby looking. His hair is growing out short and stubby, his beard is longer, wiry and unkempt. He's wearing the same worn gym shorts and trainers he wears in the ring.)
BM: Just get a look. This is what happens when you smother a T-Bone steak in ketchup. It's a fucking disgrace. Just take a look at yourself Commander, you look god-awful. You don't look like a guy who should be competing in IIW, you look like a guy you’d see on the cover of tapes of bum fights.
TC: Bum fights? What the fuck are you on about Bob?
BM: Bum fights, you know... Don't tell me you guys don't have them here. Where guys rent a warehouse and have homeless people fight for food and film it. You can get those tapes on every corner in New York.
TC: Oh, HOBO fights.
BM: Yeah that's what you look like, a fucking hobo street fighter. After ten god-damned years in IIW, after making your name as a legitimate fighter in underground MMA fights, after you served the French fucking Foreign Legion served as an officer and got your French citizenship for blood spilled in service to France.
TC: It's called "Français par le sang versé".
BM: I know what it's called, it's how you got the name The Commander. My fucking point is you're the baddest of bad-asses and you should be treated that way. When you walk down the street people shouldn't know whether to piss their pants or jump out of the way, but when they look at you they point and fucking laugh. I mean look at you. How long have you had those shorts?
TC: Since before I started in IIW.
BM: Yeah and you fucking walk down the street like that. It's pathetic.
TC: What do you want Bob? Ten years of barely scraping by, barely earning a check facing and losing to every new guy that's come through IIW barely puts food on my table or keeps a roof over my head. Sometimes it doesn't even do that.
BM: Well that stops now. I told you when we met if you signed with me things are gonna change. And what happened?
TC: I sleep on the couch in your office.
BM: You sleep on the... WHAT THE FUCK!?! No not that. Stop doing that. You won. That's my point, you got your first win in... Well no one around remembers you ever winning before. But you did. Now that was step one. I signed you for a reason. The Commander is a fucking monster. You spend all your life drifting between the gym, my office, and the IIW arena. Well starting now you're going to go a few more places.
TC: Yeah like where?
BM: Here's your homework big man. First you're going to take this...
(He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a card. It looks like a Visa but the logo is partly obscured.)
BM: Take this and go to a barber. Get cleaned up. Then hit up somewhere to get yourself some new threads. Get a suit. I don't expect it to look like Blade's, just make it somewhat decent, then get yourself some new ring gear, find a way to get a fucking tan in this sun-forsaken country, then go to a bar. Don't wear your suit, but go in there, get yourself a bottle of the hardest thing they got, pick the biggest guy in the place and break his fucking nose.
TC: You want me to go start a brawl in a bar?
BM: YES! Jesus! This is London isn't it? Go in somewhere tell someone Manchester is full of wanks and beat up everyone that tries to say different. You're a god-damned monster and you need to find that again. I don't care if I have to post your bail just so you can feel that blood-lust again. You were in the Legion, find your esprit de corps and live a little. You're The Commander by merit, no earn that reputation again and have a little self-respect. Now get the fuck out of my office and don't let me hear from you again until you're calling from jail.
(He points The Commander towards the door who just shrugs, picks up the card from the desk and heads out.)