Not old. Just experienced.

[Stylin' Kyle Roberts [REBEL]]

(The apartment of Kyle Roberts. The lights are half-dimmed, casting shadows about. Kyle's sitting at the dining room table with a Wild Rose Wraspberry Ale.)

KYLE ROBERTS: (chuckles) It's funny. I never thought I'd be referred to as an old man at the age of twenty-four. I know, it's the new haircut that does it, right? Look, Sammy-boy, just because my hair's dyed white doesn't mean I'm Ric Flair. Just because I look like Big Poppa Pump doesn't make me his age.

I guess it's the legend status that makes me seem older. Hell, if you had told me back in the Moose Jaw Pro days three years ago that Kyle Roberts would hold a title five times, I wouldn't believe you. If you told me I'd have enough cups and belts in my trophy cabinet to create a life-sized brass idol of myself, I'd call you a liar.

But look at me. Five title belts. The Hegstrand Cup. A (BLEEP) ENNie. And countless plaques showing how I won "Best Tag Team" with some broken-down lameass. I am a wrestling legend. I am hot shit. But you, Sam Finn? You're just shit. There's nothing hot about you.

Why are you going through with this, Sam? Hell, if I were you, I'd go back to Mexico and hide out for a few more weeks. Maybe find another airline tramp who obviously hasn't tried the real deal (Kyle points his thumbs in at himself), and instead is going for the biggest hoss she can find.

Look at you! You're six foot nine! Built like a colossus! But yet, I'm positive that when a woman looks at you, all she sees is a nervous colt, barely able to walk yet. Don't worry, though, it's called experience. Someday, someone will teach you how to get some.

Not me, though. I'm too intent on leaving you crippled in the ring. Sam Finn, you're stupid enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Through the luck of the draw, you were paired up against me. Congratulations! You'll be the first victim in Stylin' Kyle Roberts' post-Bruce era.

(Kyle takes a swig from his bottle of beer.)

Last year, I was naive enough to think I was able to take people out of wrestling for good. I crippled Cameron Scott, one of the Dudes. He was in the hospital for a few weeks with a broken neck, and left wrestling. I gave Chris Casino two Emerald Fusions and a Beartamer for good measure, and he up and left the company. I slammed the Predator's face into the mat so well, I dented his mask. And he was gone from the NAPW.

But then these people I tried to kill kept coming back. Casino. Cam Scott. Well, not the Predator. He never showed his face here again, thank god. I've still got his broken mask hanging on my wall.

So now I'm not dumb enough to think I can clean the NAPW of everyone I feel is unworthy. Which is good for you, boy, because we can always use goons like you to work security while the big boys wrestle.

What I will promise is to go to the ring with the sole purpose of making you my bitch. You WILL tap to the Beartamer. You'll most likely feel what every opponent of mine feels when they hit the mat head first with an Emerald Fusion. You're my first step on the road to utter NAPW domination.

So prepare for the inevitable. Enjoy your moment against greatness, Sam Finn. After I'm finished with you, all you'll have to look forward to is a lifetime of mediocrity.

(Kyle Roberts slams back the rest of his beer and leaves the table. We fade to black.)