Impending Doom

[Stylin' Kyle Roberts [REBEL]]

(The foyer of an apartment building. We see a great deal of mailboxes, and we hear a one-sided conversation.)

VOICE: No, I haven't heard anything about Bruce. For all I know, he's still in the hospital. I swear, that man has spend more time in the emergency room than anyone I know.

(A man comes into frame. Stylin' Kyle Roberts, his cell phone at his ear. He unlocks a mailbox and starts shuffling through the letters crammed in there.)

KYLE ROBERTS: You know what? I hope he DOESN'T make it. Then I could focus on my Falls Count Anywhere match at Assassination Tango. Nah, it's a masked twit who COULD be anyone from Outlaw Pro. All I know is he was dealt a bum hand to go up against me in the first round.

Bill, cell phone bill, hate mail, hate mail, oooh! New pizza menu! Hate mail, hate mail, satellite bill. You can definitely tell it's the beginning of a new month if my bills are catching up to the sheer amount of death threats NAPW forwards to me. I thought they were supposed to have people to take care of this for me. Well, at least I get to laugh at the pitiful attempts to shame me for what I did to my FORMER tag team partner. "Oh, Kyle! You're not the man I supported for five months!"

No, I realize you're busy. I'll talk to you later, okay? Yeah, same to you.

(Kyle ends his call and looks towards the camera.)

KYLE ROBERTS: This week's a full one. What can I say, I'm booked solid with appointments to beat chumps down. On Tuesday Night Fights, it's one-on-one with the man I called my brother, Bruce Richards. And then, later on, I fly down to North Carolina to go on to the next round of the OPW Assassination Tango by beating the everloving hell out of one "Truth" Ruth Ruth. God, I hate stupid southerners.

(Kyle walks towards the elevators and pushes the up button.)

KYLE ROBERTS: Bruce, you don't have to do this, you know. Just admit that I'm right, and let us get on with our lives. Admit that I am the reason that D-X was successful. Super-successful, no less. Hey, man, there's no shame in being the guy who wasn't Kyle Roberts. Just walk away before you get the shit kicked out of you once again.

(The elevator doors open, and Kyle enters the lift, followed by the camera. He pushes a button, unseen from the angle of the shot.)

KYLE ROBERTS: I know you too well, Bruce. Your pride will be the death of you this Tuesday. Let's face it, nobody's heard from you in two weeks. Are you in any shape to compete against me? Will getting in the ring end up hurting you even more? Do you even care? You sacrificed your body more than once as my tag team partner, and I'm sure you'll do it against to get your vengeance against me. But it doesn't have to be this way. Just don't show up. I mean, your precious fans will understand, won't they?

(The doors open, and Kyle walks down the hallway.)

KYLE ROBERTS: God, Bruce, why the hell are the fans so important to you? What have they done for us lately? They boo the hell out of me when I take opportunities that appear. I mean, sure, they cheered for us when we were on top of the world, for the most part, but what the hell did that ever do. What happened when we got the shit kicked out of us by Deathrow and Krusty Kid Paul? Or the times we were beat down mercilessly by Stiff Competition? The Royal Foundation? Hell, what did the fans do when I got a chair shot to the face courtesy of D!? They sat on their asses and booed. They wouldn't lift a finger to help us, Bruce. They'd just sit back, eat popcorn and enjoy the show.

I didn't turn my back on the fans, Bruce. Their backs were already turned. So, hell, if the fans weren't helping me one bit, I thought I might as well provoke some sort of reaction. I decided to see exactly what would happen if I got them good and mad at me.

I don't need the fans, Bruce. And I don't need you. It's about time Kyle Roberts stopped worrying about what people think of him and started helping himself. Sorry, Bruce, but I couldn't count on you. If I did something that you thought was wrong, even if it got us somewhere, like, say a fifth title reign, or the Hegstrand Cup, or, hell, a dynasty, you'd be there like a disapproving father. And when we WERE on the same page, you'd go and hurt yourself by flying over the top rope in the intent of hurting others. Or our opponents would give you a concussion. Odd, isn't it, how my opponents could tell that Bruce Richards was the weak link of D-X, and I was blind to that fact?

(Kyle stops in front of his apartment, where the number's blotted out, and fiddles with the lock.)

KYLE ROBERTS: Just stay away on Tuesday night, Bruce. I won't think any less of you.

(Kyle opens the door and walks into his apartment.)

KYLE ROBERTS: Hey, babe, I'm home!

(No answer. On the coffee table is a notepad, and Amy's handwriting.)

KYLE ROBERTS: "Gone to have dinner at Chianti's with Tiffany. Will be back later. Don't wait up."

(Kyle looks up, panic glinting in his eyes.)

KYLE ROBERTS: Sonofabitch.