The scene fades in to reveal a lavish Las Vegas penthouse. The suite is adorned in luxuries of indulgence; from the elegant pieces of objet d’art hanging from the rafters to the ritzy furnishings which would indubitably cater for royalty itself.
No stone has been left unturned and at no expense spared.
The apartment itself is illuminated by the bright lights of the infamous Las Vegas skyline piercing through the twenty feet high window frames. All is still and quiet, save for the distant hum of the tens of thousands of hopeful patrons many stories below – each of them impulsively seeking to change their own fortunes for the greater good.
From within the darkened suite, a bright orange hue emanates from a single corner of the room to lighten the scene.
It momentarily reveals a man with silvery grey hair and a beard to match. As he sucks in a cloud of smoke from the barrel of his cigar, he stands to walk to one of the enormous panes of glass, observing the horizon.
“It just goes to show how far a man is willing to go,” he begins, slowly breathing out the smoke he had previously inhaled. “For money.”
The man – who we can now see is dressed in a velvety rose gown – steps through a nearby door onto his balcony overlooking the city. He leans against the rail, flicking the end of his cigar; watching as the ash slowly falls to the streets below.
“Take a look at all those desperate souls. Like a human conveyor belt, they disembark at Sin City, arriving on whatever little income they have; all under the same false pretence that they will leave this place significantly better off than that they came.”
“You can see the hopeless abandon in their eyes. At one time or another, they convince themselves that by forsaking the morals of honest behaviour or the principles of hard work that they can defy the odds, beat the house, and return to their families and homes with all the wealth they will ever need.” The man takes another drag of his Havana. “Only get-rich-quick schemes are for the lazy and unambitious in our society, but where I come from? You respect your dreams enough to pay the full price for them.”
At this point the man turns to face us fully for the first time, revealing an immaculate looking gentleman in his mid-forties. Upon the chest of his silky robe we see the initials “B.B.” sewn in gold stitching, uncovering the possible identity of the individual before us.
“And whilst we’re on the subject of the unambitious,” the man places cigar to mouth once again. “Well then let’s talk about you, Axel Eaton.”
With those words our suspicions are confirmed. Stood before us is none other than Classic Wrestling’s newest recruit: ‘The Culture Boy’ Bobby Baxter.
“You see, Axel, you aren’t too dissimilar to the tens of thousands of tourists wandering those streets beneath me. Just like them, you have replaced the good old-fashioned integrity of an honest day’s graft in favour of chasing the high life at a minimum cost. When it comes down to being experts in our trade, we have been around the block together as many times as I can remember – but there’s a vast difference between someone like you and someone like me, isn’t there, son?”
Bobby takes a sharp intake of smoke before holding his arms out wide and taking in his noble surrounds.
“Look around, Ax. Not only did God bless me with the best looks a man could have, but he blessed me with all the finery and dinery that comes with being the well-bred, well-educated, sophisticated son of a gun I am today.”
“Whereas you?” Bobby takes one final puff on his cigar before dropping it to the floor and stamping it out. “You chose to be like all the others, didn’t you? To buy and sell the ideas and values that were imparted on you in favour of some cheap thrills, be that getting drunk, getting high, or getting off on the love of some inexpensive floozy.”
The Culture Boy pulls a wad of green bills from his inside jacket pocket.
“It may well be the easy life you crave, son, but come Monday night,” Bobby releases the notes from his grasp as they slowly flutter over the balcony towards the street below. “You will pay in full for the misdemeanours of your stupid, pathetic existence.”
Fade and cut.