All Hype, No Hart

"You really wanna do this bro?"

"...Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure. Get the damn camera on me."

The scene focuses in. Chuck Matthews sits alone in a leather chair in front of his fireplace. He is definitely looking worse for the wear. He has dark circles under baggy eyes. His hair, normally shiny and appealing, looks a though it hasn't been washed in days. A crew member pulls a matching leather chair in front of the fireplace, then backs off camera. Chuck sighs, and runs his hand through his messy hair.

Cameraman: "Alright, Chuck. Here she comes. You sure about this?"

Chuck Matthews: "How many times do I have to tell you? Yes, I'm sure."

A beautiful woman walks in and takes a seat. She extends her hand to Chuck, who nervously shakes it.

Erika Fox: "Hi, Chuck. You remember me?"

Chuck laughs.

Chuck Matthews: "How could I forget Erika Fox. How are you?"

Erika Fox: "Very well. Which is more than I can say for some people. Can I ask what's been going on with you lately?"

Chuck breathes heavily through his nose.

Chuck Matthews: "Lately...I've been a bit off lately. Just one of those weeks, I suppose."

Erika smiles.

Erika Fox: "So...it has nothing to do with your facing Frank Hart at the Hall of Fame show?"

Chuck Matthews: "You're kidding, right? Frank Hart is just like everyone else I've fought, not only in NLWF, but throughout my wrestling career. They're all talk."

Erika Fox: "What about this email you received just last night?"

Chuck Matthews: "Stay on subject, Fox."

Erika raises her hands in surrender.

Erika Fox: "Alright, alright, just thought I'd ask. Frank Hart recently had some very harsh words for you. He claimed that you've done nothing but 'ride the coattails of Brenton Cyrus' and use Salvation-"

Chuck Matthews: "Frank Hart is just another whiny little bitch, alright? He hates to admit my success, so he looks for any little excuse he can to make me look like less of a man. Let's take a look at a few things here. For one, I made Salvation. Without Alex Mark, Salvation still carries on. Without Johhny Stylez, Salvation carries on. Without me? Without Brenton Cyrus? The whole thing crashes down. Two, I made Direct Hit. Where was NLWF before Salvation? It sucked. What Frank Hart fails to realize is what guys like me do for this company. Sure, he can say 'Chuck doesn't generate fans.' At the end of the day, there's a word for that: Denial. Frank Hart refuses to open his eyes. He refuses to see the great work I've done, the great work Salvation has done. He has made the same fatal mistake Johnny Stylez made when he spat in Salvation's face, and the same mistake Jake Stunner made when he turned down our invitation. It's been said before, but I'll say it again: Salvation puts asses in seats. We sell tickets. Overhyped pretty-boys like Frank Hart are boring. They're irritating. They don't deliver. Chuck Matthews does."

Erika Fox: "Surely, Chuck, you aren't denying everything Frank said? If I remember correctly, you were handed the No Limit title, just as Frank mentioned."

Chuck Matthews: "Yeah, I was handed the title. Big fucking whoop. You know when that was? March. Frank Hart goes on and on about how much better he is than me, how I'm all hype. Instead of going on about how much of a bullshitter he is, I'll let our track records speak for themselves."

"Frank Hart and I are really in the same boat when it comes to NLWF success. Neither of us have had world title reigns. Both of us have had world title matches. Both lost. Frank and I have each held the tag team belts."

"Let's talk about that. Brenton Cyrus and I are the current Universal Tag Team champions. Thanks to us, the World Tag Team titles are now defunct. We have held the titles for thirty-seven days. We have defended the titles twice. Not only are we the second longest reigning team in history, we've also taken away the favorite excuse of everyone that can't measure up: 'You just win the title and hold it.' I believe in active champions, Frank. I don't just win a title and sit. I defend it wherever and whenever Carmine tells me to. I don't complain. I don't back out. I fight. And I win. You made a bold claim when you said Brenton Cyrus carried me to a tag victory. Kind of like how Tails won you your tag title reign, right? Then the dumb cunt went and got himself injured, leaving you with a reign of a whopping...24 hours? Impressive. One man doesn't make a team, Frank, no matter how much you want to think it."

"I know what kind of man Hart is. 'Chuck you can't talk about tag titles blah blah blah. Chuck you don't win titles fairly blah blah blah. Chuck, those defenses don't count because I have no argument if they do blah blah blah.' Alright Hart. Take it easy. Let's talk about singles belts."

"I took a shot at the Junior Heavyweight belt. I lost. But just who did I lose to? The man who is currently the World Heavyweight champion. That means something. Later on, I was awarded the No Limit title. Now I know Frank's gonna bitch and moan about how I didn't work for it, so let me point out another fast fact. Who was the number one contender for the belt anyway? I was. The only thing preventing me from winning it was Shayne Wolf. If Shayne had held onto that belt, I would've won it, you would have no excuse, and Shayne would have never won the Universal Title. It's a win-lose situation."

"Back to my original point. Sure, I was awarded the title. But then I held onto it for dear life. I have defended that belt four fucking times. I defended against Jake Stunner twice. I defended at Wargames. I defended in a triple threat at once at King of the Throne. As of this moment, I have been the No Limit champion for fifty-eight fucking days. Let me put that in perspective for you. Cyber Punk's seemingly unstoppable World Title reign falls short to me by two days. You know what that means, Hart? It means when it comes to singles titles, I am the longest reigning title holder in NLWF history. That's not something you do by sheer dumb luck and 'riding coattails.' Did Brenton Cyrus win those matches? No. I did. Did the announcer get on that mic and say 'Here is your winner, Brenton Cyrus?' No. I won those matches. So you can take that smug little comment and shove it, because it's clear that it doesn't mean a damn thing. But enough about me for now. Let's look at your accomplishments."

"You won the North American championship. The Legacy equivalent of my No Limits belt. You held it about a month. Now I defended four times. How about you? Oh, that's right. You NEVER fucking defended your belt. What kind of shitty half-assed champion are you Hart? I fight nail and tooth to hold my gold. You get your ass handed to you at your first defense. That's why I'm going to win this week. That's why I have to win this week. I've done too much for this business to see some lazy, cocky little shit come and take what I've fought so hard to hold onto. Especially when that same cocky little shit will probably sit and never defend the belt, then lose it the first try. Let's face the cold hard facts, Frank. I may be in the midcard, but I'm the fucking king of this realm. You don't stand a chance."

Erika Fox: "You have quite a bit to say there, Chuck. Can I ask your gameplan this week?"

Chuck Matthews: "Game plan? I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm going to watch as Frank Hart comes down that ramp to try and do the impossible. I'm going to fight him. I'm going to give it my all, and he had better show me the same respect. But when I win, I'm going to take all the bullshit Frank Hart's been spewing lately, and I'm going to rub his fucking face in it. You'll eat your words Frank. I-"

Chuck suddenly freezes. Erika waves her hand in front of his face.

Erika Fox: "Chuck?"

A shadow passes over Chuck's face. The windows fly open, and the wind rushes in. Through the roar of the wind, soft whispers can be heard.

"See the sinner. Look upon his face. The man before you remains. Soon, he will be broken."

Chuck gasps for breath. His chair falls back, and Chuck tumbles into the fire. He shouts as the flames engulf his body. Erika screams. Chuck looks at the living room through the fire. His vision fades. Slowly, his hearing does as well. Everything becomes a blur. In his head, between chants of "Sinner," he can hear the shouts of crew members.

"Shit!"

"Oh my god!"

"Somebody call an ambulance! Chuck! Can you hear me?"

Chuck opens his mouth to sy something, but he can't speak. He tries to move, but he feels paralyzed. As the flames lick his face, Chuck relaxes. He can't feel a thing. The crew has rushed to the scene. They drag the burning Chuck from the fire and onto the rug. The cameraman sets the camera on the table. Seconds later, he stands over Chuck, blasting him with a fire extinguisher. Finally, the flames are extinguished. Chuck lies on the floor, eyes closed, hands at his sides. He listens to the voices around him.

Cameraman: "He...looks fine."

Erika Fox: "Why isn't he scarred? Where are the burns?"

Chuck tries to open his eyes. They feel heavy, sealed shut.

Cameraman: "Check his clothes."

Chuck feels Erika's soft hands unbotton his shirt. He hears a gasp.

Erika Fox: "Oh, that scared me! I wonder what that mark means? Looks fresh."

'What is she talking about?' Chuck thinks to himself. He lifts his head. Surprisingly, it moves.

Erika Fox: "Oh thank god, he's alright. Chuck, can you hear me?"

Chuck opens his eyes. He's on the floor, looking at Erika's relieved face.

Chuck Matthews: "What mark?"

Erika raises an eyebrow.

Erika Fox: "Mark? What are you talking about?"

Chuck Matthews: "I fell in the fire, you pulled me out. You unbottoned my shirt, and said I had a mark."

Erika Fox: "You did what now? You didn't fall into the fire, Chuck. You had these weird convulsions. Like some sort of seizure. You fell out of your seat, and we held you there until the shaking stopped. I never touched your shirt."

Chuck sits up and shakes his head. Erika looks at him with concern. The cameraman is staring at him. Was it all another sick dream?

Erika Fox: "Are you sure you're alright, Chuck?"

Chuck Matthews: "Must've hit my head. I'm fine."

Erika smiles.

Erika Fox: "If you say so. Well, I think that's enough interviewing for today, don't you think? Perhaps we can do it again sometime. If you ever need some company, Chuck. I know you're not doing well and all..."

Chuck smiles.

Chuck Matthews: "I'll give you a call."

Erika wraps her arms around Chuck's neck and kisses his cheek. A crew member pokes his head in the door.

Crew Member: "James, Ms. Fox? We're all packed up whenever you're ready to go."

Erika nods. She pulls away from Chuck, but not without whispering in his ear.

Erika Fox: "Take care of yourself, Chuck."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's nine o'clock. Chuck stands in his bathroom, having just finished brushing his teeth. He examines his face in the mirror.

Chuck Matthews: "I'll need to shave tomorrow. It's lookin' a bit shabby."

Chuck splashes some water on his face, and wipes it clean with a towel. He heads into his bedroom. He sits in his bed and stares at the wall for a moment. Slowly he takes off his shirt. He catches sight of his reflection in his bedroom mirror.

Chuck Matthews: "What the fuck..."

Chuck approaches the mirror. In the center of his chest, a black mark has been burned into his flesh.

Chuck Matthews: "No..."

The camera rotates to show the mark. Three words, scorched just above his sternum:

Five Weeks Remain.