"Why am I doing this?"
The scene opens inside a dimly lit bathroom - filthy and flies buzzing all around. A slightly blood-smeared stall door can be seen loosely swinging on one hinge in the reflection of a stained, cracked mirror. Also in the reflection we see Tyson Sykes, staring desperately at himself. His eyes are red and bloodshot.
"Why do I bother doing this over and over again - if the result is always the same?
Is it insanity? Expecting a different result after changing nothing?
Is it purgatory? Living misery and hardship over. And over. And over. And over again? An endless loop of disappointment and suffering?
Or...
Is this all there truly is to life? No matter how hard you work. How much you want to change for the better. No matter what you do... life is just shit and it'll always be shit. Is that it?"
Sykes wipes some sweat from his forehead, exposing a raw, red, bloody hand as he does.
"All I want was what I'd earned. A chance. An opportunity to be a fucking somebody in this company. I scratch, and I claw, and I fight... AND I WIN ... and it's never enough for these fucking people. Whenever I make it to the top of the ladder, they're standing their with their fucking list of who they're going to ALLOW on top - and their shovel to knock me back down and bury me in the dirt. 'Cuz that's all I am to you, right PWS? Just a fucking worm burrowing my way around your yard, generally harmless but sometimes I get myself into positions you don't want me to be in?
I work my ass off. I beat every single one of your little golden boys and girls. I rack up one of the most impressive records on your entire God damn roster. And the week before Destiny... you give me Richard fucking Rider? That means one of two things. You either view me as a worthless piece of scum - or you want Richard Rider to not walk out of the Honda Center.
And if it's the ladder, good news, because that's going to be the outcome regardless. Because Richard Rider is a fine competitor. Hell he's better then anybody gives him credit for. The problem is, he walks around the locker room like he's some fucking gift to the world, and he has less wins then Chumbawamba had hit songs! Mother fuckers so busy looking at himself in the mirror... but never ACTUALLY LOOKING AT WHO he is to ever capitalize on any potential he may have.
Pardon. May HAVE had. Because Laura, Star, Josiah, whoever is playing President Barbie pretend owner tonight... I'm tired of firing off warning shots. We've caused trouble, we've disrupted shows, and we've hurt people... and you STILL won't take us seriously. So no more sugar coating. I'm done banging my head against walls trying to get your fucking attention. Come Riot?
Richard Rider fucking dies."
Sykes takes his sleeve and wipes the mirror, clearing some of the condensation that has formed from his heated breath.
"Rider... I'm glad you like what you see when you look in the mirror. 'Cuz I sure as hell don't. This isn't who I wanted to be.
This is what you dumb sons of bitches made me." Sykes reels back and punches the mirror with his already bloodied hand, sending glass shards flying and spider web like cracks all along it. The now disfigured, contorted face of Sykes stares at himself - almost unrecognizable in the broken reflection as the scene fades.