A local wrestling journalist looking to gain a dozen extra twitter followers locates WARRICK HILL outside a dive bar. Warrick poses with a fan for a photo. Upon completion, he extends his hand. The fan hands Warrick a five…Warrick keeps his hand extended…the fan hands another five…Warrick sighs, hand extended…the fan gives him a ten…Warrick eyes the man, frustrated…the fan gives him another ten. Warrick keeps his hand out and waves his fingers, asking for more…the fan shrugs and throws down a few twenties. Warrick eyes the cash, turns his hand into a fist, and jams the money into his pocket.
We follow Hill as he enters back into the dive bar. The fan’s girlfriend is seen giving him shit over all the money he paid for an, apparently blurry cell phone photo. Warrick leans against the bar and slaps down a crumpled five.
“Another round, Dave.”
The bartender, named Steve, pours something called ‘Grudge Match’.
Warrick turns, spotting the amateur camera pointed in his direction. “What?”
“We were just wondering if you had any comments concerning your appearance at Iconic?”
Warrick receives his drink. Steve snares the five, grumbling about the lack of tip. Warrick’s hand palms the increasingly cool glass.
“I dunno. I felt my actions were pretty self-explanatory.” He takes a sip, avoiding eye contact with the pseudo journalist.
“But why Crash?”
“Because I hate his name.”
A simple answer to a simple question.
“Ohkay…” the hesitating journalist plucks additional low hanging fruit, “and why alongside Lee Best?”
Warrick lifts one eyebrow, staring down at the journalist. He takes a sip and nods, approving of the number of hops contained within the brew.
“Because he’s the boss.”
He’s not really giving this guy much. But, why should he?
“And…thoughts on your debut against Max Kael?”
“He’s something of a legend in HOW, you know…”
“It’s going to be tough to beat him.”
“Maybe,” Warrick’s replies grow shorter and shorter.
“But, I mean, don’t you want to…I don’t know, give some insight into…”
Warrick finishes his beer and slams it into the bar top. He rises up and takes a step toward the journalist. “Listen, I’m not going to sit here and give shit away to some nerd on twitter with a few hundred followers. If you want the good shit, stay tuned to HOW and keep an eye out later this week.”
As quickly as his posture rose, it relaxes. He slaps another five on the bar, requesting a refill from Steve.
Steve slides it into Warrick’s open hand. “Thanks, Dave.”
Warrick stares outside the bar, into the very bright sun. The day is young. He reaches into his pocket, counting the money with his fingers. While not a totally accurate count, it’s pretty fucking close. He turns back toward the journalist, who remains…for storyline reasons.
“Say, you want a photo?”
The feed cuts.