As the Main Event wraps up and most of the fans gather themselves up to head for the exit, the familiar grunge chords of Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” burst over the PA system. Those moving for the exits abruptly stop as a ripple of cheers runs through the crowd. As Layne Staley’s vocals crone through the first verse, the FGA faithful dutifully sing along to the lyrics “won’t you come and save me.” As the first chorus hits, Malcolm Drake bursts through the curtain to a renewed din of cheers. Drake brushes the bedraggled dirty blond curls from his face and runs a paw through his scraggly beard. His bright blue-grey eyes scan the crowd before he makes his way towards the ring, his tattered black leather jacket hanging open over a “New Murder” T-shirt that bears a conspicuous gash across the center.
Drake rolls under the bottom rope and motions for a microphone from the ringside crew, as the crowd gives him a minor hero’s welcome following his efforts at A New Odyssey. Drake, for his part, seems not to acknowledge the warm welcome. Instead, he seems to shrink into himself as he grabs the microphone and pulls it up to his lips; face turned down, long hair hanging loosely over his brow. He waits until the gentle din dies off.
Malcom Drake: I’m here.
Drake begins, before being cut-off by cheers. He lifts his eyes toward the crowd, a look of disbelief briefly scrolling across his features before pushing through the response.
Malcom Drake: I’m here… as a contractual obligation.
There’s an odd hush that settles over the crowd.
Malcom Drake: I agreed to come back to twist the knife into Dom Harter
Drake is again interrupted by a boisterous response from the crowd. This time, he can’t help but smirk.
Malcom Drake: I agreed to come back, but the powers that be always EXTRACT their pound of flesh… In order to return for Steel Warfare, I signed a three appearance contract. One… when I scared the sh*t out of the New Murder….
The crowd cheers and, despite himself, Drake finds himself momentarily reveling in the positive response.
Malcom Drake: Two.
He continues...
Malcom Drake: When I made my return at a New Odyssey and put an elbow through the HEART of the New Murder…
The crowd responds with re-doubled cheers at the memory of Drake leaping off the cage and driving an elbow through Dom Harter.
Malcom Drake: And three… tonight...
There’s a low murmur that slowly grows as the fans start to realize the implications of these three small words. Small chants of “please don’t go” and “you’ve still got it” battle intermittently before dying off. Drake allows the slow simmer to burn out before continuing.
Malcom Drake: I started in this business because I’m good at hurting people… and, because I enjoyed it. I left FGA - and professional wrestling - when I stopped enjoying it, and I came BACK when the drugs and the alcohol couldn’t fill the void. I tried… heh… I tried to rehabilitate myself, but that… that just isn’t me.
There’s a low response from the crowd, but most sit in rapt silence; drawing in the gravitas of the speech that is unfolding, realizing it is Drake’s last.
Malcom Drake: See, I’ve never been about wins or losses or titles or Hall of Fame BULLSH*T… I don’t even have a trophy case to fill with MEANINGLESS accolades… Hmmm… I’ve only… ever… been about one thing… VIOLENCE. What you saw me do to Dom Harter at A New Odyssey, that was PURE, unadulterated, unfiltered, UNCUT… Malcolm. F*cking Drake.
A low rumble of cheers ripples through the crowd.
Malcom Drake: If I knew that jumping off that cage would have cost my “team” the match, I’d have still jumped one thousand times out of a hundred!
A loud response surges back at Drake, along with a smattering of “Thank you, Malcolm” chants.
Malcom Drake: This...
He continues...
Malcom Drake: This… has always been Malcolm Drake versus the f*cking universe. A crusade against anyone and EVERYone for the life I’ve had to live. I meant, heh, I meant what I said about being an agent of chaos. They say that some men just want to watch the world burn… Well...
Drake pauses, lifting his eyes to the hard camera.
Malcom Drake: I… am the f*cking inferno… And that’s the tricky thing about fire: it can’t be controlled.
Drake allows his words to hover for a moment.
Malcom Drake: So - as this is the last of my contractually obligated dates - I… am hanging up these boots. Because if…
His voice stutters for a moment, as if caught in his throat.
Malcom Drake: If you can’t control the fire, then you need to SNUFF it… out.
With no pomp or circumstance, with no grand flourish or empty bow, Drake simply flips the microphone to the canvas and makes to exit the ring. The crowd - unsure of how to respond - falls in to sputters of noise and a smattering of “please don’t go” chants as Drake disobediently drags himself up the entranceway. No fan-fair, no Alice in Chains, plays as he makes his exit. As Drake's words hang in the air more like a eulogy than a goodbye.
Drake pauses at the top of the ramp, glancing briefly back toward the ring and the assembled fans. A small smirk curls the lips under his unkempt beard. With a slight nod, he acknowledges the brief moment in time when he and FGA were sympatico… before he is BLINDSIDED by Chris Bond!
Bond bursts through the curtain and levels Drake with a vicious forearm! An audible gasp escapes the crowd. Bond - without hesitation - pulls Drake to his feet and executes an End of Days (Flatliner) directly onto the ramp! Bond sits up, smirking in appreciation of himself, before standing and dragging Drake’s limp body down toward the ring. Bond proceeds to toss Drake into the nearest turnbuckle, and then by the hair into the barricade. The crowd showers the Battle-Hardened Veteran with a cacophony of boos and jeers. Bond - for his part - dutifully flips off the crowd before dragging Drake around the ring.
Bond tosses Drake into the ring under the bottom rope, before moving to ringside and tossing every chair he can find into the ring. Bond slides in after the rain of chairs, circling Drake… but Drake fights back! Drake hits a forearm shot, and another, and another! Drake grabs Bond’s wrist and goes for the Mors Omnibus… but Bond ducks and counters into an END OF DAYS right onto the pile of chairs!!!
Bond sits up, grinning ear to ear before glancing back at the twitching form of Drake, whose blood is slowly oozing from the knot in his forehead. Bond pushes himself to his feet and looks down at Drake, motionless amongst the scattering of chairs. He looks around, making sure to make eye contact with the angry voices belting boos and jeers at him from the comfort of their seats. He smiles, and starts to exit the ring but stops as he notices Drake roll over. Bond stands there for a moment, his smile fading into anger.
As he walks towards Malcolm Drake, the blood continues to trickle from the gash at the base of the former lead Crow’s ragged mange of hair. Bond lays a couple more boots into Drake’s gut, shouting at him a mass of jumbled rage. No words, only grunts as Bond tears at the shirt, ripping it from Drake’s body. Bond looks at the shirt, angry that it is a New Murder shirt… and wipes it across Drake’s face smearing his blood. Drake rolls over, slowly trying to push himself to a vertical base but Bond's rage stops and a very sinister and rather malicious smirk forms. Bond quickly heads to the corner and waits for Malcolm Drake to get up to all fours before bursting out of the corner and damn near punt kicking his head clean off. A chorus of boos and now garbage soon starts to rain down upon the two men in the ring. Bond, who is on his knees, looks down at Drake, the gash opened greater, the blood pouring from his wound.
Bond smiles, looking at the man laying amongst the wreck of chairs and garbage that lay scattered across the ring. He clinches the bloody t-shirt in his hand, before throwing it back at Drake. Chris Bond falls to the mat and rolls out of the ring and walks to the back. Drake lays motionless as the sound of rage echoes across the arena.
