((Las Vegas, Nevada...The Hard Rock Hotel, and he's down two-grand...))

November: Give me a freaking break!

((It's late...or maybe it's early. He's not too sure either way, and really doesn't want to be sure as he takes another sip from his Jack and water. It'd be non-stop boozing and gambling since he got here Saturday morning, and that was partially because she never showed up that evening. Then when she didn't show up on Sunday it got worse.))

November: Two.

((His tone is dull, flat, and annoyed. He's been at the poker table awhile now and, at this moment, would like nothing more then to reach across it and strangle the dealer. Although the pair of aces she's just dealt him changed that opinion rather quickly as a sheepish smile slides across his face. That's probably why he's lost the last ten-hands.))

((Of course this hand was no different, and as he threw his cards down to the table, with a silent curse, he once again took a swig of his Jack, and nodding to the dealer with an irritated glare, rose from his stool and headed for the nearest exit. The camera followed along closely, avoiding other patrons and Kyle's drunken swaggers along the way.))

November: Jesus Christ!

((He protested as he stepped through the door into the glaring afternoon sun. He hadn't been expecting that...it'd been dark when he entered, but luckily he had a pair of sunglasses on hand, and as he slipped them on he leaned back against the nearest stretch of wall and turned his head lazily in the direction of the camera...))

November: Who gave you permission to put words in my mouth Merrix? I sure as hell didn't. A guy goes out...does a little research on an opponent he has yet to defeat...to even come close to defeating, and suddenly YOU have me claiming to know you. Bullshit. I made a few well educated guess' on the state of your mind and demeanor when Eskridge betrayed you and Vice took your kid. Where in there did I say...or even imply that I know you?

Bitch...I've stated from the beginning time and time again that I don't know you, don't want to know you, but that I do need to understand the way your mind works so I can beat you. I know, I know...you're so use to your little Merrix Bashing Clones who stroll out on the scene and tell you who you are...that you've forgotten some of us just don't give a fuck. 

I'm over here taking shot, after shot, at you in attempts to begin some form of debate. Why you ask? Because it'd my fucking job to argue with the guy I'm about to wrestle. Gets ratings...sells tickets...fuck if I know, but it's something I'm paid to do. So in the weeks leading up to this little match while I threw every angle at you just to start up some fucking dialogue you were home taking care of family business. Then suddenly you show up on the scene, drop a ten-minute blurb on my lap, and invite me to take the first shot? 

You bitch! I've taken the first shot, second shot, and was even able to drop a left hook across your Irish mug before you finally raised your gloves in defense. I've been yelling at you ever chance I get, and now because you finally decide to speak...none of that matters? Hey this is your job dip shit...turn on a TV some time...find out who's yacking in your direction, make a few mental notes, turn the TV off, go back to your family. Because really I do understand the concept of life and a family, but I'm beginning to wonder if you understand the concept of what a first shot is?

Arrogance? You exude it.

((His throats dry...he needs another drink but he left his drink back in the casino. Security would have stopped him from taking it out anyway. They were always treading all over his fun. Them and their little shiny badges. Wannabe cops...))

So let's not drift too far away from what your whole defense was. Because your whole defense was that I really don't know you, and my whole God damn point was that I didn't know you, and in order to beat you...I need to know you. I need to get inside your head, and fuck with it a bit. Will I ever do it? Doubtful? Does that stop me from trying? Nope.

Don't ask me the logic behind this...because there is none. It's just what I've observed. Those who are familiar with you...who've raised some type of human emotion out of you, have had an easier time of putting you down for the three. I can see that...why can't you? Why can't you understand that knowing one's opponent, especially one as seasoned as you are, is a good thing in this sport of ours?

((He shakes his head and runs a rough hand back through thick, disheveled, raven, hair...His eyes were burning from all the smoke inside, and he was starting to sweat. It was hot...too hot to be wearing a suit. A suit he'd put on for her when he went to go pick her up from the airport. The airport she never arrived at...))

Here's something else I'll let you in on, Kevin. Rolling over a nobody's easy, easy, work. I barely waste a second on analyzing them, but you...your dangerous and command a certain level of respect. A respect, I believe, I have shown you fully. A respect that I do not need returned. Although I would like you to pull your head out of your ass long enough to understand that while you do deem some respect...I am still going to call you a sonuvabitch every chance I get. Because unless you're a member of my family. Unless you're a Fatal Charm. You deserved to be ridiculed.

Regardless of respect.

((Slowly he peels himself off the wall and moves back towards the door. Tossing a glance back over his shoulder at the lens he frowns...))

Now maybe after that left hook you'll finally throw up a more impressive defense. Something a bit more fresher then how many times I bring up a point or a topic that you don't or can't respond to. Come on Merrix...impress me. Because I matter. 

'night   

((black...))