A street lamp lights a small circle beneath it in the heart of Biloxi. The streets are somewhat vacant with only a few people inhabiting them at 11 o'clock at night, and room lights are randomly located on various floors of the tall buildings that stand high above the streets. Our attention comes to focus on a tall figure wearing a black trenchcoat, hands shoved in pockets, that passes under the street lamp in the chilled Mississippi air. Each exhaled breath condenses with the chill and steam rolls to each side of the figures head as he continues walking down the street. The figure turns and walks underneath a sign that reads "Biloxi Motel." Following the figure across a parking lot, he pulls a keycard from his pocket and enters a room, closing the door behind him.
Pulling the trenchcoat off and tossing it on a chair, the figure turns around and is revealed as Zyliss. He plops down on the bed and immediately picks up the phone and dials.
Zyliss: Yeah, I'd like a large italian sausage and mushroom. ... No, I don't need a second one. ... Dammit, I said no! ... To be delivered to the Biloxi Motel, room 114.
Zyliss hangs up the phone and rubs his face, trying to shake off the heaviness of his eyelids since he hasn't slept in about 36 hours- a pre-match ritual of his that he's done since he first began his career. It's his belief that if he starves himself of sleep for 72 hours at least 2 days before a match, he'll be more mentally aware in the ring, thereby enhancing his ability to overcome his opponents. He doesn't make up for that sleep either. Once he's reached the 72 hour mark, he'll sleep only 6 hours a night- giving him just enough rest to recover in time for the match, yet remain tired enough to appreciate the sleep after the match is over. Zyliss is about to turn on the TV, when the thought occurs to him that he has only cut one promo for his upcoming match. Un-acceptable. But Zyliss is tired of the usual promo, so instead, he digs around in his duffel bag, pulls out a notebook and pen, and begins to draft a letter.
I'm sure you're wondering just why in the Hell I'd be writing you a letter. The answer is quite simple: sh*ts and giggles. I've always found some form of entertainment in taunting my opponents, and although you do not feel taunted yet, just wait, because you will if you're man enough to keep reading.
You see Avenger, I've made a habit out of not giving two sh*ts about who my opponent is, what kind of history they have, and what their status is when I face them. Mainly because it makes no difference; what happens in the ring- past, present, or future- cannot be changed. So just as I beat the living piss out of you a mere 3 days ago, I will do it again just 4 days from now. If you don't think it will happen then you are a fool for believing so. I may not be a main eventer yet, or so much as a mid-carder, but I am perfectly capable of kicking your ass- and yes, I will gladly take part in doing so.
I just wish I could be there when you get all pissy backstage because you lost to the "New guy that nobody cares about." I tell ya, nothing would make me laugh more. But that's okay, I'll be plenty satisfied when my arm is raised in victory.
So until we meet again, have a good day.
Zyliss digs back into his duffel bag and pulls out a box of business envelopes. Hey, ya never know when you're gonna need a good envelope right? He folds the paper up and shoves it inside the envelope, licks the glue and seals it, then writes "Avenger" on the backside. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Zyliss calmly grabs his wallet off the bedstand and answers the door. Just as he suspected, it's the pizza guy with pizza in hand.
Pizza guy: Okay that'll be 11.50.
Zyliss says nothing and just pulls a 20 out of his wallet. He hands it to the pizza guy and says "Keep the change" as he takes the pizza and slams the door shut in the pizza guys face. That may be an $8.50 tip, but still, slamming the door in someone's face is awfully rude! Zyliss sets the pizza down on a small table and opens it up. He seems to be in bliss as the smell of the pizza hits his nostrils, and he immediately grabs a slice and begins scarfing it down. It seems that only a few bites is enough to eat the slice, so Zyliss grabs another slice and sits back down at the desk to draft another letter while eating his pizza.
I'm sure you're wondering just what the Hell I'm doing sending you a letter. Well, I was pretty bored, so I figured I'd give you a reason to hate me. You know, motivation to try and kick my ass at Chaos- even though we both know that'll never happen. So what am I waiting for? I may as well get to it.
-look like a scrotum; and
-wish you were half the wrestler I am
Is that sufficient enough? I thought so.
Have a good day.
While in the process of folding up the letter, a bit of pizza grease drips onto the paper and soaks in. "Oh well," Zyliss thinks to himself. "Eternity ain't worth as much as the drop of pizza grease anyway- no sense in re-writing the letter so he can have a clean sheat of paper to read it on." Zyliss seals the letter inside another envelope and writes "Eternity" on the back of it. Tomorrow he'll leave the letters in each wrestlers respective locker rooms when he gets to wherever the hell Chaos is supposed to be held at.