Clyde Sutter vs. David Striker vs. Sal Darius

[HardyGirl]

Clyde Sutter vs. David Striker vs. Sal Darius


2 RP Limit for singles; 4 RP Limit for tag
Deadline: 11:59:59 pm ET FRIDAY, July 4, 2025 (to ensure enough time for roleplaying; show will still act as if taking place on Thursday).

[The Assassin]

1 of 2
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June 26th, 2025
Cleveland, Ohio
Off Camera
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The final echoes of the crowd were fading into memory as the night descended upon Cleveland. The Rocket Mortgage FieldHouse, still glowing faintly with the remnants of spotlight flare and pyrotechnics, loomed in the background. Thousands upon thousands of fans once filled this place and filled it with the sounds of their cheers and jeers, but now, only the distant clatter of dismantled ring equipment, the occasional shrill burst of a walkie-talkie, and the sharp hiss of a departing bus broke the silence of the massive arena’s exterior. The parking structure, built like a concrete labyrinth beneath the adjacent plaza, was bathed in cold industrial light. Fluorescent fixtures flickered overhead, casting ghostly shadows against stained concrete pillars marked with faded alphanumeric identifiers, each one smudged with years of exhaust and weather. Oil stains glistened underfoot in small rainbow patches, and the lingering scent of gasoline, burnt rubber, and stale pretzels from the concession stands clung to the air. Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car door slammed and a low-pitched engine rumbled to life before sputtering off into the night.

Clyde Sutter’s boots echoed heavily as he walked, every step striking with a deliberate rhythm. The tall man, every inch of him carved like marble from relentless training and decades of brutal matches, towered over most. His long black hair, still damp with sweat, fell past his shoulders in uneven strands. Stray locks clung to the sharp angles of his jaw. He wore a sleeveless black shirt and black denim jeans. His expression was unreadable. Impassive. He wore the same look he always had. Nothing bothered him, for he was but Fate’s Chosen Assassin. Beside him, Melinda Braddock’s heels clicked with brisk precision, an elegant counterpoint to Clyde’s heavy gait. She moved like someone who knew exactly how much space she occupied and how to command it without saying a word. She wasn’t just accompanying him; she was escorting him, like a queen beside her king. Melinda was much shorter than Clyde, but her posture and aura made her seem just as imposing. Her blonde hair, curled and sleek, shimmered under the garage’s sterile light. Not a strand out of place. She wore a fitted white blazer over a champagne-hued satin blouse, her pencil skirt matching the hue of fresh pearl. A slim designer clutch was tucked under one arm, while her free hand swung with quiet confidence at her side. Everything about her, from the crisp line of her eyeliner to the red-bottomed stilettos that tapped across the pavement, screamed polish and power.

“You are tense.” Clyde says, breaking the silence between him and his lovely fiance as they continue their trek through the parking area. “What is bothering you, my beloved?”

“The same things that should be bothering you.” Melinda snaps back quickly. “Chris Lawler got a rematch to win back the Television Title. How many Television Title opportunities has Polly had and now she’s getting another? But you? What about you?”

“I received a rematch.”

“Thanks to Fans Choice.” She rolls her eyes. “But let’s be real, sweetie, if it had been left up to that dinosaur, you wouldn’t have received a rematch. That fool is showing obvious, blatant favoritism towards certain people, namely Syren, while giving hard working guys like you nothing.”

“Forcing her to battle me in an Underground Match is hardly favoritism, my love.”

“Yeah?” Skepticism drips from her voice. “Well why is it that Syren’s cronies were allowed to interfere in her matches to help her but when the Straders wanted to get involved in your match with Syren, suddenly SCW and CHBK gives a damn about a fair fight?”

“You are worry yourself over things that you have little control over, my love.” Sutter stops briefly to turn and plant a loving kiss on her lips. “Mr. Desoubrais will do whatever he wishes but even he cannot control Fate.”

“I know.” Melinda sighs as she leans into her man’s loving, strong grasp. “I just love you and want you to achieve your dreams. I want the very best for you and I hate to see people abuse you, people like him…people like Chance Owens.”

“Mr. Owens,” Fate’s Chosen Assassin chuckles with a sinister hint of mischief “yes, Mr. Owens will get what is coming to him in due course. All I want is you. Everything else, the materialistic possessions, the championships and accolades that blind the sheep on this roster, all of it is insignificant to you. As long as I have you, I am a happy man.”

“Then you can be happy knowing that we will be together for the rest of our lives.” Melinda says, grinning playfully.

“Excellent. And as far as championships are concerned, I am content to accept the opportunities awarded to me by Fate. Everything is designed by Fate. People like Mr. Desoubrais and Mr. Owens may think that they have control but they are sorely mistaken. Fate is in control and I will have my reward when Fate sees fit to give it to me and no one on this roster will stop me, because they cannot stop Fate.”

“Did you hear Chance tonight?” Melinda snickers nastily. “He actually threatened you.”

“Oh I did hear from Mr. Owens.” Fate’s Chosen Assassin smirks knowingly. “It is rather amusing for him to think that he could threaten me. He is upset that I injured his girl, Ms. Adamson. He shouldn’t blame me. Blame Fate. Better yet, blame Ms. Adamson herself for tempting Fate. She put herself in harm’s way by taunting Fate itself. What happened was a mere consequence of that.” He shakes his head. “So let Mr. Owens howl. It is of no concern to me.”

“And what about next week?” Melinda asks curiously.

“The triple threat?” Sutter sighs. “Mr. Striker, a temperamental hot head with a violent streak; I see a lot of myself in him. I actually respect and appreciate him. Doing battle with him will be a genuine honor and privilege.”

“What about Sal?”

“Mr. Darius is a fool and a pathetic worm who has no business being on this roster.” The Assassin growls. “I will do SCW and this entire profession a favor by eliminating him from the sport permanently.”

“Oh I love it when you get intense like that.” Melinda purrs lovingly. She guides his head down so that she can plant a kiss on his lips. “Save that intensity for next week. Break him and Striker in half. Make an example out of them. Illustrate to CHBK and the rest of SCW what happens when you are overlooked and ignored. Bad things happen.”

“There you go again.” He laughs and then touches her nose. “Worrying too much over my career.”

“I’m about to be your wife, it’s my job to worry about you, babe.”

“Of course, it is human nature to worry about loved ones. Just try and remember that we are under the control of Fate. Whatever Fate has in store for us, whether it is in our private lives or in our public lives within the hallowed halls of Supreme Championship Wrestling, we will meet it head on. Together. As Fate intended.” He takes her by the hands. “Now come, let’s go, the car is just up ahead.”

Melinda nods her head and, arm in arm, the loving couple continue their walk through the now near empty parking area. The Assassin wasn’t lying when he said that the car was close. Just a few more feet and the two are practically on top of it. The rental car was parked in one of the premium spots near the elevator, an all-black Dodge Charger with dark-tinted windows and gleaming chrome rims. Clyde reached into his pocket, pulled out the key fob, and pressed the unlock button. The car gave a short beep and its lights flashed twice. Neither of them broke stride. A gust of warm, stagnant summer air swept through the garage, ruffling Melinda’s blazer and lifting strands of Clyde’s hair as they reached the car. She paused beside the passenger door, her gaze lingering on the horizon just past the ramp that led out into the Cleveland night.

“Allow me.” Ever the gentleman, Sutter walks over to the passenger’s side and opens the door for Melinda. She smiles sweetly at him. It is the picture of traditional romance. But this picturesque scene is instantly ended when a loud, unexpected, but not unfamiliar voice breaks the silence of the night.

“Clyde! “Yo, Clyde!"

The Assassin growls. His temper is beginning to flare because he knows this voice all too well. It is his friend from back home in Birmingham, England, his running buddy from when they were both just street thugs, the man who helped him find out the truth about his sister Lilith Sutter’s involvement in the murder of Archie Van Stanton. Yes, this is Joey. He has been bothering Clyde over and over again ever since they returned from Birmingham after learning that Lilith had fled to Russia to avoid prosecution for Archie’s murder. Sutter felt that Joey has been overly paranoid about Lilith’s criminal organization possibly trying to kill him now. To get Joey off his back, Clyde offered to let Joey stay in his apartment in Charlotte, North Carolina. He had hoped that allowing Joey to have the apartment as a ‘safe house’ of sorts would calm Joey down and, for awhile, it did. Apparently his paranoia is rearing its ugly head again. Joey is back and, by the shakiness of the short, wiry thin man’s frame, it appears to be worse than ever.

Melinda, for her part, can sense that her man is growing angry with the presence of Joey. The closer Joey gets, the angrier Clyde becomes, and Braddock can sense it. She leans in to whisper into his ear. “Calm down, Clyde. Don’t lose your temper.”

“I know.”

“Remember that he’s your friend.”

“I understand.” He nods his head. “Now please, get in the car. This will not last long.”

“Ok, fine,” she nods her head “just don’t hurt the poor sap.”

“I promise.”

Melinda reluctantly gets into the passenger’s seat. Sutter shuts the door. He approaches Joey, who is visibly shaking like a leaf. The thin wiry man is clearly bothered and yet his friend, Sutter, does not seem to care. The frustrated look of angst upon the face of The Assassin speaks volumes.

“What are you doing here, Joseph?”

“Look, Clyde, I’m sorry but I need your help!”

“You always need my help. What is different about today?”

“I helped you once!” Joey exclaims. “I helped you with your sister!”

“Yes, you did one favor for me. One. And ever since then you have been like a leech, or a cockroach, perhaps, vermin I cannot get rid of. I even gave you a safe place to stay, my apartment in Charlotte. If you want to be safe from whatever troubles you then you should be there. Yet instead you traveled all the way to Cleveland, at my place of work, to continue to agitate and annoy me?”

“Yeah…” Joey’s voice trails off. As scared as he is, Sutter is equally as intimidating and scary, perhaps even more so. Clyde gets up in his face imposing his presence.

“What, then, my dear friend, is so problematic that it would make you tempt Fate by coming all the way here to trouble me? To trouble my beloved?”

“Look, I get it, I know I’m not the person you want to see right now, and I know I can be a pain in the ass.” Joey sighs. “But that little safe house of yours in Charlotte, well, it isn’t as safe as you claimed it would be.”

“You’re paranoid, Joseph.” Clyde states. “Go home. Sleep. Better yet, get drunk.”

“This isn’t a problem I can just drink away.” Joey shakes his head emphatically. “I am being followed. I just know it!”

“This is even better.” Clyde sneers. “You believe you are being followed? By dangerous people?”

“Yes!” He points a finger at Clyde. “Probably your sister’s goons!”

“Yet you followed me here and, if you are correct, you led them to me.”

Joey’s face instantly goes pale as he realizes the enormity of what Sutter just implied. Joey shakes his head quickly. “Uh, I didn’t mean it…I just…”

“Shut up!” Sutter shouts angrily.

“Look, I’m afraid ok! You may not believe it, but I am being followed and it isn’t just paranoia!”

“What nonsense are you going on about?” The Assassin asks quickly and sternly with an annoyed tone of voice. “The only people who know of you are still in Europe. They know you from Birmingham, England. No one would have any idea, no one would even begin to think to search for you in a dump like Charlotte, North Carolina.”

“You’d think so wouldn’t you? But the joke’s on you!” Joey exclaims poking his finger on Clyde’s chest. “The apartment was broken into.”

“Get your finger off me.” Sutter swats Joey’s hand away. “What are you talking about?”

“The apartment, your place that you set me up with, it was broken into. I came home and the place was trashed. It was ransacked.”

Ever since he saw Joey’s arrival, Fate’s Chosen Assassin had been angry and frustrated, annoyed with having to deal with him again. But now that he has heard this news he is intrigued. Perhaps there is more to this story than he had initially thought? Sutter arches a brow out of curiosity.

“Was anything stolen?”

“I don’t think so.” Joey shrugs his shoulders. “But, uh, it does look like they were looking for something.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“Seriously?” Joey snickers. “Do I look like the kinda guy who go to the feds?”

“I’m being serious.” Clyde grabs Joey by the collar of his shirt and holds him up. “Did you go to the police?”

“No!” Joey shakes his head. “I wouldn’t get the police involved! Ever!”

“Good.” He gently lets Joey back down. “Because I need to see the scene for myself before we get the authorities involved.”

“Do you really think it is your sister?”

“It is possible.” He shakes his head. “She may still have connections to her people, but I would be shocked if she made such a move right now when she has so much heat on her, even if she is safe in Russia.”

“I wouldn’t think Russia is very safe, if you ask me.”

“Lilith is a unique individual, Joseph.”

“So are you, my man.” Joey smirks. “I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

“Of course.” He nods his head. “Now if you will excuse me, my beloved and I are going to leave.”

“Wait, before you go…” Joey starts, Clyde turns around and faces Joey, he looks even more annoyed.

“Now what?”

“Uh…” Joey gulps “...since, uh, obviously it isn’t very safe to stay in your Charlotte apartment, do you have any other place I can stay?”

“No.”

“What?!” Joey exclaims. “After all I did for you? After putting myself in danger for you?! You’re going to leave a friend high and dry?”

“It isn’t my concern.”

“Oh come on, Clyde!” Joey drops to his knees and folds his hands, almost like his praying. He isn’t praying but he is begging. “Please, man! Let me stay with you! You have a place in Miami, right?”

“You really are delusional, aren’t you?” Clyde retorts. “You think I would let you stay with me and my beloved? If you are being targeted, putting you in the same home as my beloved puts her in just as much danger.”

“But what about me?! Your oldest friend!”

“What about you?”

“I’m begging you, man! Please let me stay!” Joey cries. “I promise not to be a bother! I promise I won’t be any trouble!”

“Ugh,” Sutter grows more and more frustrated by the second and finally he relents and nods his head “fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Just get up, you are embarrassing yourself.” Clyde states emphatically.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Joey stands up and starts to hug The Assassin but is pushed away.

“Just know this. You cannot stay long.”

“I’m only going to stay until I can find another place to stay.”

“Good. And there’s one other thing you should know.”

“Yeah?”

“If you so much as offend Melinda…I will break you in half.”

“Heh, funny guy.” Joey laughs. “I may be scum but you know me, I wouldn’t hit a lady.”

“I never said anything about hitting her. Even touching her. I know you wouldn’t do that because that would be a death sentence for you. If you so much as say something offensive around her, if you even annoy her, I will break you in half. Are we perfectly clear?”

Joey gulps and looks even more nervous than before. “Crystal.”

“Excellent. Now get in. We’re leaving.”

[PhantomTroupe]

"A return to Freakness"

[Sal Darius]

The freaky Darius follows his morning routine. He closes his fist and understands where the pain is coming from. "No way I'm skipping today's training session" he says. He grabs the ice, throws it in a glass, and punches his injured hand into it. The pain goes beyond control. He takes a piece of cloth and bites the hell out of it in pain.

Sal, later on, realizes that it's okay to break a little bit of his discipline sometimes. After all, he is an alpha male. So he decides to smoke a cigarette while icing his hand. After a really long time, Sal takes a deep inhale, enjoying the hit of tobacco. He closes his eyes and digs deep into adversity.

Sal’s whole life has been adversity—he’s used to it. Bullies all around, a dad who always wanted him to be rough and tough. In a very short time, he developed an image as a kid. Which is why, whatever problems he faced, his mom always used to blame him.

Sure, there was an assumption. But it wasn’t entirely his fault, sometimes. So seeking revenge is something that’s been instilled in him. He won’t give up. He won’t let it go. Which, to be honest, is not healthy at all. Not giving up is a great mindset. But being clingy? Holding on to things too long, waiting for them to play out or die out? That can affect your mental health. Clearly, his traumas were catching up to him. On top of that, an injury and a few recent losses had completely shattered him.
The Freaky Darius, pushing through the day, had another training session under his belt. His coach and he both understood what his fighting style would need to be, especially now that he couldn’t punch with his stronger hand. But they still weren’t on the same page. The coach wanted him to get through this fight. And he believed Sal would, because Darius is all heart. His pain threshold is insane. He can tolerate it. But Sal? He saw this new fighting style as a weapon. Something new in his arsenal. Something that could kill Glory Braddock.

Freaky Darius is always known for entertaining the crowd with his wildness. He’s dangerous, unpredictable! The match was phenomenal. Chaos, heat, everything you’d expect. But once again, Sal found himself at the bottom of the pile. Another loss. Another bruise on the record.

Coach: Good job, kid.

Sal: Nah, I don’t think so.

Coach: What makes you say that?

Sal: Three losses in a row, man. Come on. Isn’t it obvious?

Coach: Sometimes they think we’re losing. Hell, the world thinks we’re down. But in truth? We’re winning, Sal. Remember that.

Sal: My pro wrestling record doesn’t say that.

Coach: Let me tell you something. I’ve trained killers, naturals, and clingers. But you know who really makes it, Sal?

Sal: Lemme guess... the clinger?

Coach: Hell no! The one with a heart, you couldn’t even throw your right for three matches. But you still went in there, give it your all. The crowd saw it, they felt it. You gave them a show. That’s why the SCW money was worth it. And you were fighting with your strong hand injured, right?

Sal: Yeah. I know.

Coach: Swelling’s gone. Just ice it after every session this week and you’re ready to kill again.

Sal: Damn right I am.

Coach: Yeah! Fuck yeah! Who’s the King of the World of Hearts?

Sal: I AM!

Coach: FUCK YEAH! Now rest up and get your ass in here. Motherfucker!

Sal: Fuck yeah.

Coach: Take care.

Sal: Adios, entrenador.

Coach: Oh! Okay. Adios.

Darius sat alone in the locker room, the sound of the crowd still faint in the background. He looked like a Greek god sculpted, powerful but right now, he carried the weight of failure on his shoulders. His posture slouched, his head low, and sweat poured down his body, soaking into the wraps still tight around his fists. He didn’t even try to take them off. Just tapped his knuckles together like he didn’t have the energy or the will to care.

The Freaky Darius, the wild man fans came to see, was nowhere to be found. What remained was someone hollowed out by regret. A man who didn’t just lose a match he lost something deeper. He closed his eyes. Not to sleep. Not to rest. Just to escape. Then the image came. A kid crying. A lunchbox missing. Laughter from somewhere off screen. That kid was him. Small, alone, humiliated. He hadn’t thought about that moment in years, but now it was here, raw and clear.

His chest tightened. His eyes welled up. The tears came, just like they had back then. He had always given everything blood, sweat, and tears. In every fight, against every opponent, in every damn struggle. And still, the results never showed up. The wins never came. Only the pain stayed consistent. He took a deep breath, wiped his face, and finally reached for the tape. His fingers barely moved. The strength was gone. But he peeled it off anyway slowly, methodically. It was the only thing he could do. The only thing left in him.

Scene 2 – Sal was seen in the SCW parking lot, phone pressed to his ear, a bag slung across his shoulder, and—obviously—his superhero Blublocker aviators shielding his eyes from the toxicity of this universe. Freaky Darius was casually scanning the lot, trying to remember where he parked his car, while staying on the call.
Sal: Yeah, I mean obviously I couldn’t throw my hand. But you said I’d recover in a few weeks. I think the swelling’s gone down now, and honestly, I feel good.

Doc: Okay? Have you been icing it?

Sal: Yes, of course!

Doc: When can you see me today?

Sal: I’m free.

Doc: Can you come now?

Sal: Sure, I can.

Doc: Let’s do it. Come to my clinic. Sending you the location.

Sal: Done.

Scene 3 – Sal and the Doc are sitting down, fully engaged in conversation.

Doc: Your aviators? Can I see them?

Sal: I mean... I don’t usually let anyone touch them. But sure.

Doc: Why not? Got some sentimental value?

Sal: Not really. It’s a mindset I have. Fighters need that.

Doc: Would you like to talk about it?

Sal: Well, I’m a superhero. I think society runs on a certain kind of morality and I want to challenge that. I’m different. And I want people to believe in their uniqueness. I see so many talented people giving up on their dreams, chasing some "secure" 9 to 5 job. I hate that. So I became their savior, their messiah, someone to show them they can believe in themselves. And yeah, a lot of other things come with it.

Doc: Like what?

Sal: We athletes have short careers. Once we hit 30? We can’t eat what we want. Can’t enjoy life like normal people. In short, I
challenge normality.

Doc: So... what if you are the same as other people?

Sal: I’m not?

Doc: Well... you have a job, you eat, you sleep. You were partying your whole life—same as any 9 to 5 corporate slave would.

Sal: Hahaha! I would be so high I’d throw myself off the highest mountain cliff, sir! I’m a different breed.

Doc: So why’d you quit the drugs then?

Sal: Because sir! Pro wrestling is me. I was done with that life. I came out of rehab and now I’m focused. Can you please check
my hand now? I mean... that’s what I came here for.

Doc: Sure, Sal. I will.

The Doc made Sal go through a series of physio exercises to test the stability of his hand. He moved it in different directions, applied pressure from various angles, checking carefully for any sign of pain or discomfort. But Sal didn’t flinch. Not once. His face stayed solid, unreadable. Unshakeable. The Doc looked at Sal and nodded.

Doc: Umm, looks fine to me. I’ll send you the X-ray again, this time it’ll be the new one. But Sal… here’s the thing.”

Sal: (raised an eyebrow) What’s up?

The Doc: (hesitated) “You’re alone. Deep down, you miss the crowd that used to be with you and—”

Sal: (Interrupts the doctor) YEAH! It was a great meeting, sir. Take care. Without waiting for a response, Darius stood up and stormed out of the clinic. He slammed the door behind him, not bothering to look back. He rushed to his car, yanked the door open, dropped into the seat, and grabbed his water bottle. Big gulps. Heavy breathing. He wasn’t just thirsty, he was trying to drown a truth he once again refused to accept.

Scene 3 – SCW Breakdown opens

The show cuts in right after the intro. The camera catches a lean, jacked figure, sweating and grunting mid-dumbbell squat. He’s nearly naked, pouring all his energy into the reps. As the camera zooms out, it reveals none other than the workhorse himself, 'Sal Darius' pumping his lower section, completely nude (hiding his soft parts from that dumbbell) except for one accessory: his iconic Blublocker aviators.

He looks up mid-squat.

Sal: "WOAH! What’s up? WAIT—for f***’s sake!" He immediately disappears from the frame. A few shuffling sounds later, he returns wearing a pair of white boxers. On the crotch? A giant, awkwardly placed Clyde Sutter face.

Crowd: LOUD CHEERS + LAUGHTER

Sal: "Okay, I think I might’ve worn the wrong boxers!?"

He pauses, still breathing heavy, standing tall in front of the camera. He looks down.

Sal: "Oh yeah… these ain’t it. Please! I need some privacy, SCW Universe! I’m not a pornstar for f***’s sake!"

He disappears again—more fumbling, more noise. He returns. This time, he’s wearing another pair… and now it’s David Striker’s face printed directly over the goods.

Crowd: EVEN LOUDER

Sal: "No no! Stop it, you guys! Let me wear something classy, please!"

Third time’s the charm. He re-emerges in fancy floral boxers. Finally presentable, finally comfortable. Sort of.

Sal: "Alright, this is me. I’m good. Now… listen up."

He takes off his sweat-drenched mask and casually hangs it from his waistband.

Sal: "I’ve been getting flashbacks lately. Bad ones. Take me places I don’t wanna go. Life humbles you. Change you. But some things? You just can’t control. I’ve been dry for a long time. No Latinas. No ebonies. No blondies. I’ve taken every hole this beautiful planet offered me. So yes, my body count is infinity. But just ‘cause I quit that lifestyle doesn’t mean my banana’s shrunk. Nah. My banana still dreams. About big beautiful MILFs. And in those dreams... I take 'em straight to the boom boom room."

He leans in close to the camera.

Sal: Then I woke up… boxer soaked. And who’s on the crotch? David. Clyde. They were tasting my pain. LITERALLY.

Crowd: losing it

Sal: My opponents today? Been eating organic honey, doing hot yoga, adding collagen to their diet. Meanwhile, I’m running on fumes—not 'cause I’m outta fuel, but because my Greek god of a body has been siphoned by two clowns who wish they were me. Amazon shipped me those boxer prints. Maybe because even Amazon knows, that’s where these jabronis belong. On my crotch." He rips the aviators off and stares directly into the camera.

Sal:  You think this is ring-a-ring-a-roses? Where do we hold hands and skip in circles? Nah. I’ll stomp both your faces so hard, your moms will feel it. Covered in my essence. Look—I’m a very straight man. You all know me. But SCW keeps throwing these low-supply, weak-chin, love-starved opponents at me. And it ain’t my fault, okay? I just hope you get more… supplies, Clyde. David. Because if your kids come out looking like Sal Darius? Don’t blame me. Blame the drip.

He steps forward. Serious now. Voice low. Breath heavy.

Sal: I don’t just want the world to remember me. I want them to say—  'The King of the World of Hearts… regained his throne.'"

He stares, intense. Leaves the frame. Then? BOOM. He storms off, grabs a metal dumbbell, and hurls it straight at the gym mirror. Glass shatters.

Sal (screaming):  "LET’S F***ING GOOOOOOOO!"

[The Assassin]

2 of 2
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June 30th, 2025
Charlotte, NC
Off Camera
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The late afternoon sun filtered through half-closed blinds, casting shadows across the disarray of the small apartment. Dust floated lazily in the amber light, adding a surreal stillness to a scene of chaos that had long since lost its sting. Broken picture frames leaned against the baseboards like fallen dominoes. Books were scattered in untidy piles, some with torn covers, others with pages dog-eared or half-ripped out. A battered coffee table stood in the center of the room like a wounded animal, one leg splintered, the surface marred with a long gash where something sharp had dragged across it. Clyde Sutter stood in the middle of the wreckage, tall and motionless. His long black hair hung loosely past his shoulders, damp with sweat at the temples. He wore a tight-fitting dark SCW t-shirt, its sleeves rolled just enough to expose the hard curves of his muscular arms, and a pair of worn jeans that had clearly seen better days. He looked like a man built for battle, his broad shoulders and strong posture belying the quiet calculation in his pale blue eyes. The place had been ransacked a few weeks ago while his old friend, Joey, had been staying here; lucky for Joey, he wasn’t around when it was attacked. Sutter now returned again to his old Charlotte apartment, trying to see it with fresh eyes, hoping something, anything, would reveal itself now that the initial fury and disbelief had faded. Joey is convinced that Clyde’s sister, Lilith, is somehow behind this. It does make sense. Clyde hired Joey to investigate Lilith’s criminal dealings, Joey helped Clyde expose her involvement in the murder of Archie Van Stanton. Still, something about this doesn’t make sense and Sutter wants to see it all for himself. But so far, all he had were fragments: a missing laptop, a busted lock on the front door, and an overturned drawer of documents someone had been desperate to find.

Clyde crossed the living room with the slow grace of a predator, eyes scanning the damage with deliberate focus. A hand brushed lightly over the back of the couch, fingers tracing the edge where the upholstery had been slashed open. He paused at the bookshelf, crouching to inspect a line of dusty volumes; mostly wrestling biographies, training manuals, and a few classic novels with cracked spines. One of them had been replaced upside down. Clyde narrowed his eyes, tugged it free, and flipped through the pages, though nothing fell out. Nothing revealed itself.

The silence in the apartment was total, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional groan of pipes in the building’s old plumbing. He straightened up slowly, back cracking slightly as he stood. His expression was unreadable; part anger, part fatigue, part buried grief. Whatever had happened here hadn’t just been a robbery. Someone had been looking for something. And they’d been willing to tear everything apart to get it. Clyde turned toward the hallway just as the sound of footsteps approached the door from outside. Slow, firm, measured. He knew the rhythm before he saw the man. The door creaked open. Mason Van Stanton stepped through the door like he owned every room he entered; even ones in shambles. He wore a tailored light-gray blazer. Beneath it, a pale blue dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. He wore dark slacks and polished leather shoes that clicked softly against the hardwood, the sound precise and purposeful.

“You’re late.” Clyde growled in an intimidating manner. To his credit, Mason doesn’t seem too bothered. Mason’s expression didn’t shift much. He took in the scene with a detached air, the way a tactician surveys a battlefield after the smoke has cleared.

“Forgive me for not wanting to visit the man who pummelled the ever living crap out of me the last time we met.” There is a clear dripping of sarcasm in the voice of Van Stanton. Clyde lets it pass. Van Stanton then stepped fully into the room. He paused just inside the threshold, hand still lightly resting on the doorframe.

“You owe me, Mason.” Clyde says coldly. “You used me, manipulated e, screwed me over many times. And should I remind you of how you went into business with my sister?”

“Right, fine, maybe I do owe you a favor or two.” Mason sighs. “So what is it, what’s wrong?” He takes look at the damage in the apartment. He smirks. “Did you have a wild party here or something?”

“Do I look like the kind of individual who would throw a party?”

“Good point. So what did happen?”

“I let an old friend of mine stay here…” he pauses, trying to think of the right words; while Mason may swear that he is only accepting financial assistance from Lilith Sutter, nothing more, he still doesn’t trust Mason enough to take him at his word. He has to be careful about what information he shares with his former agent. “...he was in some trouble and needed a safe place to stay.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” Mason asks. “Is it anyone I know?”

“His name isn’t important. But my friend recently informed me that he came back to the apartment one night and found it like this.” He points an accusatory finger at Mason. “Do you know anything about this, Mason?”

“I see where this is going.” Van Stanton shakes his head. “I had nothing to do with this, Clyde. I mean, do you think I would be crazy enough to provoke you?”

“No, but you are working with my sister and SHE would provoke me.”

“Look, I already told you, I only take money from her. That’s it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about her business dealings…legal or illegal.”

“You never know anything, do you?” Sutter approaches Mason menacingly. He backs him up against a wall. The calm demeanor of Van Stanton quickly evaporates as he starts to quiver in fear. “I am going to call my sister. If I learn that you are involved, if I even SUSPECT that you are involved, I will hurt you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” Mason gulps nervously.

“Good. Now leave.” Sutter says commandingly. Mason doesn’t have to be told twice. He quickly turns and makes his exit just as quickly as he arrived. The Assassin sighs with annoyance as he shuts the door. He walks over to a sofa and finds a place to sit amongst the wreckage of the ransacked apartment. Clyde produces an iPhone and proceeds to FaceTime someone he had sworn to never contact again…

…his sister, Lilith Sutter.

He waits patiently for an answer. He lets it ring for what seems like an eternity. After nearly a minute of nonstop ringing, finally the call is answered. The screen flashes to life and he sees the familiar face of his sister on screen. She is smirking arrogantly, almost as if she expected to receive a call from her brother any moment now.

“Ah, my dear brother, it has been so long since we have spoken.”

“Do not feign ignorance, Lilith.” Clyde says coldly. “You know why I am calling.”

“No, I can honestly say that I do not.”

“Very well.” Clyde takes the phone and turns it so she can view the damage in his apartment. He walks all over the apartment, showing every single bit of damage, every overturned furniture and broken picture frames. All of it. He turns the phone back to himself and glares coldly back at her. “Is any of this ringing any bells, sister?”

“No.” She chuckles. “I suppose you think I have something to do with your apartment being damaged?”

“Yes.” Sutter nods his head. “You may be stuck in Russia right now but you still have influence, you still have connections, and you still have reach.”

“I do, that is correct, but do you honestly believe I would waste my time and efforts into damaging your pathetic apartment?”

The Assassin hates his sister with every fiber of his being. Still, her words have a ring of truth in them. For someone as wealthy as her, with the connections she has, doing something like this seems to be rather petty and pointless. Lilith’s schemes are typically grander. Clyde sighs out of frustration.

“So you didn’t do this?”

“No. Honestly, brother, you are looking in all the wrong places. Grant, it is logical to think of me as someone who would target you. You did me wrong, all I wanted was to reunite our family and instead you put the authorities on my tail, forcing me to seek sanctuary in Russia. I would love to get back at you but, dear brother, know this; I am not the only person in this world that you have wronged.”

Instantly the screen goes blank. Lilith hung up on him. He throws the phone down angrily and let out a loud yell. He is frustrated because he came here wanting to find answers but he came up empty. He is also frustrated because Lilith is once again right. Clyde has angered many people in his shady history. Who else could have been angry enough with him to target him? This may not be about Joey at all. This may not be about Lilith. This could be someone else from Clyde’s past coming back to haunt him.

==========
July 2nd, 2025
Los Angeles, California
On Camera
==========

In the soft, golden haze of a setting sun, Clyde Sutter and Melinda Braddock stand poised in an immaculate garden, framed by lush greenery and the hazy silhouettes of distant high-rises of Los Angeles, California. The Assassin, tall and broad-shouldered with a quietly commanding presence, wears a striking white tuxedo that fits him with tailored precision. His long black hair cascades to his shoulders, subtly tousled, adding a roguish edge to his otherwise formal appearance. His dark eyes hold a steady, confident gaze, his expression calm and assured. Beside him, Melinda Braddock radiates beauty in a flowing pastel gown that evokes a dreamlike sense of fantasy and grace. Her dress, an exquisite cascade of blues, pinks, purples, and subtle greens, shimmers gently in the fading light. The fabric, sheer and delicate, moves with her like a whisper, cinched gently at the waist to accentuate her thin figure. Her long blonde hair falls in gentle waves down her back, catching the last traces of sunlight and glowing like spun gold. Together, they appear almost cinematic, two figures seemingly lifted from a classic Hollywood romance and placed into a world of surreal tranquility. Which is almost appropriate, considering the setting for tomorrow night’s Breakdown. The setting sun bathes them in a warm, flattering light.

“Fate is the ruler of all things but that doesn’t mean humanity is left devoid of free will.” The lovely Melinda Braddock begins, breaking the silence with her beautiful voice. “We do get to make choices in our lives. What we wear is a choice, for example.”

“And may I say, you have CHOSEN to wear something very beautiful, my love.” Clyde remarks.

“Thank you, babe.” Melinda smirks. “In the world of professional wrestling, how we choose to compete, the moves we utilize in our arsenal, who we target, the enemies we make along the way, the allies we make along the way, all of those are choices that Fate allows us to make. Fate is not some vindictive, malevolent tyrant. Fate is gracious enough to allow us to have choices. Yet, at the end of the day, regardless of the choices we make, the endgame is still dictated by Fate. Fate will allow us to choose the path we take but, at the end of the day, the destination will always be dictated by Fate. Chance Owens, let me clear a few things up with you. Your poor decisions at Taking Hold of the Flame were what led to your elimination. What was Clyde supposed to do? Help you win? And as far as Kelsai goes; she CHOSE the life of a professional wrestler. She knew the risks going in. She made poor decisions that led Fate to putting her in her place. And you want to go off and threaten Clyde?” She snickers. “It’s laughable to think that you could be a threat to my man. But let me ask you this, Chance; before you go casting stones, have you looked at the sins of your own girl? I was still in training at the time but I was watching her reign of terror in Global Championship Wrestling, screwing over everyone right and left. She is no saint and definitely not some innocent victim. Choices that we make put us in the crosshairs of Fate. Think about that.” Melinda sneers. Sutter kisses her on her lips.

“Well said, my beloved. It is true, there are a limitless number of paths that lay before us that we can choose to take and yet Fate has seen fit to ensure that all of those paths lead to the same destination that it has in mind. Mr. Striker, you and your friends…Dangerous Minds is it? Phantom Troupe? You lot are a bunch of hotheads. You lose your tempers the instant you feel the slightest hint of being wronged or offended. Instead of civil discourse you instantly wish to solve the problem with your fists. You remind me a lot of myself during my first run in SCW, if I am being completely honest with you. Though I will credit to you in at least one sense; your rage have produced at least some minimal success whereas mine failed. My rage nearly got me blackballed from the industry.”

“That is partially my mother’s fault.” Melinda remarks with a grin.

“This is true, she did not approve of me then. In any event, Mr. Striker, your rage, arguably the rage and temper flaring of your entire troupe, has proved somewhat fruitful. It has produced entertaining Underground wars with the likes of Kimberly Williams, tag team clashes with Twisted & Sadistic and Light in the Darkness. Most recently it produced a clash with The Fall of Man that got your friends into a bit of trouble. That’s the thing about free will, isn’t it? It can lead to trouble. Your choices, Mr. Striker, have led to you having a bit of a rough and rocky road in Supreme Championship Wrestling. For that I feel for you because, whether you approve of my viewpoints and actions or not, the fact is that we are very much alike. We are two warriors fighting to contain the rage filled monsters within. Well, at least I am fighting to contain it. Better yet, I have learned to channel that rage, to use and focus that monster when necessary and put it back in its box when all is said and done. That is a lesson you have yet to learn and it is what has led to your difficult times, Mr. Striker.”

“You are not alone in your inability to learn from your mistakes.” The Assassin smirks knowingly. “Mr. Darius, you open your mouth, you insert your foot, and you get destroyed again and again, match after match, humiliation after humiliation. One would think you would have learned to control your own temper and your own lustful cravings by now and yet you continue to follow that same path of heartache and pain. At least the path Mr. Striker has chosen did produce some fruit. You, Mr. Darius? You have chosen a path that has led to absolutely nothing, which is what you are. You are nothing, Mr. Darius, and you are definitely not a threat to me. The choices you have made have brought you to this moment where you will come face to face with Fate’s Chosen Assassin and you will be executed. You will be destroyed by me and I will take great enjoyment in it.” Sutter smirks.

“Mr. Striker, Mr. Darius, I know these words are not enjoyable, they are not comforting. I did not come here to speak words of comfort, I came here to speak the truth and the truth hurts. I also came here to execute the will of Fate and Fate has willed that, on Breakdown, not just one but the both of you shall be executed.”

“Oh come on, babe.” Melinda chimes in. “Leave them on a high note!”

“Very well.” Sutter nods his head. “I can give you at least one word of comfort, Mr. Striker and Mr. Darius. You may fret over the choices that you have made, the poor choices that you have made that have led you to this point. But you do not have to fret over the destination. The destination has already been dictated for you by Fate, so you do not have to worry those puny little minds of yours, because your Fate is sealed.”

[Sal Darius]

Scene 4 – SCW Gym, Post-Promo

The shattered mirror still glints in pieces on the gym floor. Sal Darius, fresh off his unhinged promo, tosses the dumbbell aside and heads toward the showers—dripping with sweat and pride.
But then—

Franklin Mack (off-screen): "Hey, kid!"

Sal pauses. He turns around slowly, dropping his shades just enough to flash his signature smirk.

Sal: "Ohh, the legend —Franklin Mack."

Franklin Mack, dressed in a sharp suit and polished shoes, storms toward him. A former wrestling icon turned SCW road agent, Franklin doesn’t look amused.

Franklin: "No. Stop. Cut the bullshit. You damaged SCW property—and you’re gonna pay for it."

Sal (grinning): "How much?"

He slides his aviators fully down, revealing the whites of his eyes like he's daring Franklin to throw hands.

Franklin: "Let me tell you something—never do that again. This is your warning. You pull another stunt like that? You're DONE here. Got it?"

Sal: "Sir! I sold it with that promo. Come on. That mirror already paid for itself. I was printing ratings in real time."

Franklin: "No you didn’t, you piece of sh*t! Don’t forget—if SCW hadn’t taken you in, you’d be another washed-up freak on the streets of LA or Chicago, full of dope and regret."

Sal (stepping closer): "Ohhh, if we’re going there, then let me remind you—I still fight. I’m still in this. While you hide your real self behind a suit, playing janitor for dumbbells you can’t lift anymore!"

Franklin (furious): "HOW DARE YOU!? HOW DARE YOU!?"

Voices explode. The two men go nose-to-nose, yelling at the top of their lungs. Moments later, SCW security rushes in. They wedge themselves between the two before fists start flying. Tension still sizzles in the air.

Sal (pointing past the guards): "You want to fight, Franklin? Step in the ring.

But remember—suits don’t win fights. Freaks do."

Franklin was left fuming with a red face, while Sal was dragged by the security to end the chaos.

[PhantomTroupe]

"The Blessings of Trejo's Tacos"