07-02-2025, 12:09 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-02-2025, 12:15 PM by 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!"
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!"