The scene opens up to a distraught Apollo Mars. He sits at the end of an enormous bed, covered in red sheets and a lavish comforter. He sits at the end of it, head in his hands. A few locks of dark black hair fall on his forehead. The lights are dim, the wall behind him holding a large window, revealing an out of this world sunrise, the layers of orange and yellow on the bleak grey background of England's skyline contrasting vividly, the sun like hope in a barren land. Or in Apollo's case, Apollo in a barren roster. An alarm clock rests on an end table in the far right corner of the camera's view, showing that the time was 6:03. The focus stayed on Apollo, tanned, toned body out in the open. Luckily, a soft, feathery pillow lay over his midsection, cutting off anyone's view from his Adonis Belt to his lower thigh. His body was hairless as ever, thanks to all the waxing, though a hint of stubble was creeping from his jawline. Apollo put his hands on his lap, gaze dead set on the camera. Behind his light brown eyes was a dark, underlying hue of steel grey. Apollo opened his mouth to talk - in the background, a beautiful woman got out of bed, wrapped in a linen sheet, creeping out of view just as fast as she was seen.

Apollo: I have everything any regular, less attractive man could want.

He looked around, motioning to the lavish room.

Apollo: Women, cars, money, houses, women, a great head of hair, prominent jawline, washboard abs, women...

He trailed off, just as another gorgeous woman got out of bed on the other side, her blonde hair and makeup a mess. She covered herself with a pillow.

Apollo: But I could care less for it all. What I really want?

He looked off, scowling, as he looked back to the camera, going from "0-100" real quick, his calm demeanor switching to bitterness and hate surprisingly fast.

Apollo: The championship. That clown Enigma doesn't deserve it. Much like the rest of CWA's wrestlers, he's just another psycho. Any one of the other 10 people with the same fake attitude could substitute in for him. But, they don't need to. No, CWA's fans deserve better. I am the hero CWA deserves. And damn well the one it needs right now.

He chuckled at his own joke, as another equally attractive woman got up out of his bed, using her hands to cover anything up as she walked out.

Apollo: Much like America in World War 2, CWA needs the French to prosper. Nobody else is as fit as I go wear that Belt. Yes, I have ones in my closet more expensive than that piece of garbage, but it's the message it carries. That I am the best, the fastest, the most agile, the best looking. It is all in that Belt. Something Doodles the Clown and Achmed Burka Hussein can't say for themselves. CWA needs a handsome face to represent it. Not a painted up freak, and certainly no terrorist.

Apollo stood, spinning quickly as he approached the window, bare ass on display for all to see. The camera zoomed in, Apollo's hand resting against the wall.

Apollo: And on the night of the match, one hand will be raised. And that hand, just like the body it is connected to, will be hand-some.

He laughed, pausing for a moment.

Apollo: And when that Belt is mine, I shall flaunt it around to the two losers who will be on the ground, beneath me. As they always have been.

The scene cuts to black, to the sound of Apollo laughing, halfway through it suddenly stops, and Apollo's voice is heard, with anger in his tone. "Ah, -bleep-, to messed up my -bleeping- hair! You, Mitchell, are -bleeping- useless!" Followed by nervous incoherent mumbling, and then nothing.