All hell is breaking loose inside a cheap hotel room located not far from the Mellon Arena, where tonight's edition of HCW Loaded will take place.  On the third floor, five doors down to the right of the stairway, in Room 309, cabinets are being thrown open, a suitcase is being turned upside down, and the walls are being punched in as a frantic HWA Champion known as Creature searches depserately for a bottle of pills he brought along with him.  It is just hours before he must compete in what is being billed as the biggest Loaded match of all time, against one of the toughest competitors in the wrestling business today, HCW Continental Champion Michael Mercer.

With the jerk of his powerful right arm and the flick of his strong right wrist, Creature sends on of the drawers from the hotel room's armoire flying into the air.  He watches from behind a green and black mask, the very one he will compete in later tonight, as the drawer slams hard on the dingy cedar floors of the room.  He moves over the drawer and kicks it across the floor, into the far wall, then quickly riffles through its contents, which lay in a heap on the floor, searching for the small bottle.

Creature: Damn it!  I just got those God-forsaken things yesterday!  Where the hell are they!?

Creature pauses and shivers.  He raises his bare hands to his masked visage and places his aching cranium in them.  He shudders once more, and can feel the blood pumping through the veins and arteries of his head in his open, sweaty palms.  His rage has almost complete control over him now, and he cannot find his medication, the very medication he threw so calously away just a week ago during an interview with Matt Madison.

He stands at the center of his hotel room, wearing only dulled, black jeans and a brown leather belt, along with his mask.  His feet are bare, and he is topless, allowing his bulding muscles to absorb the cool conditioned air of the hotel complex.  He lifts his head from his hands and sighs, as he starts to settle down.  He can feel his pulse slowing, and his respiration slowly returning to normal.

Creature: I must keep control of myself.  I cannot walk into the Mellon Arena tonight a mad man.  I'll never beat Mercer that way.  Oh Mercer...what cold words he had for me.  He made my name an acronym.  He insulted my speeches, and my in ring ability.  And he promised to defeat me, and then stand over me gloating as I writhe in pain.

Suddenly, the inner anger catches back up to Creature, his mind once again engulfed in a raging inferno fueled by hatred and disgust.  He glances around the chamber, the furniture over-turned, the sheets of the bed wadded up on the floor, several holes in the wall, and no pills anywhere to be found.  He stamps his foot angrily on the solid floor, and the sound of the impact resonates throughout the hallway.

Creature: As the days have past, Mercer's insults and barbs have grown worse, have dug deeper inside my skin, and now they stab my damned soul.  But I must beyond his words...

Creature shakes his head from side to side rapidly, warding off his pending fit of rage.

Creature: The question just days ago was would he pulls his IDIOTIC, ARROGANT....(breathing deeply)....annoying little head...(breathing deeply once again)...out of his GOD DAMNED ASS!

Creature throws his head back and lets out a gut-wrenching, spine-chilling bellow, releasing some of his pent up anger and frustration.  Mercer, much like Complicated and Inphino Blitz before him, has worked his way deep inside Creature's sick and tormented psyche, and without the advent of modern medication or therapy, Creature's mental state has only become worse.  He pants heavily, restraining his anger.

Creature: Okay...I have to keep myself under control.  I have to save my energy for Michael Mercer.  Haha...yes, that's what I'll do.  Save it for Mercer, save it for the ring, as they say.  Hmph.  Listening to him, I now know the answer to the question I asked myself just two days ago.  Will Mercer come prepared, or will he bring his cocky-ass attitude with him?  He'll bring his attitude, as any natural-born prick would do.  He'll bring his trash talk and all his other shit, and I'm liable to take it all, and shove it straight down his phlegm filled throat.

Creature pauses once more, and surveys his destruction of his hotel room.  Now that he seemingly has his feelings under control, he can muster a smirk, and then a small, raspy chuckle.

Creature: Look at what I've done...and for pills.  Hmph.  I do not need medication to battle my demons.  I am the Prince of Wrestlers, DAMN IT!  I am the King of Men, DAMN IT!  I AM THE GOD OF HCW, DAMN IT!  And no one can fucking change that, not Mercer, with his claims of being more than a God or a myth, or a man, or a woman, or the overrated cousin of an even more overrated bag of shit.

Creature glances over at the nightstand by his nearly disassembled bed, searching for the digital clock that was there earlier.  It is not there anymore, but instead, lying on the floor at the foot of the bed.  Creature moves over to it, kicking various items he brought as luggage with him out of the way as he does, and kneels beside the clock.  He turns it over to check the time, but the LED is smashed.  He sighs and drops it back to the floor, casuing more damage.

Creature: Where is my Rolex?

Creature glances around his room, searching for his stolen property.  On one side of the room, right outside the entrance to the bathroom, lies the HWA Championship belt, and his black bag, but it has been emptied and its contents lay around the room in various locations.  There is a suitcase a few yards away, also empty.  Creature continues to scan the hotel room until finally a glistening gold object catches his eye on the other side of his bed.  He moves around the sheetless piece of furniture and picks up the object- indeed the Rolex watch.  Only it has apparently been a victim of his rage, and his foot, as it is smashed beyond repair.  Creature heaves it to the floor with great anger, and curses.

Creature: Damn it!

The great athlete and champion, but not so great role model and citizen, lets out a long, heavy sigh.

Creature: I had a few hours before the show when I started searching for my pills, so I suppose it is almost time for me to leave anyway.  Where the hell is my shirt...

Creature's head rotates jerkily from side to side until he spots what he wants, a green tanktop balled up in the corner of the hotel room, right by the entrance.  As he walks over to retrieve it, he makes notice of the slapping sound his bare feet make on the wooden floor.  He grabs up his shirt, and pulls it over his masked skull, then looks down at his feet.  They are still bare.

Creature: Oh hell...what did I do with my God forsaken boots?

Creature peers at the room once again, with tired, dry eyes.  One of his boots catches his eye, hanging over the edge of the shower in the bathroom.  He smirks at the location of his boots, and then enters the bathroom and claims the foot apparell.  With his boots now on his feet and his HWA Title belt in his hands, he exits Room 309, and locks the door behind him, careful to slip the key into a pocket of his leather pants.  He'll have to take care of the room after the show, if he is in good enough health.

Quickly down the central staircase, past the front counter and the doorman, and out the double glass doors without a word, Creature exits the hotel, known as the Belford Drive Hotel.  Out on the street, the sun has begun to set in the west, and it casts a fiery glow over the rest of the sky, silhoutting the tallest buildings, and the large Mellon Arena in the distance.  The air temperature drops with the sun on the horizon, and the breeze seemingly has a bite.  The streets are already filling with cars and people heading in the direction of the Mellon Arena in anticipation for what maybe one of the greatest nights in Hardcore Championship Wrestling history.

After adjusting the Hardcore Wrestling Alliance World Heavyweight Championship title belt over his broad right shoulder, Creature sets off down the sidewalk, with the intention of making his away around to the hotel garage, climbing in his car, and heading off to the compound that will play host to the history making event.  As he walks, mercifully unnoticed by fans at this time, a pay phone booth catches his eye, and a thought runs through his mind.

Creature: Hmm....I still have much to say on the subject of my opponent, and there is plenty of time before the show begins.  I suppose I should give Matt Madison a call...

As Creature begins strolling in the general direction of the booth, he noticed a rather large man wearing a beige turtleneck sweater, a leather bomber, and a pair of dark grey sweat pants moving towards the booth as well!  The man's short, stubby fingers wiggles to and fro, demonstrating the desire to soon be dialing numbers inside the sanctuary of the booth.

Creature picks up the pace a bit, increasing the speed of his walk.  The obsese man, equipped with three chins and a nasty looking goatee which devilishly points downward from his lower lip in the form of a V, notices Creature with his periphrial vision, and too begins to move his short, round, ham-like legs at a quicker velocity.

Creature smirks at the man who furrows his brow, and shakes his head letting him know that there is no chance in hell he is getting to the booth before him.  He then casually applies more speed to his saunter, to which the man cannot match as he is already pushing the limits of his weight constraint.  Creature reaches the booth, slides the door closed, and wins the "race," rewarding the slow, fat man with only a middle finger for his troubles.

The interior of the booth is lacking decoratively, but it is afterall, a pay phone booth.  The walls and the door are all plexi-glass framed in steel.  The booth is bolted to the ground, and the door features a sliding lock to protect the user from being disturbed during a phone call.  The outside world's noises are muffled at best, and for the most part, the booth offers a great deal of tranquility.  Aside from the black pay phone, complete with advertisements for long distance companies and numbers such as 1-800-Collect, 10-10-321, and 1-800-A-T-T, there is a small shelf under the phone featuring a phone directory.  This comes in especially handy for young, aroused men who don't quite have a phone number memorized, and are looking for a good time over the phone, via certain 1-900 services.

Creature, of course, has no interest in saving money, getting off over the telephone, or looking up anyone in the directory at all.  Instead, he digs down into his left pocket and finds the amount of change required to make a call, lifts the receiver to his covered ear, inserts the coinage required, and dials Matt Madison's cell phone number.  Madison's phone rings, but no answer.

Creature: C'mon you son of a bitch...c'mon!

The phone rings again, and nothing.  After only two rings, Creature is already growing impatient.

Creature: Where the hell are you?  Answer the damn phone!

A third ring, and Creature is becomming more irrate, his temper swelling inside of him.

Creature: For the love of God, answer your motherfucking phone you no good, dirty sh-

Creature abruptly ends his stream of profanity as the ringing stops and the geeky, soft voice of Matt Madison answers.

Matt: Um, hello?  Chantall, I told you I was going to be at the show tonight.  We can't do our "business,"  hehe, if you know what I mean.

An odd look finds itself etched on Creature's face.

Creature: Chantall?

Madison shrieks on the other end of the telephone, shocked by the deep, raspy voice of Creature, when he was expecting someone "sexier."

Matt: Creature?  Is that you- I uh, haha, I knew it was you.  I was just kidding with the whole Chantall and "business" thing-

Creature: (interrupt) Save it for your whore.  I'm sure she will love to hear the story.  The only reason I'm calling you is because I THOUGHT you might be interested in an interview.  You usually are.

The sound of paper or something being moved around can be heard, and Matt begins to yell into the phone frantically.

Matt: Right!  Okay!  Don't hang up!  I just need a minute to get my stuff together!

Creature sighs as Matt prepares to record or transcribe the interview from wherever he is, inside the Mellon Arena.

Creature: Are you ready yet?  Idiot...

There is a loud POP! heard on Matt's side of the phone, and then a few moments of silence.  Finally, Madison returns.

Matt: Uh...my head.  Oh, uh, yeah, yeah, I'm ready.  Anytime.

Before Creature begins, he hears a faint CLICK! from Madison's end once more, indicating he will be recording this interview.  He smirks, then commences speaking his mind about Mercer, and tonight's match.

Creature: It has recently come to my attention that Michael Mercer is the biggest, cockies, pompous ass in all of HCW.  I knew he was an arrogant son of a bitch before, but now that I get the chance to face him tonight, live, on Loaded, I've found out that he is the MOST arrogant.  I've found out that he is completely enraptured with himself, and is an avid ego masturbator, doing so whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Heh...he is so full of himself, that when he used to make fun of that dirty man-turned-woman Jaden, he probably screamed his own name.  Michael fuckin' Mercer- after tonight, I promise he will be known as Michael the fuckin' cripple Mercer.

Creature pauses, allowing time for Madison to chime in if need be.

Matt: Wow.

Creature: Now...I realize that the last time I spoke to you Madison, I told you that I respect Mercer's talent, his in ring ability.

Matt: Correct, you did.

Creature: And I told you that if he comes ready for the fight of his life Loaded, he might actually beat me.

Matt: Something along those lines, yes.

Creature: Well Matt- I still respect the bastard's talent, but I don't fear it, never have, never will.  And as far as his attitude going into tonight's match goes- he obviosuly isn't prepared for the fight of his life.  so let me make one thing clear to the little bitch- I wouldn't have won the titles I have won, I wouldn't have beaten the men I have beaten, and I wouldn't have become the man in HCW, if I wasn't something dangerous, if I wasn't something to fear, if I wasn't simply AWESOME.  He's treating this match as a joke, making up fancy little names for me and insulting me and my mask.  Claiming that I owe him, that I have something to prove to HIM.  And since he is so persistent with this frame of mind, I have finally let go and said so be it.  From the beginning, I said I would have no problem FUCKING KILLING him if he stepped into my ring expecting an easy squash.  I also said that I hoped he's realize that it will take more to beat me than it did to beat, say Rage, or Zev Sanesca.  But he hasn't heeded my warnings, and there for, I will have to live up to my word- and FUCKING KILL HIM.

Matt: Oh my!

Creature stops talking and shakes his head in disgust as he continues to think about Michael Mercer.

Creature: The man has said a lot these past few weeks, but he's said all the wrong things.  And tonight, he pays for it with his life.  Maybe I'm wrong- maybe he'll still give me the competition I am looking for.  But I doubt it.  Because he's a Mercer- "Mere Epileptic Retards Creature Enjoys Ravaging."  I know, I know- probably isn't as catchy as his dumb ass acronym, because let's face it- he's Michael fuckin' Mercer, and "my promos are fucking worse than a motherfucking raccon's."  But if you could see me now, you'd see a man who just doesn't give a flying fuck, because his head is killing him, he's pissed beyond belief, and he's not taking any stuck up shit from Mercer tonight.  I've told him all along- bring your work boots and your game face.  But he's chosen catch phrases, pointless insults, and acronyms.  So fuck him- he's dead.

Matt: I simply cannot wait until tonight.

Creature: Hmph.  (in a sardonic tone) "I simply cannot wait until tonight."  Haha...truth be told Matthew, neither can I.  I cannot wait to wrap my fists around his scrawny little throat, and choke, Choke, CHOKE the life out of the little fucker.  I cannot wait to kick the arrogance out him, I cannot wait the make him regret he ever said he pisses on the Prince's Crown, and I cannot wait to make him Feel the Fucking Abyss.  Because I'm Creature- I have no gimmick, I have no cliche`s, all I do is kick ass.  And you can take that the God damn bank.

With that, Creature slams the receiver down with tremendous force, hanging up in Madison's face.  He turns around one hundred and eighty degrees, and throws open the booth door after unlocking it.  He steps back out onto the street, and finds the air temperature even more frigid than before.  Even though the wind stings his tense arms like many small, sharp teeth, he is undeterred as he storms around the hotel, and into the dark garage.

Creature: January 10th has finally arrived.  Rest in peace, Michael fuckin' Mercer.

Creature reaches his Corvette, throws open the door, and climbs inside.  He slams it shut, starts up the car, and speeds up the concrete ramp and out of the garage.  As he moves over the road, cutting in between cars and swerving around pedestrians, his mind is focused on only one thing- Michael Mercer.  His rage builds, his blood pumps, and his hands sweat- when match time comes, his anger will be released an perhaps an over-confident Michael Mercer- and there is no amout of medication or prepartion that can stop it.