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Ticking on a black background distracts OCW TV from moving on from the last commercial, or onto the next one. Scrolling around a dark room we find a slender figure laying on one side, postured out toward a window. His eyelashes murmur in some form of electrical stimulation. The bathroom door in the peripheral moves slightly in the shadow's sensory realm. Narration takes over like an inner personal monologue. Comforting with a voice yet delivering with certainty, as if the words were rehearsed several times over. Explaining the diameter and scope of just how much fastest gun slinging trouble that reigning OCW Rebellion Champion, Blake Anderson, is about to walk into at Battleground.. .. ..

There's nothing like looking down the center of a thick unforgiving gun barrel. You know in less time than it takes to blink you would get its fruit and never see it coming. A single firing mechanism ending you in less physical time than it takes Blake Anderson to run his mouth about Rebellion! It happens so fast not because of a lack of effort, but because in speed ratio you are obsolete in comparison to a piece of fiery death aimed by a precise instrument, and its humble operator. I've been twirling guns faster for longer than any man in any shooting competition in North America for six years. SIX. That's a number you're going to hear a lot. It's the number of bullets in my barrel, and the approximate amount of times Blake has heard "sorry, but I really love you..." from Belladonna during a "can we talk." I dare you to find someone faster... in the west, east... you get it. Not her! My fast draw hand you pervert! Hands can move fast with a little built-in anticipation. Round by round my truth is told through my translation of its language. Its wants and needs come before my own. But mine do come eventually. Six cylinders make up the fatal heart of my barrel. Just six chances to define a generation and leave a legacy unlike anything the Anderson's have ever known. So, what's it going to be, Blake Anderson, mister big time Rebellion Champion? You- again?? Mediocrity... or your beautiful selfless sacrifice... waiting kindly for you... at the end of my warm barrel.. .. .?

Two eyes flutter open next to a blinking alarm clock, "2:33AM." The figure sits up suddenly with suspicious sudden reverence. Feeling like something not right in his room. Very calmly with the precise movements of a machine, a massive magnum revolver barrel peaks out from under the covers, held motionless by the toned arm of shredded musculature. An eerie sense comes over the room in a humid summer night's darkest paranoid whispers.. .. ..

What was that?! FUCK! I've only been asleep for three hours? And I have to get up, train, and head to OCW for a formal contract signing. I never go anywhere without my gunbarrel. It comforts my whispering pillow at night. Especially when it tries to tell me lies. The human condition is a scary endeavor. One minute you're living the dream in Tamp Bay, Florida, and the next, you're living in paranoia. Checking the clock and window blinds constantly, wondering if today could be that damn day. Reckonings come for every one of us. I just thought I had more time... guess everyone does? It all started with a deal I never should have made. In a place I wasn't meant to be. Funny how fate works... one day you break routine and poof, there you are. Standing in front of people who want to hurt you and your family. My soon to be wife screamed, but they didn't care. She couldn't bear to watch our son get taken from her belly. I couldn't look away. Distant in another place... she was screaming at me to turn away... not to bare it. But it wasn't about what I could handle. It was about everything that died. The Westfield's had gone back and forth for generations with a land baron neighbor to the east, the Breckman's. Our families had both arrived in the original colony that settled in the panhandle. At first, we worked together to fend off the natives and other alligator like slime we all chose to survive in every day. Like most tragic tales, a feud would ignite between us hotter than the baking Florida sun. Mimi Breckman eloped with the most troubled Westfield, my grandfather, they called him "Gunbarrel" Charlie Westfield. He had run guns for the Irish mob back in the day when Catholic Churches only dealt conspicuously through Westfield's and McBride's. Mimi's pa, the patriarch of the panhandle, Christopher "the brute" Breckman, didn't take kindly to the secret union. Blaming animosity created by the arms deal as the main reason the Breckman's kid felt they had to keep the wedding so secret. When the two newlyweds returned from their act, Brute Breckman declared Mimi would never take the Westfield name. Which didn't sit well with Grandpa Charlie. Yet he wanted to support his son. He knew that while his son was rebellious, also that, the heart wants what it wants, even if it really wanted that damn Mimi Breckman.. .. ..

Catholic Priests walk by outside the window. One such Padre waves, knowing who is staying in that window tonight from previous interactions. The gunbarrel slides back under the folded pillow to a temporary sigh of relief. He waves back at his Priest. The monologue continues while the subject sculpts his arms and back with pushups and dips, as sleep escapes his waking possibilities. Stretching his arms and legs vigorously, like routine defines his entire way. He repeats the same mundane tasks and movements again and again. Magnum revolver is stripped, cleaned, recleaned, and dissected in short time intervals. Still... the hair on the back of his neck feels flighty. Too flighty. Peering at the alarm clock over and over, sensing something even more wicked his way will come sooner rather than later.. .. ..

Years past... Breckman's and Westfield's became closer than ever, technically united in blood, yet more divisive than ever otherwise. My mother always told me that Charlie died the same way that he lived, "an ornery old sum'bitch." Legend has it that he walked into the Breckman's bar downtown... and stabbed Brute Breckman where he stood. No one ever found either body. Stories and tall tales would fill the air for a decade, then dissipate into another humid Florida evening. Until I was born. A Westfield in heritage. I didn't get to see the worst of the feud... but I did make the same mistake my Grandpa Charlie did. I fell for the wrong girl. Natasha Breckman, daughter of the current panhandle czar, Peg-leg Paul Breckman, youngest and last remaining son of the Brute. I saw her in the bay, sunbathing with rich friends... but something about her was different. She didn't have that Breckman high chin about who they are and what they represent. She was just naturally beautiful. But Peg-leg found out we were seeing each other. He tried to prevent the same fate that befell the families two generations before. He forbids Natasha from seeing me. Paul issued an ordinance that any Westfield trying to court a Breckman would be treated harshly without warning moving forward. To set a clear barrier that the two were not still fighting off natives together and would never forget the incidents that led to the patriarchs of earn perishing mysteriously on that fateful day. Sure enough, we'd sneak out against the order, endangering both families like Capulet's and Montague's running rogue in the real world. Until his top deputy saw us. Within an hour we were both abducted in a white van. I could hear Natasha's screams as we feet dragged along the cobblestone walkway and up the Breckman driveway. I wasn't so lucky. Two days ago, I woke up in a coffin somewhere in South America. In my pocket, a letter, telling me that "Gunbarrel" was dead, and I would be too if I didn't forget all about Natalya, and our baby she was carrying. Peg-leg figures they'd get her with a nice Breckman suitor and ignore my rights as father, anointing the baby never a Westfield at all. But now I know they killed my grandfather. And my blood and surname will forever be more than pushed out... they will be codified in blood, by any means necessary, Breckman or Westfield, feud or peace, or at the end of my gunbarrel, as needed. Forgive me father... for I will sin.. .. ..

Grae Westfield pulls out an album of his family's historic past. Tabs segment it by different time period and chapter. He rubs certain photos, remembering the Westfield's who gave their lives so that his legacy, and that of his unborn stolen son can live. Fists clinch, pulling his pistol, spinning it marvelously between his fingers... at the back of the album, a flyer falls out. "Battleground Match Card," featuring Grae versus 'Hunter' Blake Anderson, tucked away for safe keeping? Or as a message from the Breckman's of some kind. Is this what was waiting for him... how did it get there? Wait a second, did they even leave the room? Listen close... there- what's that sound... is that... breathing.. .. .?

Hunter becoming the hunted. My barrel versus that sour dumb look on your face. You followed your routine to this moment, Blake. Now something changes in the face of mediocrity... ME. Smoke always drifts up from a fresh shot. Heat escaping after magma led has exited the chamber and made its way directly into your cornea. What's the matter? Not big on eye shots? Well, I'm a deadeye. Trained at the Westfield Academy in armed combat, and... in how to make a human heart break. It runs in the family. We know it so well that we made it part of the training regiment, to make sure it never happens to us again. Andersons aren't protected, pal. Blake Anderson is just like Peg-Leg Paul, and Brute Breckman before him. Hungry to create pain, but totally oblivious to its true consequences. He can middle around trying forever trying to prove a point no one wanted proven. OR- become a symbol. One other Anderson's like Bella can follow for generations to come. One like Grandpa Charlie made. A brutal tone setting necessary sacrifice. All the no names pushed over in the world can't save Blake from himself. No one ever could. It was meant to be. Eventually the push for the Hunter and Huntress ends at the feet of a smoking gun... this one! Grae Westfield... at your service. And that service is clearing the Outcast Championship Wrestling ring of the debris distracting fans from what they deserve... a name with legacy. Someone who finally delivers on their words... someone will do what's necessary... even at the end of a barrel. My barrel, Blake. You're going to love it. It's six versions of heaven for you and the rest of us, or Bella, for not having to pretend anymore. Not having to encourage or beguile such a goddamn failure. Truth comes when the smoke rises. Your cylinder is just about ready to pop.. .. ..

Westfield walks very deliberately into the bathroom after his workout. Sure to keep his head down, both water knobs turned to create the illusion. Shower water pattering starts on the ceramic tub. The bathroom door moves without prompting- Westfield pulls a quick-draw from the towel on his hip! Firing three times at a Breckman looking board blonde assailant. Grae watches convulsions and a bloody grown man sliding to the ground as his internal lights expire. Grae quickly flips and holsters the barrel after an exhilarating display of showmanship with his six-shooter barrel. He smiles... leaving the Blake OCW flyer in the Breckman's cold dead hands. It's a message. He heads to the lobby to check-out of the hotel, and into OCW's massive universe of talented men and women at Battleground.. .. ..

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