Private Conversation

We join Howell Saxon inside his car. He’s parked across the road from Phillips Arena, still sitting in the driver’s seat, in his everyday casual clothes (jeans, trainers, a short sleeved button-up) and in the middle of what looks to be a fairly stressful phonecall. His wrestling gear is piled in the passenger seat next to him.

Howell Saxon
You don’t think I know what a big deal this is? If I can show Reagan and Owens the full measure of my skill today, they’ll go into Brute Force shitting themselves and I’ll have a shot at winning the title back fair and square!

A pause as the person on the other end of the phone says something. Howell starts to look flustered.

Howell Saxon
Well, of course I don’t care about fair, you know that. Why do you think I keep doing those shin kicks? We’ve discussed this; I need to prove to those idiots that all their showmanship and gimmicks won’t get them anywhere.

The person on the other end cuts in and suddenly Howell looks irritated, even offended, at what they’ve said.

Howell Saxon
Hey, don’t talk shit about Nero. His gimmicks I can let slide.

A brief pause.

Howell Saxon
Because I res – hey, listen! I respect him. He’s one of the few people in this federation who’s not afraid to get his hands a bit dirty.

The person on the other end cuts in again and Howell looks increasingly exasperated, even anxious. When he speaks again, he's louder and his voice takes on a defensive tone.

Howell Saxon
Well, yes, we’re partnered up in this tag team match, but that’s not the point. The point is he can actually deliver, without relying on a friend’s support, or the “look at me, I have kids” sympathy card. He wants to progress in the federation and he doesn’t care about people liking him as he does it. And I damn well respect that, so don’t you go questioning my integrity just because I’ve finally spotted someone in RPW who isn’t a total fucking sellout!

We still can’t make out a distinct voice or words, but the other side of the conversation gets more intense to keep up with Howell – we hear shouting down the phone, which Howell surprisingly cringes away from, backing off.

Howell Saxon
Okay, okay, I… darling, listen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. I’m doing this for us, alright? For our sport. For what we really care about. We’re showing these wrestling morons what a truly strong and talented sportsman looks like.

Howell takes a deep breath. The other end of the phone is silent.

Howell Saxon
And I’m glad I’ve got you to boost my morale when I need it. Alright?

The person on the other end speaks up again. Their tone’s less angry now, but still stern. We can faintly hear them say something as Howell begins to look a bit exhausted.

Howell Saxon
Of course I’ll win. Have some faith in me, okay? We’re both winners, and that’s not going to change anytime soon.

The conversation seems to have calmed down; the next thing the person on the other end says is inaudible. Howell finally relaxes his shoulders and even smiles.

Howell Saxon
Okay. Love you. See you later.

Howell ends the call and stuffs his phone into his pocket with a heavy sigh. He runs his hand over his face and, steeling himself, reaches over and grabs his wrestling gear. He bundles it under his arm and steps out of his car, slamming the door viciously before he locks it.