What Needs to Be Done

The camera crossfades to the backstage area. The cameraman is walking down the hallway, getting a shot of all the wrestlers who have wrestled and the ones anticipated to wrestle doing their thing. Midway down the wide corridor, there is a sudden call. The camera man has to walk back and turn to his right. There, about twenty-five to thirty feet away, leaning with his arms crossed against a large metal chest, is Quincy Reagan. He's dressed in tonight's ring gear: a glossy pair of purple trunks with black kneepads that are overlapped by his long, shiny jet black boots. At the time the cameraman has put the spotlight on him, he's looking up. Soon enough, however, he looks back down and grabs from on top of the crate he's leaning on, an elbow pad.

Quincy Reagan
Hey, look, is that thing broadcasting?

The cameraman must've responded with affirmation, which leads Reagan to continue. He begins to slip the pad over his left arm.

Quincy Reagan
Bring it here for a second. I got something I wanna say. Won't be too long, don't worry my man.

The cameraman complies and walks closer to Reagan, giving him a proper shot. Quincy adjusts the left elbow pad and begins to slide on the right.

Quincy Reagan
It's no secret to anyone that I've been quiet. Yeah, I ain't said much at all since All Out Brawl. Took me a little while to really tell myself why. Why I was quiet. Why?

He adjusts the right elbow pad then looks into the camera.

Quincy Reagan
Coulda been a few things. Coulda been shame. Embarrassment. Coulda been humility. Coulda just been, I ain't had shit to say. But I dunno about that last one. Nah, I had plenty to say. Too much, probably. In my younger days, I always had something to say. Too much to say.

He rubs the scar on his pectoral. He then grabs the white wrist tape on the chest.

Quincy Reagan
Definitely wasn't at a loss for words. No sir, I mighta grown up, seen the error in my ways. But a nigga like me doesn't ever fully depart from what he is, or where he comes from. And that was the problem. Not having too much to say, but who I am. I had a little homecoming recently, and it painted it all out really clear for me.

He begins to wrap the wrist tape around his left wrist.

Quincy Reagan
I talked to a very important man in the history of my life, and he reminded me of a little something he first taught me in a whole different time. 'Do what you need to do.'

The wrapping continues. His talking doesn't. The silence is anything but awkward. It's intense, as though a certain tension is just starting to build.

Quincy Reagan
At All Out Brawl, I didn't do what I needed to do. The weeks following, I didn't do what I need to do. Shit, too many times in my life, I haven't done what I needed to do. But, hey, I'm not dead yet.

He finishes the left wrapping and then completely wraps his right. He puts down the tape.

Quincy Reagan
Let me cut to the chase. Jeremy Stevens, I'm talking directly to you now.

He looks up at the camera.

Quincy Reagan
I respect you. I respect the kind of man you are. The message you put out, the way you carry yourself. I respect your ability. You beat me. Plain, simple, no conspiracy behind it. You're a talented type of dude. I respect you.

He crosses his arms. His right hand begins to attach to his chin, rubbing the growing stubble around his goatee.

Quincy Reagan
But, I respect myself. I respect myself too much to be sat around here, sorry for myself for a spell of bad luck and bad performance. I respect myself too much to allow myself to be less than what my kids, and what I myself, expect out of me. I respect myself too much to lose. Something I gotta do? Beat you. Beat you, and, with all due respect, make you stepping stone. And I respect you enough to warn you: that's gonna happen tonight. Twice.

He stands tall from leaning on the chest. He begins to walk off, and the cameraman pulls away his gaze.

Quincy Reagan
Oh, and one more thing.

The camera turns back to Quincy, who has walked probably about twenty feet away. He holds the number one up.

Quincy Reagan
After that? One other thing I gotta do? Owens. Saxon. Whoever holds the gold at the end of the night. Be on the lookout.

Quincy turns his hand around and turns the number five. With every word, a finger falls.

Quincy Reagan
Ruthless Professional Wrestling World Champion.

The five is now a fist. He points to himself, a confident smirk accompanying the gesture. He turns and walks off with a certain stride in his step.