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The scene fades into Colton Thorpe sitting behind his very own merchandise table. Laid out on the left of the table is a black tee with a cartoon magnum, Colton Thorpe in white font below the gun's barrel. On the right, a white tee featuring a fifties pin up model, knelt in front of a torpedo that has “Thorpedo” written on it. A young man stands in front of the table, seemingly interested.

Thorpe: 'The Colt Brand' tees are made from 100% combed cotton, and come in all sizes, which is great news for you my 4X customer.

The slightly overweight man scoffs at Colt's insult about his weight, turning and walking away from the table. Colt stands up, arms outstretched to his side, in disbelief.

Thorpe: Klump, wait! These shirts are slim fitting! It'll suck in that insulation and give you that Buddy Love look you've always desired!

Realizing the offended chubster isn't coming back, Colt drops back into his chair, disappointed. The only other person left in the line, a middle aged woman, steps forward.

Woman: Why do your shirts cost more than everyone else?

Colt fist palms his face, shaking his head back and forth. He slowly slides his hand downward, allowing his eyes to peer through and lock with the woman’s. Removing his hand, he places both on the table top, leaning forward.

Thorpe: Tell me something mam: would you expect to get a Cadillac for the cost of a Toyota?

Woman: Well, no.

Thorpe: Or would you expect to get a Rolex for the price of a Timex?

Woman: Certainly not.

Thorpe: Then why would you expect to get a Colton Thorpe tee for the same price as every other Joe Blow's tee?

Woman: But, you're not a Cadillac or Rolex. I'd see your point if you were the World Champion, or a Champion of any kind for that matter.

Colt begins to stand behind his table again, frustrated by what the woman in front of him is saying. She trails off as Colt stares at her, oblivious to the fact she has insulted the superstar.

Thorpe: Do you plan on purchasing a Colt Brand Tee or not?

Woman: Well, I do like the shirt her with the little lady on it but, well, no. I just can't justify the price.

Thorpe: Then move along, and stop wasting my time.

The woman, much like the chubby before her, is offended by the words exiting the brash Colt's mouth, and turns to leave. As she makes her way over to the Official UTA vendors, Colt's attention turns to his right. He stands taller, and allows a smile to spread across his face.

Thorpe: Now you, you would be the perfect model to showcase 'The Colt Brand' for the UTA Universe.

Murray: Funnily enough…

Cayle Murray – unsurprisingly not decked-out in a “Thorpedo” tee – steps in front of Colt’s table and tosses a black garment towards the aspiring merch vendor.

Murray: … I came up with a little design of my own, seeing as we’re feeling creative.

Catching the shirt and unravelling it, Thorpe’s smirk turns to a frown.

Murray: You like it, lad? Think it’s a fitting addition to ‘The Colt Brand’ product line, personally.

Thorpe turns the shirt and holds its design out towards his newfound rival.

Thorpe: … tumbleweed?

He balls the shirt and throws it into Murray’s chest.

Murray: Not exactly the response I was looking for. I’ll tell you what, though: I won’t be your t-shirt model, but if there’s a line in ‘Colt Brand’ bandages you could hook me up with, that’d be great. I took a little head-knock last week...

As Cayle slowly rubs the back of his own skull, that familiar snide look returns to Thorpe’s endlessly-punchable features. He folds his arms across his chest.

Thorpe: Really?! Why don’t you tell me more about that?

Murray: See if you can make sense of this. There’s this guy, right, and I beat him fair and square in my UTA debut without any shenanigans. I approach him the next week and thank him for the competition and he puts me on blast for no reason whatsoever. “Okay,” I tell myself, “this kid’s obviously a little upset about his loss, I’ll just let it slide.” Then, the next week, he jumps me from behind and lays me out.

Cayle raises his brows.

Murray: Maybe you’ve seen the guy around? Weird hair, creepy moustache, questionable hygiene…

Thorpe: It seems I hit that head of yours harder than I thought.

Clearly in no mood to play Cayle’s games, Colt drops the act.

Thorpe: You conveniently left-out the bit where you stuck your nose into my business with Sanctus, and no: you didn’t beat me, you beat Black Gu—… Lisil Jackson. I’m still undefeated. How many times do I have to drum this fact into that dense skull of yours?

Colt pauses.

Thorpe: And don’t you dare question my hygiene, Brit: I’m surprised none of those teeth of yours have turned yellow yet.

Murray: Maybe when they do I can replace them with the ones I plan on taking from you.

The threat plays as music to Colton Thorpe’s ears. His lips curl into a smile.

Thorpe: That sounds like a threat to me, Whitebread.

Murray: Listen, Macklemore: I really wasn’t going to bother with you, man. I was gonna forget about the whole Sanctus thing and just move on with my life, but now you’ve given me a problem that I just can’t leave unsolved. But I won’t attack you from behind, and I’m not gonna leave over this table either…

Cayle taps his knuckles against Colt’s merch stall.

Murray: We need to hash this thing out and settle our differences, and fortunately we have a platform for that – the ring. So if there’s any sense in you at all, settle this thing with me: stop souring your reputation and prove your mettle in the squared circle, because I’ve first-hand experience of travelling the path you’re on, and trust me, it’s a slippery slope.

Thorpe: That is all I ever wanted, you and me in the ring. Do you think I take pride in the measures I've takento get your attention?

Murray: Something tells me you do.

Lifting his right hand up, Colt wags his index finger back and forth with a 'you caught me' type smile.

Thorpe: You know me all too well Mr. Murray. And why is that? Because that slippery slope in my travels you warn about, you've slid down the depths of that trail many a time. And that's my goal in all of this: to make you slide down faster than you ever have before.

Leaning forward, white knuckled on the table, the smile Colts has expired.

Thorpe: This started out as sour grapes on my part, I'll admit that. Because of some stupid technicality, your pinfall of Lisil tarnished my record. But then I came to realize, there really isn't much that separates us. Athletically, physically, and believe it or not, personality. We are two peas in a pod my friend.

Mirroring each other's movements, both men stand tall, their eye lock not breaking.

Thorpe: We will meet in that ring again, hopefully sooner rather than later. But you're kidding yourself if you think it'll end there 'lad'. Think of us as 'wrestling soulmates' if you will: destined to do this dance over and over and over...

Murray: Hold on, isn't that a bit sudden? I only just met you a couple of weeks ago, lad: I'm not sure if I'm ready for that kinda commitment yet...

An unimpressed glare responds to Murray's jest.

Murray: But you're dead right, man. I've slid down that slope a thousand times before. I've been my own worst enemy and a cancer to this sport, man. I've done things that when I think about 'em now, I feel like the biggest piece of crap in the universe... but you know what? Those actions belong to me. They're mine. I own them. I don't run away from them, because without those missteps, I wouldn't be the man I am today...

Thorpe: Oh just get to the poi--

Cayle throws a finger in Colt's face, cutting him off.

Murray: The point is this: I know exactly where your head is, and exactly where you're headed. I've reached man's lowest ebb and clawed my way out. I've stared my own mortality dead in the eye and said, "not today." Guys like you will take great pleasure in reading a laundry list of all my career's mistakes 'til the sun goes down, and that's fine, because I've confronted each and every one of them head-on, like a man. I'm here today because, in my darkest hour, I found my inner Andy Dufresne. I fought my way out of a cell of my own creation. I crawled on hands and knees through feces, urine and God knows what else for hundreds and hundreds of yards, and in the end, I came-out clean. Can you say that, lad? Can you honestly say that?

Colt ponders Cayle's question briefly before offering a reply.

Thorpe: You know what Mr. Murray, I can't. You got me there. But the big difference between us is I'm not looking to find my inner Andy what's-his-name or crawl through filth, I'm quite comfortable with who I am, what I am, and what I do. Our darkest hour is yet to come, you know it, I know it.

Colt drops down into his seat, placing both hands behind his head, leaning back in the chair.

Thorpe: Now if you don't plan on buying a shirt, I kindly ask you to move along.

The scene fades out with eyes locked on one another.

Cut away.