The scene opens up on a quiet evening in a suburban street. The area radiates retirement; no children playing on the streets, all curtains closed and nothing but safe family automobiles in sight. The calm and quiet, however, was suddenly interrupted by an unwanted SUV rumbling down the road making all kinds of racket. It came to a halt outside the one house in the street that differed from all the others in that it didn't have a well cared for garden or even a car parked out front. In fact, it looked deserted. The loud music emanating from the large black automobile ceased playing and the door opened. Out stepped a handsome, blonde haired man with a smirk on his face.

Chris Jericho: Hmm... This could be it.

All of a sudden, a window on the upstairs of the house swung open and from it fell a large, very well-built black man. He screamed a long "No!" until he came crashing to earth in a heap on the front lawn. The grass was clearly non-existent in the eyes of the owner and hadn't been cut for what seemed like months. The recently descended individual rolled around in the tall grass for a few moments, then struggled to his feet. He tried to take a step forward, then tripped over what appeared to be a garden gnome, barely visible in the mass of green in which it laid. Upon noticing what had taken him down, the bustling lunatic picked up the gnome, threw it up in the air, then dived at it and took it down whilst shouting "BOBBY SPEAR". Finally, he stood up straight and noticed Chris. The man was massive, with bulging white eyes and wearing nothing put a pair of black trunks, some elbow and knee pads and wrestling boots. After a few moments of staring at Chris, he abruptly ran straight past him and ran down the street screaming "BOBBY HATES LANCEY".

Chris Jericho: This is definitely it.

Jericho didn't bother to watch Bobby hurtling down the road, falling over a few more times on his way. He walked through the jungle of grass, being careful not to trip over anything and arrived at the front door. He knocked once, waited a few seconds, then knocked another three times. Footsteps were heard immediately beyond the door and a voice emerged from behind it.

The Voice: Nope! Not a chance! I've already got rid of one of you today! Just then in fact!

Chris didn't say anything for a moment, but looked confused.

Chris Jericho: One.. of us?

There was no response.

Chris Jericho: Are you trying to be racist? You never could grasp how to be offensive to just one group of people.

Still no response.

Chris Jericho: Do you mean wrestl-
The Voice: DON'T SAY THAT WORD!

Chris looked at the door in amazement, as if it were the 8th wonder of the world.

Chris Jericho: Don't make me break the door down!
The Voice: BREAK DOWN THE DOORS! FOR THOSE ABOUT TO-
Chris Jericho: I'm coming in! No more warnings!

Chris took a step back, drew in a deep breath and charged towards the door. But before he could reach it, it opened. Jericho burst straight through the thin air which was now his target and fell straight into the hallway. The door closed behind him and the man inside stepped over him. His best friend - Lance Storm.

Lance Storm: Well if you insist, come in. I've made bread.

He continued into the living room. Jericho on the other hand got up to his knees and stared after him.

Chris Jericho: WHAT THE HELL LANCE?! YOU-... You've made bread?

Lance re-appeared in the doorway.

Lance Storm: Yes, that's what I do now. I made bread.

Chris stared at him, dumbfounded. Lance stared back curiously.

Lance Storm: You might want to stand up. Kneeling doesn't suit you. You look like a confused Buddhist with bad hair.

Lance went to turn around again, but paused.

Lance Storm: And that's not racist either.

He finally returned to the living room. Chris finally decided to get to his feet and follow him. The living room was large but contained very little. A cosy armchair was situated at one end of the room, facing three things - a bookcase, a stereo and a table with an assortment of breads atop it. Chris walked over to the stereo and turned it on - a second nature of his. But instead of music, it played a voice which seemed to be reading a book.

Chris Jericho: What the-
Lance Storm: It's Dean Malenko reading Orwell's 'Animal Farm'. That's what he does now.

Chris had that same dumbfounded look on his face again. He turned the stereo off.

Chris Jericho: Are you part of some retirement program for ageing wrestlers?

He had expected Lance to react badly to his use of the word 'wrestlers', but Lance simply sat down in his armchair and considered Chris. Lance seem to know what his best friend was thinking

Lance Storm: I thought if I acted like that at the door you might just go away, thinking I'd gone insane. I know why you're here.
Chris Jericho: Damn right you know why I'm here! Your phone is cut off, you don't use a computer, you haven't responded to ANY of my attempts to contact you! I'm worried about-
Lance Storm: You just want me back in EBWF.
Chris Jericho: Well, in an ideal world, yes. But first and foremost you are my brother. I haven't heard from you for months. Care to explain why?

Lance pondered for a few moments, then spoke.

Lance Storm: Take a seat, for crying out loud.

Chris looked around.

Chris Jericho: There aren't any!
Lance Storm: You are surrounded by floor! Sit on it! Or sit on the table. Mind the bread. I'll kill you if you don't mind the bread.

Chris stared at Lance for a moment, then opted to lean against the table. Lance heaved a heavy sigh.

Lance Storm: I just wanted to get away, Chris. Away from everything. You know I like my solitude.
Chris Jericho: Yes, of course I do. Who doesn't like to be on their own from time to time? But to disappear for all this time - you could have been dead!
Lance Storm: I am indestructable, you know this.

Chris tried not to laugh - he was genuinely upset with Lance.

Chris Jericho: There's a difference between taking some time to gather your thoughts and becoming a full-on recluse. I'm surprised you haven't grown a beard!
Lance Storm: Beards are for Jim Duggan. I am not Jim Duggan. I am a permanent Canadian.
Chris Jericho: That doesn't matter! What matters is that we need to get you away from here. You need to re-enter the real world! People care about you.
Lance Storm: Oh yeah, like who?
Chris Jericho: Me! Some of the boys back in Missouri! ...Bobby?
Lance Storm: Don't talk to me about that.

Chris understood.

Lance Storm: How did you find me, anyway?
Chris Jericho: A tip-off from Regal.
Lance Storm: DAMN THAT BRITISH PIECE OF OVERCOOKED MALT LOAF! He's been sending me food parcels. That's what he does now.
Chris Jericho: You chose to rely on Regal and not me?
Lance Storm: We're not really friends, me and him. I just knew he'd do me a favour with no strings attached. Don't get all butthurt. Now go on, out with it. Give me your inevitable hard-sell.

Chris rolled his eyes.

Chris Jericho: It's just not the same without you around. Sure, I have my family, friends, co-workers... But it's not the same without my-
Lance Storm: Brother. I know. You're like a broken record sometimes. But the only way I can be a constant in your life is by being a part of that godforsaken business. You and I both know I'm not cut out for that anymore. I haven't been since I lost the title to Bret.

Chris's eyes widened.

Chris Jericho: ...Still?
Lance Storm: I'll never put it behind me.

A few moments of silence followed, broken by Chris.

Chris Jericho: I don't even feel like I know you anymore.
Lance Storm: This is quickly descending into a lover's quarrel. You know I don't find you the slightest bit attractive-
Chris Jericho: I've re-signed you.

Lance appeared ready to shout at Chris for cutting him off, but he froze.

Lance Storm: You.. You've done what?!
Chris Jericho: Forged your signature. I did it enough times when I was signing your autographs for you at meet & greets. I sent the contract through to the higher-ups. You're on the roster. You're contractually obliged to perform.

Lance stared a hole into Chris, fury mounting in his eyes.

Lance Storm: Th-that's fraud! That's illegal!
Chris Jericho: ...sue me. Take all my money. Put me in prison. Take me from my kids. You want that?
Lance Storm: Of course not! You... Bastard!

Abruptly, Chris walked out of the room. He headed towards the front door and opened it. Lance remained in his seat, apparently very taken aback and unsure of what to make of the whole situation. He heard the front door close. At this noise, he got to his feet and darted to through the hallway, emerging on his front lawn. Chris had gotten into his car and wound the window down.

Chris Jericho: You have 20 seconds to get in the car.
Lance Storm: This... You can't... This is-
Chris Jericho: Exactly the type of shit YOU pull. Now it's my turn to be the abrupt and annoying friend. 10 seconds.

Lance kept looking at his house, then towards the car.

Chris Jericho: 5...4...3-

Lance darted towards the car, opened the back door and dived in.

Lance Storm: Drive!

Chris looked in his mirror and smiled at the sight of Lance laid flat out on his back seat. He put his foot to the accelerator, and they began to drive. Chris smirked for a moment, and turned his stereo back on.

"I can feel it, coming in the air tonight..."

Lance Storm: FUCK. YOU.

------------

The scene re-opened inside a locker room. Chris Jericho was stood in front of a mirror, styling his hair. He glanced into the mirror over his shoulder and smiled as he saw his best friend, Lance Storm, sat on a sofa behing him, his head in his hands.

Chris Jericho: You are cut out for this. It's all you're good at.

Lance looked up at him.

Lance Storm: ...thanks. I still can't believe what you did. You could have at least came and found me first. You know I would have given in to your CONSTANT persuasion eventually.

Chris smiled then returned to his hair. Lance began to talk again, apparently to nobody imparticular.

Lance Storm: Kane. Fucking Kane. Fucking stupid big red Kane. Big red thing Kane. Chris, I seriously cannot be bothered. King of the Ring as well?
Chris Jericho: Main event of Warfare.
Lance Storm: MAIN EVENT?! Oh so not only do I come back against my will but I have to steal the fucking show as well?! This place must have really missed me.
Chris Jericho: I know one person who wont have.

Lance laughed sycophantically.

Lance Storm: I almost forgot he existed. I can't believe we didn't even mention him on the flight over. I flicked that Wes Ikeda 'on/off' switch in my head to 'off' months ago. Suppose he's babysitting your kids is he? Your wives out shopping?

Chris stopped messing with his hair and frowned.

Chris Jericho: Well... Wow, you have missed a lot. Y'see-
Lance Storm: Don't tell me. I can't be focusing on anything to do with that ASSCLOWN right now. I've got a show to steal!

Chris frowned once more, shook his head then turned to face Lance.

Chris Jericho: Fine. I'll save all of the serious stuff for after Warfare. There IS a lot to go through. Perhaps the show itself will enlighten you. I'm gonna leave you to do your own thing now. Just... Don't disappear, okay? Just go out there and do what you do best.
Lance Storm: ...Make bread?

Chris laughed. He walked past Lance, pausing to pat him on the shoulder, then left the locker room.

Lance Storm: ASSCLOWN.

There was no response.

Lance Storm: Oh that's right, I'm on my own now. CAMERAMAN, EMERGE!

Nothing happened.

Lance Storm: What?! WHAT?! No cameraman at my command?! I'm going to have to look over this contract that I never signed.

Lance stood up and walked over to the dressing table. He saw Chris's phone which he always left in the locker room and picked it up.

Lance Storm: Perhaps there's a dial-a-cameraman service...

But at that moment, there was a knock at the door. Lance jumped at the sound, not expecting any visitors. He was sure only Chris actually cared that he was back. He walked to the door cautiously, then opened it.

Lance Storm: Oh fuck the world.

He tried to close the door, but a foot got in the way. The door was pushed open, and into the room stepped none other than...

Lance Storm: Jonathan fucking Coachman. You have GOT to be kidding me. Get out before I make you soil yourself.
Jonathan Coachman: Too late, Lance! No, I don't mean-
Lance Storm: Haha, you shit your pants. Wow, this is becoming childish already. Just you entering the room has lowered the mental age of the environment by about 40 years. HEY! You brought a cameraman. See, you're occasionally useful.
Jonathan Coachman: I know I-
Lance Storm: Only joking, you're the human equivalent of a condom with a hole in. Packed with STDs. Wanting to interview me, then?
Jonathan Coachman: No, not personally. Jericho sent me.

Lance smiled.

Lance Storm: Oh did he? Chris's bitch now are you? We'll have to change that! You always have been and forever will be my gutterslut. Now do what you do worst, anuspie.

Coach gave Lance a hateful look, then turned to his cameraman, who mouthed 'anuspie?' at him. Coach shook his head and gave him a look which said clearly 'It's time to interview Lance Storm. Turn your camera on and point it at him'. Lance was flexing and posing.

Jonathan Coachman: What are you doing?
Lance Storm: Is that your first question? You are rolling, aren't you Mr Camera?

The cameraman gave him a thumbs up.

Lance Storm: Good boy! I'm just looking gorgeous. Next question?
Jonathan Coachman: Right, Lance. Let's be serious now.
Lance Storm: TELL ME YOU DID NOT JUST STEAL A CATCHPHRASE.
Jonathan Coachman: It's just a general statement.. Oh lets just get this over with. Lance, you're back after many months of mysterious absence. Where on earth have you been?
Lance Storm: You think I'd tell you that? Then you'd know where to find me next time. I bet you've been searching low and high for me, haven't you Coachy? Tired of interviewing people who are nice to you, aren't you? Tired of things running smoothly? Well I'm BACK! Look behind you.

Coach looked confused for a moment then turned to look behind him. When he saw that there was just the cameraman stood there, he turned back round - straight into a Superkick. Lance grabbed the camera and pulled it and it's operator forward, positioning them so they were focusing on nothing but Lance.

Lance Storm: Forget what that sack of absolute worthlessness was asking. It doesn't matter where I've been - what matters is that I'm here. Whether I want to be or not has nothing to do with any of you. It could be that I have nothing better to do. It could be that I need the money. Or it could just be to re-inflate my ego. But don't worry your pathetic little brains over any of that. Focus on your next King of the Ring.

Lance stood in a triumphant pose for a few moments, his hands on his hips. Remaining in this position, he turned his head back to face the camera.

Lance Storm: Good pose, isn't it? I'm going to start posing more. I saw that David Otunga person doing it and realised I look like less of an asshole. And yes, this is the pose I shall do once I've taken care of a little... Well, large piece of trash called Kane.

He rid himself of the pose and stood normally, facing the camera and looking deadly serious.

Lance Storm: Months of relaxation certainly don't prepare you for someone like Kane. A 7ft wreck of a man. A big red machine. A monster... Yes, a monster. But not a wrestler. Not a t all - you must not confuse these two things. This is wrestling, Kane. This is what NORMAL people like me can do. You can't possibly hope to enter that WRESTLING ring and go toe-to-toe with me on the mat and leave victorious. It simply makes no sense. In case you've all forgotten, I am the greatest technical wrestler to ever grace this damn promotion. Sure, while I've been gone you've all been drooling over the likes of CM Punk. Marvelling at the skills of AJ Styles. Drooling at the flailing legs of the so-called divas. But now the real face of this company is back. No frills, no smiles, no fancy haircuts. Just this frowning, condescending, crew-cut sporting STORM of a human being. No more stopping and starting. No more disappearances. Just sheer domination via pure wrestling. I'm here to remind you all why I WAS the champion of this sorry world. The top dog in this shithole of a pound. The must-see show-stealer that you all said would never make it past the openers. Would never get over the 'BORING' chants. The man who proved you all wrong once, and will prove you all wrong again.

Lance approached the camera and grabbed it, pulling it closer to his face.

Lance Storm: Kane, there's no place for people like you in my world. My world is for WRESTLERS. My world is for athletes. Big, ugly, bumbling freaks like yourself don't deserve to stand opposite me within those four turnbuckles. You belong in circuses, being chased around by midgets. And you'll see why you don't belong here come Warfare. You'll see why you deserve nothing more than embarrassment at the hands of legends like me. And you'll go home, look in the mirror and smash it to pieces. Smashed just like your dreams of ever becoming anything more than a pathetic giant who couldn't get the job done. See you in the ring.

Lance stepped away from the camera.

Lance Storm: Oh, and for all my little stormclouds who've been DYING to see their hero return in a blaze of glory.

He superkicked the camera in VINTAGE Lance style.

Lance Storm: Fuck you all very much.

The camera showed nothing but Lance's feet walking past and away. There was the sound of a door opening, then slamming shut.

-Fade to black-

Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy!


Grrrrrrrrrreat!