Dean woke up, but instantly had to shut his eyes. The light coming in from the curtain-less window was far too bright. He turned over and buried his head into the mattress, and cursed the error of placing it near the window as opposed to anywhere else in the room, which was mostly dark and dingy. Then he remembered he had done it on purpose – knowing that when he woke up the bright sky outside wouldn’t let him forget about it.

He looked at his phone to check the time. A 12 hour sleep had done him no good at all, he felt utterly exhausted and had no intention of vacating the solitude of his apartment. Dean figured that since he had called in sick to get out of doing house shows for the past few days, he might as well play the part of a sick child skipping school. Thankfully, there were no parents to bother him. In fact - nobody to bother him at all. Bliss.

Monday, however, would mark the end of this exile from humanity, He’d have to go to Warfare, he’d received the text from an unknown number telling him that he would be part of a match to determine the new number one contender for the Path to Glory championship. Dean wasn’t entirely sure what that was – he vaguely remembered being told about It when he was the EBWF World Champion, but that felt like a lifetime ago. He turned his head onto it’s side, still not opening his eyes

Dean Ambrose: 2015 will be your year Dean. 2015…

And then he rolled over, and continued rolling until he was away from the light of the window. He had crushed some empty soda cups and empty take-out bags on his mighty roll, but that was hardly a surprise. He sat up.

Dean Ambrose: But until then-!

He forward rolled and lept onto his sofa. The Ambrose Apartment was basically one room, set up as it should be – sofa pointed at television, bed situated away-but-not-too-far-away from living area. After reclining on the sofa, Dean considered another nap. He could think about the future later. His return to the EBWF was going well so far – so he thought. He had performed admirably at the Survivor Series. His 3 days of no sleep prior to that had not translated to his performance in the match. And since then, he’d been sleeping like an angel. It had exhausted him and satisfied him at the same time. He had proven to himself that he still had it. And come Warfare – he’d still have it. Whatever the Path to Glory championship was, he’d win it, build his profile and reach the top of the ladder again.

While his enthusiasm for life was not great, his enthusiasm for the world of professional wrestling was everpresent. His apartment was proof that he had no interest in bettering his personal life. His life in the world of wrestling was all that mattered right now. He could worry about everything else once he took one bump too many, right?
Ambrose’s unkempt features were showing of this also – but the female portion of the crowd had still loved seeing him again on EBWF television. This wasn’t particularly important to him, but if it contributed to filling arenas he was happy. And if he was still garnering screams from women in the crowd looking like this – even in a wheelchair in 10 years if he had a nice haircut and bought some expensive clothes he’d be able to find someone who’d marry him and keep him in tact.
In the meantime, the EBWF would be his keeper. The money will be mailed, the food will be bought, one day a week in the gym will suffice and the fun of entertaining people would keep him going.

But then, his whole world came crashing down… as there was a knock at the door.

Dean Ambrose: This had better be a salesman.

Dean jumped up from the sofa and immediately slipped over on a KFC box. His face smashed off the hardwood floor and he felt his nose bust open. Wiping the fresh blood from his mouth he cursed the universe then got back to his feet. He approached the door.

Dean Ambrose: IS THAT THE HOOKER I CALLED FOR?

“That depends, do you like tattooed hookers? Which Diva did you text?”

Dean slammed his head against the front door in frustration.

Dean Ambrose: If that’s who I think it is I neither want to sleep with you nor talk to you until tomorrow at the least. Leave me in my happy place.

“Come on, open the door. We won’t leave your fap-happy place, I promise.”

Dean instantly turned his attention to a box of tissues on the floor. They had not been used for anything sordid, but he knew Punk would make some stupid joke about it. He ran, picked them up, opened his window, threw them out and returned to the front door, unlocking it. Dean returned to his sofa.

Dean Ambrose: Do come in!

The door swung open, and the Straight Edge Savior made way into his so called ‘happy place’. Punk had not heard from Ambrose since Survivor Series. His white soled black running shoes tapped against the floor as he walked in, wearing denim pants and a Ramones T-shirt, Punk whistled as he took around his surroundings.

CM Punk: So, this is where you’re hiding? Ain’t got shit on the Batcave. Except it smells like bat shit.

Dean Ambrose: You knew I lived in Vegas… What I’d like to know is HOW you knew where to find me?

Punk tilted his head to one side.

CM Punk: You need to turn location off when you text or tweet… It can’t be a good thing with all those teenagers running wild for your testosterone, Dean.

Dean’s eyes widened and he scarpered to his mattress-side to get his phone. He brought up his text messages, and saw that the text he’d received about the match on Warfare had a reply beneath it, which simply read ‘Erphth’. Dean instantly regained composure, realising his mistake and turned to Punk.

Dean Ambrose: I really meant it as well.

Punk smirked.

CM Punk: Glad I got to you before one of those groupies. I just wanted to swing by and check you got your act together.

Dean spread his arms out and presented the room to Punk.

Dean Ambrose: I suppose you’re not disappointed.

CM Punk: I couldn’t care less about your habitat, Dean. You have a huge match coming up, a match that can put you on the map.

Dean Ambrose: I DON’T WANT TO BE A COUNTRY.

He walked moodily back to his sofa and dumped himself onto it.

CM Punk: Money, fame, fortune. Those might be words you’re familiar with.

Dean Ambrose: Y’know punk, for someone called ‘Punk’, some of the things you say don’t come across as very punk. I think I just sensed Joe Strummer turning in his grave.

Punk darted his eyes at the empty KFC bucket, probably eaten days ago, scattered bottles of beer and liquor all over the floor.

CM Punk: And for a guy called Ambrose, you don’t keep your act pretty saintly, pious, nor clean. Listen, bub. I dug you out of that family restaurant because I feel that unlike half of the people Ikeda has under contract, you are actually talented. Maybe if you hadn’t been dosing yourself with Johnnie, Jack and José, I wouldn’t have been left alone in that match. You did good, but without all this junk, you could do even better.

CM Punk kicked one of the bottles into the wall, shattering it into pieces.

CM Punk: Dammit, you’re competing for a shot at the Path To Glory Title, do you even know what that means? I’ll tell you what it means: It means you have the shot at getting back at those who beat you and humiliated you at Survivor Series.

Dean had seemed to ignore most of what Punk was saying. He remembered thinking earlier about nobody holding him accountable and how much he enjoyed it.

Dean Ambrose: I’m against the ENTIRE SURVIVOR SERIES TEAM?

CM Punk: Except Ryback and Gabriel, yes. But if you manage to defeat Barrett, Breeze and Bryan, you’ll get Gabriel next week.

Dean Ambrose: Oh well that’s just GREAT. I beat the shit out of those guys at Survivor Series. Guess who’s gonna be the elephant in the ring. Did you set this up? As a wake up call?

Dean jumped up and kicked a bottle against the wall, which smashed.

Dean Ambrose: DID YOU?

CM Punk: What will if change if I did? Focus, Dean. Focus! Wake up call or not, don’t you want to get even? It is going to be a fatal four way… It’s not like they’re going to gang up on you and beat you. If anything, I would say you have the upper hand.

Dean backed off. He picked up half a bottle of beer off of the floor.

Dean Ambrose: You want a beer? We don’t have to talk wrestling now. Lets just have a beer and watch-

Dean squinted towards the collection of DVD’s by his television - all two of them. Both of them Space Jam. Punk took a breather.

CM Punk: Where is the beer?

Punk couldn’t wait for Ambrose’s reply, he began making his way around Ambrose’s polluted habitat. He went for the fridge, the most obvious choice, grabbing his last two cold bottles of beer, and then dropping them onto the floor.

CM Punk: You don’t seem to get a grip on the transcendence of your upcoming match, let alone your presence in EBWF. You’ve taken your eyes off the ball.

Dean Ambrose: There you go with the big words again. I vaguely remember chastising you for using big words last time round HEY - CHASTISING! CHECK ME OUT! What did you say about eyes on balls? I was kidding when you came to the door, y’know.

CM Punk: I was saying you need to rip your opponents eyes off, and show them you have some balls.

Dean squared right up to Punk again.

Dean Ambrose: I KNOW! I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW. You think I don’t KNOW that I have to beat guys up? You think I’m not looking FORWARD TO IT? I just had a 12 hour DREAM about ripping half that roster apart and making people HAPPY.

Dean pulled himself away again and walked towards his mattress. He sat down on it.

Dean Ambrose: But am I supposed to pander to you, just because you apparently brought me back? Like you said, you don’t have creative control. You didn’t sign my contract.

Punk shook his head.

CM Punk: There is no pandering, just pointing out the obvious. Clean body, clean mind, clean conscience. They all translate into better performances out there… Shit, why do you make me tell you things you won’t believe in? I repeat: DON’T YOU WANT TO GET BACK AT BARRETT AND HIS TEAM?

Dean looked puzzled.

Dean Ambrose: Not..really? I’m back, aren’t I? That’s all that match mattered for - me returning. And here I am!

He stretched his arms out again, trying to look impressive... His face still bloody, his hair a mess and his clothes looking rather unclean.

CM Punk: Nope. You’re underestimating yourself, Dean. Have you wondered what your opponents are thinking about your presence in that match?

Dean Ambrose: They’re thinking.. Uhh… Ambrose is back and ready to kill us all? He looked awesome at Survivor Series and now he’s on a roll? ...no?

Dean met Punk’s eyes with a sorrowful gaze. Punk replied by shaking his head.

CM Punk: They don’t know what to expect, you make them uneasy, you make them scared, they don’t know what your next move is going to be.

Ambrose paused in deep thought. Then his face lit up.

Dean Ambrose: I finally have that air of mystique I’ve always wanted! Punk you’re a GENIUS!

Dean marched towards Punk and gave him a giant hug, Punk tried not to take in much of the hints of alcohol in Ambrose’s hug.

Dean Ambrose: Thank you SO much.

CM Punk: The best way to thank me is by winning that match.

He was released from the hug. Ambrose took a step back and saluted Punk.

Dean Ambrose: Dean’s honour. Now… Can you drive? I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to drive. Actually no, I can DEFINITELY drive…

CM Punk: The bus is downstairs. No one needs to drive.

Dean Ambrose: I’m gonna be a champion and you’re making me take a BUS?

CM Punk: Actually, it’s my bus. I get around to and from shows on it. It’s furnished like a house.

Ambrose paused, and pointed to something in the air.

Dean Ambrose: What’s that? Strummer? They’re gonna have to extend that grave for extra turning space.

CM Punk: When you’re done talking nonsense and imitating Sabu, we can go downstairs.

Dean Ambrose: BUT I MISS THE SHEIK. Okay, lead the way CM Pop.

CM Punk turned around and walked out of Dean’s room, a sigh could be heard escaping his lips as he began walking downstairs. Next, our heroes would be spotted just outside of the arena, Punk walked out of his tourbus, looking over his shoulder.

CM Punk: You know, there was a bathroom to throw up if you were feeling sick.

Dean was following Punk. He shrugged, holding a KFC bucket from his apartment. He threw it at another tourbus and started walking alongside Punk.

Dean Ambrose: Where do we go now?

CM Punk: Inside. For some reason, Renee Young wasn’t available to interview you… She also told me to tell you something about returning some CDs to her… Whatever.

Dean Ambrose: Why the HELL do I have to be interviewed? Cancel whatever is planned. Tell them-

A man equal to Punk in tattoo magnitude approached the two of them, accompanied by a cameraman.

Dean Ambrose: NOOOO!

CM Punk: Why are you throwing a fit over such a tiny thing? What were your plans anyway, Dean?

Dean Ambrose: Anything but this! Who is this joker? Don’t tell me poor Joe is gonna have to do some more rolling over HE’S DEAD LEAVE HIM ALONE.

CM Punk: Who the hell is Joe?

Dean Ambrose: THAT’S IT, WE’RE CHANGING YOUR NAME. AND YOU…

The interviewer spoke up.

Corey Graves: I’m Corey Graves. I can’t believe you don’t recognize me, we’ve known each other for years...

Dean superkicked Graves out of nowhere.

CM Punk: Oh shit! I hope that didn’t give him a Concussion.

Dean wrestled with the cameraman until eventually snatching the camera out of his hands.

Dean Ambrose: I feel like I’ve broken ground by superkicking an interviewer.

CM Punk: Why did you even call it a Super Kick?

Dean took one quizzical look at Punk, then ran away towards the building with his new camera in tow.

-

The camera turned on to a pair of denim-clad legs. They stepped back and knelt down, and Dean Ambrose’s face appeared in an extreme close-up to the camera. He tapped the lens, squinted into it and smiled at his own tiny reflection.

Dean Ambrose: This thing is indeed on. Hey EBWF Universe - Dean Ambrose here. You may remember me from such recent events as making a triumphant return at the Survivor Series pay-per-view, and an unfortunate event at a Vegas casino involving a roulette table and a number of cats. I’m here today to talk to you about the upcoming Warfare show. But not in a conventional manner oh no.

Dean ruffled his hair and stepped back. He sat down in a chair positioned behind him and leaned in towards the camera.

Dean Ambrose: The almighty superhuman beings of power here would have me be interviewed by some dude in a suit, who would ask me boring question after boring question about how great I am and why the other guys suck. But where’s the fun in that? You all expect me to defy convention anyways. Ever since I was wrestling in shitty little school halls with overweight idiots smashing light bulbs over my head ‘til I lost most of the blood in my body...

He leaned further into the camera and scratched the remnants of some blood from beneath his nose. Dean laughed.

Dean Ambrose: Cue the internet geniuses claiming I have some sort of cocaine problem now. Trust me guys - I just like the occasional drink and sometimes I hit my face off of things. But as I was saying.. Ever since my early days in this business that I love, people have expected me to be just that little bit crazier every time they saw me. And I had to adhere to those expectations, upping the ante every single night. Then when people finally started recognising me in the street, they expected me to be cooky, acting outside of the box and the realms of general normality.

Dean paused.

Dean Ambrose: Punk is rubbing off on me, huh… I almost sound educated.

He chuckled to himself again, then apparently remembered a camera was rolling.

Dean Ambrose: I’m sorry to disappoint everyone, but I’m just a normal guy! Sure I may sleep a lot more than the average guy, and I may be able to drink every man and woman under the table, and I may be super cool and fun to be around… Actually, fuck that. If I was a normal guy, I’d be giving you the rundown of my opponents and why I think I’m better than them right now. Then I’d tell you I was going to win and I’d skip off to catering for a healthy shake and a chinwag with some road agent or some shit. I'd rather discuss some fantasies with you..

Dean stared intently into the camera.

Dean Ambrose: You know when you get that feeling in your stomach when someone you don’t like enters a room? And you think about all the reasons you don’t like them and you go through all the sick and twisted things you’d do to them just to get revenge or payback? But you can’t do it you simply cannot do such things to a person as it breaks laws… It breaks conventions… Well I get that feeling whenever I’m about to head out to the ring. But it doesn’t matter who’s waiting for me at the end of the ramp. My opponents are all equal in that respect. Someone who stands between me and success is that person who I want to rip to pieces. And the art of ripping said people to pieces is what makes this fun.

He sat back in his chair and rocked it back to it’s hind legs.

Dean Ambrose: Taking an opponents face and driving it right into the mat… It’s amazing. It’s the height of satisfaction. There’s no better way to combine physical and emotional damage than to take the hurt to someone’s face. You can break their nose, bust their lip, damage the eyes… But most importantly you can make the most beautiful person on the planet into an ugly disgusting mess. You can break a man’s legs, his arms’ his back or whatever the hell you feel like breaking, but they can still reel you in with their looks. You take away a man’s looks… a once-confident man’s looks and you turn him into a shell of their former selves. A nervous, quivering wreck, scared of what everyone around them thinks when they look at him. If needs be, Tyler Breeze - that will be you.

Dean slapped the camera jovially, asif slapping somebody on the cheek.

Dean Ambrose: What’re you gonna be without that pretty face, huh?

He stood up and began walking in circles around the chair. The camera showed only the jeans and midriff of Ambrose.

Dean Ambrose: Circles, circles, circles… Everybody’s going round in circles… Sometimes when you reach the end of that ramp and climb into the ring, you’re faced with somebody who they say can, quote, ‘wrestle circles around anybody’.

He stopped pacing and grabbed the back of the chair, leaning onto it so that the camera showed his face.

Dean Ambrose: You wanna know how to deal with someone like that? You beat them senseless. What use is an armbar when your own arms are so battered that it hurts to flex? What use is a leglock when your own legs are broken? How are you going to overpower a man on the mat if your entire body is so bruised and battered that you couldn’t so much as bodyslam a cardboard cut-out of a cruiserweight? I’ve taken on some of the greatest grapplers in the world - men who promised to pull my limbs into submission and make sure I couldn’t so much as hit the ropes without being taken down. These are men who have met my fists, met my feet and met my forehead. I wont give you time to even think of the word ‘wrestling’ in your head, Bryan. I’ll make sure they pump vegan shit into your body through a straw in the hospital, don’t you worry. I got you bro.

Out of nowhere, Dean picked up the chair and smashed it onto the floor. It shattered into a plastic mess on the floor. Dean grabbed the camera and repositioned it so it was pointed upwards towards his face.

Dean Ambrose: BRAWLERS! Yeah, now we’re talking! None of this pretty boy bullshit, and none of this trained-in-the-art-of-wrestling crap. Real men want nothing more than to beat each other to a bloody pulp. Bare fists hitting bare skin… Screams and wails of pain… It’s almost…

Dean raised his eyebrows to the camera and winked.

Dean Ambrose: Sometimes when you get into the ring, you’re met with someone that you just might end up respecting. Someone who will meet your offense with the same aggression you’d expect from a real fighter. Somebody who’ll go toe-to-toe with you until your toes are covered in blood and you can’t make it to your feet anymore. But someone has to come out on top, right? Yeah… Everyone’s a winner baby, that’s a lie… I love that I’m going face-to-face, toe-to-toe, man-to-man with a real brawler. A real fighter. From the MEAN STREETS of some English shithole. But when push comes to shove and boot comes to face someone has to come out of it with the spoils. And I hate to spoil your party, Wade - but this time I’m going to be the one left standing.

Dean fell to his knees and grabbed the camera and held it close to his face.

Dean Ambrose: I don’t give the mildest SHIT if you three all come at me at once. We’ve all got one goal. Put Survivor Series behind you and lets face each other like MEN. We’re all enemies at the end of the day, there are no common goals in this business. Look out for number one, or end up in the fucking gutter. You wont find me there, oh no… I’m a man of luxury.

He laughed into the camera once more and pushed it away so it fell backwards. The audio still picked up Dean’s words.

Dean Ambrose: Maybe I will hit catering. I hope Dean Malenko is there. Talk about a path to glory...

Footsteps were heard, then a door opening - then a slam.