Casa Del Saerin

A close-up on the face of what we hope is a man. Could possibly be the bearded lady, but she’s usually not in this good of shape.

“Welcome, everyone. To Casa del Saerin! That’s Spanish for House of the me. Well, assuming you were me. Which you aren’t, which is probably good. If you were, I dunno how Greene would handle that many people being in a title tournament. It’d be a mess.”

The camera seems to be pried away from Saerin, as he pops away to show a messy apartment full of random workout equipment, a television and a couch.

“Yeah, so. Blade called me out and he’s treating this whole win, lose thing really personally. I mean, really? You came into a match with a bum knee, and I was really hoping you’d tap. This wasn’t a story I’d tell my kids, if I had any. This is just another match, man. I’ve had matches all over the world, learned from people with names I can’t even pronounce.”

Saerin stopped, looking over his exercise equipment for a moment.

“Learned more moves over the last ten years than most people learn in a lifetime. I’ve been in every hemisphere, wrestled in whatever arenas people would pay me to wrestle in. That spinning toe hold I used? Taught to me by Zhelezo Medvedyu, the Bear of Iron up North. No, not Canada, Russia. Man, the Russians love their submissions. That wasn’t even the full move.”

Saerin stopped again, looking around as if he’s missing something, but then shrugged it off.

“Look, Blade. You can tell me I’m being dishonorable or whatever it is, but there are two facts here that you’re ignoring. One, no one said you had to wrestle me with a bum knee. Two, no one cares how you win, just that you win.”

Saerin looks straight at the camera for a moment.

“You keep talking about how this is somehow the hallmark win of my career, but it really isn’t. It didn’t mean anything until you brought it up. I still haven’t won anything worth winning here in the GWA, and I’m not gonna act like I have until it’s gold. Trophy, belt, whatever. And hell, if I ever have grandkids, god forbid, I’ll invite you over in the old folks’ home, and you can tell them I’m a terrible person. Really don’t care.”

The door to the apartment opens, with Chris Python appearing in the doorway. A set of kickboxing pads come flying across the room. Saerin seemed to have finally found what he was looking for. “Saerin. Cameraguy.”

“Yeah, must’ve made an impression, huh? He wanted me to cut a promo about Blade. I had half an hour, so why not? I bet Nick’s wishin’ he was Canadian right about now, huh?”

“What? Why?”

“Healthcare, man. Healthcare.”