Ben Jackman sits in a whirlpool in a far corner of his basement gym at Jackman Industries. Only Jackman's head is visible above the bubbling water, his eyes closed and his head tilted backward Jackman appears to be asleep, and totally oblivious to the SHOOT cameras in his gym. Without opening his eyes, Jackman begins to speak.

"Just like the crybaby he's shown he is. Who would've expected less? Kyle was held down in the COIWA. Kyle was cut off at the knees in the COWO. And all the while Ben Jackman was kicking ass and taking names in the SHOOT Project. Cry me a fucking river."

A thin smile spreads across Jackman's lips, his eyes still closed.

"Can I contend with a hardcore legend? A good question, Kyle, if totally meaningless. You've been called a hardcore legend. And I give a shit, why? What you've been called, and what you actually are may very well be two very different things. I've told a thousand men this, none of them listened to a word of it, and everyone of them had their ass handed to them. Its like this Kyle, what you've done before don't make a good goddamn to me. It doesn't mean shit. The only thing that matters to me, is what you plan to do this Sunday."

Jackman cracks his right eye momentarily, closing it back restfully before continuing.

"But like everything else your plan and the actual way things are going to be are two totally different things. I'm sure you plan to beat me. I'm sure you plan to kick my ass from one end of the arena to the other. But Kyle..Ortego..Darkbriar, whatever the fuck you want to be called this week, the truth of the matter is that I'm gonna beat the living hell out of you whether I win or lose, you won't walk out of that arena under your own power on Sunday. I've spent almost a year warning my opponents against taking an ass kicking from me personally, but Kyle, I want you to do just that. I want you to take take every bit of the ass beating I put on you Sunday to heart. I want you to think about it. I want you to let it rattle around in your head awhile."

Jackman chuckles softly, reaching out blindly to his left to pull a bottle of water off the edge of the whirlpool. Jackman takes a quick gulp and sets the bottle back down, continuing again.

"Last week, you made a mistake that no man in his right mind would have ever dreamed of. You stepped to me, and had the nuts to call the Iron Fist Title yours. You had the gall to claim a title I built up to a near World Title level of prestige. You disrespected one of the most prestigious titles in the the SHOOT Project. You verbally wiped your ass with the most pure title in the SHOOT Project. And for what? If you wanted to get in the ring with me, there are easier ways to go about it. Call me out motherfucker, I'd have answered. But now, now you've fucked around and woke up a sleeping giant. This isn't business Kyle. This shit has just become more personal than you could have ever wanted. Or maybe thats exactly what you wanted. Maybe you wanted me pissed off, maybe you wanted the best I've got. Maybe you want every ounce of what I've got to offer."

Jackman's smile broadens.

"But it looks like you're not totally concerned with our match alone this week. You've got everything else on your mind. Kyle Ricks. Jonny Johnson. Fuck all that, bitch. Concentrate on this."

Jackman opens his eyes, leaning his head down toward the camera. His index finger pointing back at himself.

"Concentrate on me, motherfucker. I'm what you have to worry about. You can save your future beatdowns from Ricks for later. Get your mind right here. Concentrate. Block it all out. Think of only me. Think of only what I'm capable of doing to you. Think of that and you may have a snowballs chance in hell of not having your head torn completely off your shoulders. But you can't do that can you? What schizo could be expected to?"

Jackman smiles, leaning toward the camera, his arms outsretch and wrap around the lens of the camera pulling it close till only his face can be seen.

"This is all you should see. This is all you should think about. On Sunday, bring your ass. Bring your kendo stick. Bring your lighter. Bring your butane. None of it is going to do you a goddamned bit of good. Because when its all said and done, no matter what you bring, now matter what you think you have. You got nada."

Jackman releases the camera with a smile, as he settles back against the wall of the whirlpool. He slowly sinks under the water his eyes against closing in relaxation as the cameras fade out.