"In a bar in Acuna called Ma Crosby's/" "I found myself not feeling any pain" Ben Jackman chuckled softly to himself as another country song wound up in the jukebox hidden in the far corner of the bar he now sat in, the exact place the song spoke. A bar in Cuidad Acuna, Mexico, called Ma Crosby's, reputed home of the very first batch of nachos ever made, and just as the song said Ben Jackman was feeling no pain, as he brought his tenth bottle of Budweiser to his lips, draining it completely and setting it back on the marble top bar, before holding it aloft and signalling toward one of the three georgeous Mexican waitresses behind the bar. "Una más cerveza, por favor." The waitress returns from the far end of the bar, beer in hand, she pops the top setting it in front of Jackman and she sweeps his empty away, and pulls what she needs from a pile of bills on the bar. "Y una tequila pequeño, por favor." The waitress again nods her consent as she pulls a few more bills from Jackman's pile and pours him a small shot of tequila. Jackman pulls the shot across the bar, to the the lip just in front of him. He looks downward at the shot a little leary of its contents. He slides his thumb and middle finger around the glass shaking it slowly in a circle and watching the tiny waves splash back and forth in the glass. A little slips out and Jackman licks it off his finger shuddering at the taste as he looks down the bar at the odd assemblage of patrons. Mexican Businessmen. American Businessmen. Plastered West Texas College Students. Cowboys, both real and pretend. Jackman smiled to himself at the varied crowd this place brought in...everything from chaps to baby-tees and bellybutton rings. 'My kinda place." Jackman thought to himself as he turned back to his beer and tequila. Jackman shook his head slowly, almost dreading his decision but knowing that nothing cleared his head when he needed it cleared most quite like the healing shit and wood taste of mexican tequila. Jackman tilted his neck upward, tossing the shot backward with a grimace. Jackman set his head straight again, his left hand closing around his beer bottle, ice from the cooler still clinging to the side of the bottle. The tequila hit his stomach a few moments later and he felt an instant flushed feeling building in the pit of his stomach and his head almost immediatly cleared. "Got a lot on my mind, and for some FUCKED up reason now its become public domain. I've always tried to keep my business private, and now Darkbriar and Eryk Masters are running off at the head about it. I guess I'm in the entirely wrong business for secrets, anyway. I'm just curious how that shit got around." Jackman shakes his head quickly, in what seems to be an effort to clear his head of that particular train of thought. "A lot on my mind....and a lot on the line. This week I get a shot at the Iron Fist Title, a title I never really lost. Now a new Iron Fist Champion has been crowned without my direct involvement, and thats just fine. I have all the respect in the world for the man, I'll be stepping into the ring with this week. J.D. Ice, one of the SHOOT Project's originals. One of the men, that hovered near the top of the card when I showed up at my first SHOOT Project show a little under a year ago. In fact he made his presence felt in my very first sanctioned SHOOT Project competition taking out some fucking guy that we never saw in competition here again. Then he was Stoned Cold..now he's calling himself J.D. Ice...and its just like the old saying with a slight twist. Ice by any other name, would still be as bad. He could call himself Vanilla Fucking Ice and still go out there and fucking destroy people, because thats what he does. Week in and week out." Ben Jackman pauses, a contemplative look on his face as he takes another long pull from his bottle of beer. "Kinda reminds me of myself in a way. Although unlike most of the men I've taken on in SHOOT, his history here is slightly more storied than my own. I may be one of SHOOT's own...one of SHOOT's homegrown, but Ice was one of the originals and that is something that can't be taken away...by anyone. Last week I mentioned the Essence of SHOOT in passing, but this...this is it. Ben Jackman versus J.D. Ice for the Iron Fist Title, the only belt left from the original Triad this company was built around. Two of the toughest...take no shit motherfuckers the SHOOT Project has ever seen are about to collide over what could quite possibly be the most prestigious title this company has. J.D Ice understands the Essence of SHOOT, as do I. But we've decided to take two very divergent roads in our respect toward keeping that very thing dear. But...to each his own I suppose." Ben signals to the waitress again, squeezing the air between his outstretched thumb and forefinger to singify his request for another shot. The waitress smiles, pouring another shot and setting it down in front of Jackman. "This Sunday, I get the chance to take back something I never really lost. This Sunday I get the chance to reclaim something that is still technically mine. This Sunday I face one of my greatest challenges to date. This Sunday I take part in easily one of the most brutal matches the SHOOT Project will EVER see. This Sunday..we decide who the Iron Fist Champion is...and whats more...this Sunday, the SHOOT Project fans...The SHOOT Project lockerroom will find out just who the Greatest Iron Fist Champion EVER is. This Sunday...Ice, bring everything you've got. If and when I beat you I want it to be completely legit, I'll do the same. This Sunday...to the Winner goes the Spoils...and the loser? He Got Nada.