Ben Jackman sits at the bar at Ma Crosby's, little has changed outwardly. The crowd is still large for a bar in a small Mexican border town. Jackman sits at the same stool, and the same country music emenates from the same old worn Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner. The only outward differences are Jackman's fresh clothes and the bottle of Dos Equis in his hand as opposed to his usual Budwieser. Jackman seems to have calmed a little in the days since his last promo appearance, his face less haggard, and worried. He looks rejuvenated, almost as if a week long getaway in Mexico is bringing him to life from the inside out. Jackman leans back on his bar stool, a crooked smile stretching across his face as he notices the SHOOT Project cameras, and begins to speak. "Two men fighting over one of the most prized titles in SHOOT Project history....the Iron Fist title. The sole surviving piece of the now bastardized Triad. You're right about one thing, Ice. We are both very deserving of the Iron Fist Title and that in and of itself makes this match on Sunday all the more special. Every man, woman, and child in the lockerroom...in the audience...anywhere knows deep down that this match could easily go to either man. It's not often you see two men with this fire...this will to win compete, and in a way its almost refreshing. Jackman sips his beer, clearly less interested in getting tore up from the floor as he was during his previous promo. The waitress catches his eye and silently asks if he wants a shot. Jackman shakes his head, no and turns back to the camera continuing. "You suggest that I'm being jerked around...that I'm being screwed." Jackman taps his chin with his index finger clearly deep in thought on the last comment. "Fact of the matter is, whether or not that is the case, I can only be jerked around so long. Eventually like a lot of things that I've dealt with around here, I'll get fucking tired of it, and take matters into my own hands but until I decide that 'they' ARE trying to fuck me, then I'll give 'them' the benefit of the doubt. Right now, I'm focused on one thing and one thing alone. The Iron Fist Title. Thats all I need to concern myself with...all I need to worry with. The goal...the task at hand." Jackman pauses again, taking another sip from his bottle of beer, draining it after a moment and signaling to the waitress for a fresh one. "Lets look at this Sunday's match for exactly what it is, Ice. Lets strip it down to the absolute bare bones. The respect is there on both sides. The respect for the other competitor. The respect for each other's abilites. Lets strip that away and look at it for what it is." The waitress sets a beer down in front of Jackman, squeezing the juice from a lime into the beer and cramming the spent lime rind down the neck of the bottle. Jackman nods his thanks and slides several dollars back across the bar. "The bare bones...the fact of the matter is that you're carrying my medal of honor. My prize around your waist, and as much respect as I may have for you. I don't like that one goddamned bit. You ARE the Iron Fist Champion, right now, but I'll be damned if I'm going to sit idly by and not do everything in my power to change that fact. That belt is mine...not because you don't deserve it. Not because you don't want it. Not because I need it, but simply because a wrong needs to be righted and you just happen to be the man I have to go through to right that wrong. I'm not coming down that ramp on Sunday to pussy foot around." Jackman takes a long pull of his beer, sitting it gently back down on the counter. "I'm coming down that ramp to do some fucking damage. To prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am the Absolute best Iron Fist Champion there has EVER been. I'm coming down that ramp to tear your head off and kick your ass out into the third fucking row. Not because I don't like you. Not because I need to make someone sit up and take notice. But believe me they will. I'm coming down to that ring both barrels blazing for the simple fact that I WILL NOT be denied. You've got your momentum, Ice, but last week you hit a little speed bump, and lost the other half of your double championship. Now the question for the ages is how well will you recover from being fucked over? How well will you recover from losing the DOJO Title to man both you and I know you had beat? Will it eat you up inside, or will you simply let it go and move on to the next challenge. No amount of talk is going to answer that or change the truth, Ice. Simply put, I know you've got what it takes....Bring it. I'll be in Calgary late Saturday...waiting." Camera fades to black as Jackman slides several dollars into the nearest tip jar, polishes off his beer, and walks out into the gathering Mexican dusk.