A cab pulls to a stop on the street in front of Ben Jackman's Tampa, Florida home. The early morning sunshine is almost blinding, as a SHOOT Project camera crew pulls to the side of the house in a van. The passenger side back seat door of the cab swings fully open on its hinges and an obviously highly inebriated Ben Jackman steps out of the car before immediatly falling flat onto the lawn. Jackman casually pushes himself to his feet, before his knees again attempt to give out, his hands slides out grabbing the passenger window of the cab. Jackman pulls himself up by the cab door, before reaching into his pocket and handing a wad of bills through the car window the cab driver. Jackman stands to his feet, and begins to leisurely make his way toward his front door, pausing occasionally to get his feet back under him as he at this point has little to no control over where his feet take him. After several minutes, Ben Jackman makes it to his front door, and while leaning his head up against the door in an attempt to stay standing, he searches through his pants pockets for his house key. After several moments, his shaking hands settle around his key chain and pull it upward out of his pocket. Jackman's hand swung toward the door in an attempt to unlock the door when the key chain slipped from between his fingers and fell under a bush just to left of the door. Jackman looked downward his head still resting on the door, his drunken brain swirling at the thought of taking his head off the door in an attempt to retrieve his key. Jackman sighed heavily unsure of what to do next.

"Rough night, Ben?"

Jackman's right eye rolls around in its socket in an attempt to see the source of the unknown voice. A wane smile lights up Jackman's face as he is met with the slighty concerned face of Mike Pecina, a new addition to the SHOOT Project camera crews. Pecina, a hulking Latino man, smiled broadly as the full scope of Jackman's predicament became obvious. Jackman shakes his head as much as possible, the smile fading from his face.

"More than you'll ever know, Mike."

Mike stood back, still surveying the situation, the smile still bright on his face.

"Need a little help, Ben?"

Against his will, a smile broke across Jackman's face.

"Fuck you, Mike. Give me my fucking keys."

Mike bent over, picking up Jackman's keys in his huge right hand. He stood back up fully and leaned forward, sliding the key into the lock.

"Alright Ben, now whatever you do, don't take your head off the door."

Ben stood up, and turned the knob. The door to his house sliding open in front of him. Jackman took two stuttering steps inside before falling headlong onto the couch. Mike followed him inside shutting the door behind them. Ben cracked his right eye, the left side of his face smashed into the couch cushions. He spoke, his voice more than a little garbled through a combination of his drunkenness, and the left side of his mouth drowning in the couch.

"Goddamn, its good to be home. So tell me, Mike. Whats on tap for this week?

Mike reaches into his pocket, pulling out the booking sheet for Sunday's Oblivion.

"Well, Ben. It looks like your taking on..."

Jackman lifts his head off the couch with some considerable effort.

"Well for God's sake, Mike. Who?"

"The Riot..Ben."

Jackman's jaw drops in suprise, slowly fading into a heavy laugh.

"The Riot, eh? Must've finally oustayed his welcome with the brass. You got that camera, ready? Let's get this over with so I can get some fuckin sleep."

Mike nods in agreement, running out to the van and returning with a handheld camera. Ben sat up on the couch, the left side of his hair flattened against his head, and his eyes bright red from overindulgence. He cleared his throat softly, and when Mike gave him the thumbs up Ben began to speak.

"Well, well well. A week removed from the biggest night in SHOOT Project history and I'll be stepping into the SHOOT Project ring with our very own resident 'Lord of the Jobbers'. It's not a question of how good you'll look on Sunday, Riot. It's not a question of whether or not you have a snowballs chance in hell of beating me. No, Riot, there is one question and one question only. Who the fuck did you piss off on the booking commitee, and what the hell could you have done to deserve all this? Any ideas? Cause I don't have a fucking clue."

Jackman smiles, wincing in pain at his building headache.

"But Riot, the problem there is this, It's not my job to question why. I don't give a shit why you're here. Or who put you in this position. All I care about it, all I'm thinking about is which foot I'm gonna decide to put halfway up your ass. You're out of your league, Riot, by a long fucking shot. Maybe that fact hasn't quite sunk in for you, yet. But Sunday...Sunday it will. But then, if it hasn't managed to sink in, there no sinking left to it. Its all gonna come crashing down on Sunday."

Jackman rubs his temples in pain, unable or unwilling to stop talking.

"We all know whats gonna happen on Sunday. You'll come down to the ring thininking your hot shit, and I'll drop your ass like a bad habit. Only one thing matters coming out of this match, and that is...Will you be back? Can you see just how much you have to have, how much its gonna take to be somebody here, and still have the nuts to come back the next week, and put in the work? I don't think you do. I think you'll run for your life. There's no shame in it, Riot, lots of guys have done it."

Jackman sits up fully on the couch, his hand running through his hair.

"This Sunday, Riot, you get your first and likely only shot at true greatness in the SHOOT Project. You're coming toe to toe with one of the best, and if by some miracle you make me break a sweat then, my friend, then you're truly as good as people think you are. Which makes you what you ask? A glorified jobber. Welcome to the big time, Riot. Make the best of it, you'll never see it again."

Camera fades to black as Ben Jackman smiles broadly.