Marvin Parsons, current CSWA line producer for VERSUS, lighting guru and former hijacker and hostage taker, isn't paying much attention to his duties as VERSUS host John Simons reviews his lines for setting up UNIFIED Champion Troy Windham's return to a CSWA camera.

Earlier in the day, the staff had to quell a near-riot as several of the passenger finally realized that they weren't going to get to go explore the dock as scheduled and traipse around with drinks with fruit and umbrellas in them. Instead, they've realized that they're trapped on this ship. And while there are plenty of drink with fruit and little umbrellas in them, the lack of a little dash of freedom leaves them lacking.

Marvin has used his position and his contacts to pull together all the snippets of gossip. Thomas and Hortense locked in the Presidential cabin. Hornet and Ivy still missing and presumed locked away somewhere by the Hacker. The Hacker's goons have control of the bridge, but there's been no sign of either the mysterious Hacker himself or his little toadie, the Red Midget, since his stage show the other night.

And so, Marvin Parsons continues to try and tap into a part of his mind he locked up years ago when he vowed never to be on the wrong sie of the law, or sanity, again. As John Simons sets up the clip from Troy Windham, Marvin Parsons is doing a little hacking of his own...

(CUT TO: A red velvet rope cordons off a special section of the CSWA Parsons Cruise Liner. A sign reads RESTRICTED AREA -- CURRENT WORLD CHAMPIONS AND GUESTS ONLY. The camera cuts to two bikini clad girls, possibly of age, -- one holding a red tropical mixed drink, with an umbrella and pineapple on the fringe, the other carrying a plate of Maki Roll sushi -- stand. Lounged out in his chair, wearing silver shades reflecting his world in all its glory, and wearing nothing but the tiniest of bikini briefs (with a silver crown with a diamond in the middle) to add to his bronzing solution, is TROY WINDHAM, his UNIFIED World Championship resting gingerly on his lap. Troy continues to sun himself until he sits up, takes off his shades, and folds them, clipping them into his bikini briefs right in front of his crotch.)

TROY: (Cackling) Did I really just do that? Again? Yes, I did. (The girls, on cue, also cackle with mischievious delight, even though it's obvious they barely know what planet they live on.) And what is it that I just done did? I STOLE THE SHOW. AGAIN. FOR THE UMPTEENTH STRAIGHT TIME.

Y'see, everyone WROTE ME OFF. Everyone saw heard the rumors, everyone saw my retirement speech, everyone saw my alleged last match ever where I tapped against Eli Flair, Forever My Footnote, down in that scumbag promotion NFW... and everyone thought that FINALLY... FINALLY we won't be in his shadow. FINALLY Troy Windham is out of the picture. The man who is the best looking wrestler of all time... the man who is the smartest wrestler of all time... the man who cuts the best promos, the man who has been in more five star matches than most people have DAYS IN THEIR LIVES... is gone. And while this might mean we no longer sell out arenas worldwide... while this might mean our paychecks are drastically reduced... this is good, because we will no longer be compared to The Gold Standard, The Measuring Stick, The King... THE CROWN JEWEL OF PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING... and the rest of the world will not know how bad at life we collectively are.

(Troy takes a sip of his mixed drink and hands it back to his valet.)

Well, guess what? CONSIDER YOURSELVES PUT BACK INTO YOUR PROPER PLACE. Y'see, last year, I set records. I sold out more arenas and had more PPV buys than any other man in history. I peed on people, I buried people under American flags, I stole titles, I sexually molested fellow world champions... 2-0-0-5 was The Best Year Ever. The accolades came in. TROY WINDHAM -- PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING'S MAN OF THE YEAR. I sat on top of this sport, looking down upon it from my French Alps chalet... AND I SPAT DOWN ON EACH AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU FROM ABOVE. None of you stepped up to try and knock me off. None of you even did a THING to try and compete with me... BECAUSE ALL OF YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN'T.

Gods get bored with mortals. So I sat back and contemplated my next step. Go back to the movies? Win another Cable ACE Award, co-star on Veronica Mars? Possibly. Go out on the new Bloc Party tour with my man August De La Rossi and see the world? Perhaps. Or even better... set in stone ANOTHER DEVIOUS PLAN that will once again cement my legacy as THE GREATEST PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER WHO HAS EVER LIVED.

This is why I am here. I tapped out against Eli Flair, albeit no one actually saw it since it was in the NFW, to set you all up. I stowed away in the cargo vat for two months SO NO ONE KNEW I WAS HERE. And then I waited for the right moment to strike, the right moment to once again show everyone in the CSWA that I am the bee's knees and that I am the only wrestler alive who is worthy of this promotions marquee.

I stood in the back, and then I hopped the aisle... and then I took what is mine, what has been mine, and what forever WILL be mine... the UNIFIED World Championship.

Everyone for months has been BEGGING for a rematch. They all want to see Dan Ryan get another shot at me, after I upended him in what was, without question, the best wrestling match in any promotion in the world witnessed in 2005, the tenth straight year I wrestled in the Match of the Year. Everyone, for YEARS, has been begging to see me and my moron brother Mark get in the ring with the UNIFIED World Championship, the bragging rights of Sweetwater, Texas and the Windham name on the line.

Well -- you all FINALLY got your wish. Troy Windham sneaks up the ladder and takes what is his... (Troy picks up the title and holds it up.) Dan, Mark... thank you for coming about the CSWA's Good Ship Lollipop. We have some lovely parting gifts from you located in the casino lodge. Now you may go home, because YOU LOST TO TROY WINDHAM... and YOU DON'T GET ANOTHER SHOT AT THE GOLD.

Ya'll think I'm kidding about this? Ya'll think I was overbearing in my personal requests BEFORE? I'm serious -- Chad, Steve, Hacker, whoever is running this show this month, if my name is on a contract with either Dan Ryan or Mark Windham, I will throw this title overboard and ruin this promotion forever. Or even better... I'm going to get off this ship and present the UNIFIED World Championship to Craig Miles down in the NFW. You think we have bad blood? Well, we probably do, but he knows what it's like trying to run a promotion with Doc Silver as a marquee name -- it just can't be done, and he knows that a live PPV shot of me taking a dump on this piece of tin here will mean he can make payroll this week. I will do it, and you know I will. So don't even bother with it.

This is *MY* league, *MY* title and this is *MY* cruise. I Am The Gold Standard. I Am The Crown Jewel. It's my party... and I do what I want to! And what I want right now... is some sushi!

(Troy lays back down on his chair. The girl holding the Maki tray starts placing pieces of sushi on Troy's bare chest... and then the two girls start eating it off his body. FTB)

Marvin's fingers fly across the keyboard in the makeshift control room. It's hard to believe that he could type faster than a one-fingered chicken peck until a few years ago. There's so much he doesn't know. The identity of the Hacker, his motive, his reason for what must be revenge. Even his location.

But the mother hen never strays far from her chicks. Especially the littlest one. And there aren't too many smaller than Lyle Tallman, the Red Midget. Track the little man and you might just get to the big one.

Marvin eyeballs schematics of the ship, trying every conceivable way to narrow down where their captors might be hiding. Temperature readings, security card access, energy readings... something has to overlap. But it wouldn't be obvious, just a small blip, something that doesn't seem quite right.

John Simons questions the copy for his setup to the promos cut by High Flyer and Troy Douglas. Truth be told, Simons doesn't quite understand the one by High Flyer, or the setup joke in his commentary. But he's just there to read the words. Marvin ignores him and lets the assistant producer answer his inane questions.

There just has to be something... one little thing...

(High Flyer is sitting inside of a dark room. Well, it would be dark, if not for the intense brightness of his Nintendo DS lite. Furiously mashing away at buttons, the camera slowly creeped in over his shoulder.)

Flyer: Go away.

(Flyer doesn't look up, as the camera creeped in further.)

Flyer: I said go away.

(Flyer swatted the camera with the back of his hand.)

Flyer: I'm this close to King.

(Flyer peered out of the corner of his eyes for a millisecond, not really giving the camera any attention.)

Flyer: I can't, I can't do this with you watching. It's like ejaculating. You just can't perform in front of strangers.

(Flyer slammed the lid of his ds shut.)

Flyer: Holy crap it's still on. Listen, I'm not going to do an interview for you.

(The camera nodded up and down.)

Flyer: No I'm not.

(Once again, the camera nodded up and down.)

Flyer: Listen, I've got the patience of...

(For a few moments, everything stood still. Until the camera peered in ever so closer.)

Flyer: Ah! Tori Spelling... I know what I must do.

(Flyer stands to his feet and throws a large fish off the wall. You can tell it's a fish by the fishy flop sound it makes as it bounces into the lit hallway. And then what appears to be the sound of a sword unsheathing.)

Flyer: Man. This is heavy. Maybe I can mail the sword to her and then get there just as the package arrives and attack her! Oh, but if I miss judge it, even by an hour she'll just stab me with a sword when I get there... She can sense danger to her species... I should probably carry a sword with me.

(After a few moments, a few candles are lit, and Flyer is taping shut a reasonably sized box. About the size of what would contain parts for an incredibly cheap cabinet.)

Flyer: There. Now I'm ready.

(Flyer reaches over and knocks down a shelf, which had five cats on it. They all landed on their feet, because they're cats. And then he unsheath a sword that would make He-Man cry.)

Flyer: (fast)I know, you're probably here to talk about Troy Douglas, not Tori Spelling, but they're one in the same. They're names both start with t. That's alien code for (slows pace)something. I can't say it. You'll think I'm crazy.(changes pace) Okay. I have this theory. Okay, it's not really a theory.... I PROVED IT. That all people with the first name starting with the letter T are actually alien symbiates stolen from earth and returned with supernatural powers. Like, giving awesome haircuts and orthadontists. Oh no, you all think without alien technology we wouldn't have cell phones. That's not true. We wouldn't have SHAMPOO. I mean, what the hell is it? Is it soap? It's like, special soap for your hair. They should come out with soap for your eyes! I never wash my eyes. I feel they're always so dirty.

(Flyer smiled.)

Flyer: I know you're wondering whether or not I actually have proof, that all "T" guys are proof. But I tell you this. What was Jesus killed on? Not a cross, but a T! It was the aliens, not the jews! And if religion has taught us anything. Don't question ****.

(Flyer sighed.)

Flyer: See, this is why I told you to go. I'm sitting here talking jibberish. I know it's jibberish. He knows it's jibberish. Jay Leno even knows it's jibberish. But all I hear in my head is the cha-ching of collecting coins. It'sa Me! High Flyer!... Now go away please.

(Fade.)

FADE IN...

Open on Troy Douglas' cabin aboard the CSWA Parsons Cruise Liner. It's modestly appointed, and by the looks of what's stacked on his coffee table and one of the reclining chairs, Troy went on this trip with little intention to enjoy the Caribbean sun. A stack of a dozen books, a leather bound journal, and nearly twenty DVDs next to a portable DVD player are scattered throughout the room. Currently, he leans back against the pillows of his bed, iPod in, reading David Baldacci's mass government conspiracy novel "The Camel Club". He's so occupied, he hasn't even noticed the CSWA camera crew enter his cabin. A hand pokes out from behind the camera and knocks on the wall. Douglas jolts from his reverie, turns off the music and marks his spot in the book before sitting up on the edge of the bed and turning to the camera.

TD: Good, you're here. Sorry I was a little...occupied. You ready?

Troy waits a second, then nods, indicating that the cameraman has indeed given him the "go" sign.

TD: Well, Flyer, after what you said, where do I begin? Tori Spelling, shampoo, the letter "T"? Maybe the giant alien conspiracy? Well, even with the amount of metal I've been cut and prodded with throughout the last decade, I can't be entirely sure that I haven't been probed, I'm pretty certain that this "T" is still entirely of this planet.

Of course, unless all you said was some kind of strange, double inverted code understood only by you and a small tribe of sub-Saharan pygmies that actually meant something regarding you, me, and PRIMETIME on the Caribbean, I'm not entirely sure that even you understand any of that inane nonsense that dribbled out of your mouth.

All that I know is that I have been sitting on this boat, just waiting for my chance to get back into a CSWA ring. Now, I have it, and the guy they're throwing up against me can't seem to string together a coherent thought.

Video games, they kill brain cells doncha know?

Flyer, I don’t claim to understand whatever it is you may have said in your distracted state, but I hope you put the controller away and get Mario out of your head long enough to listen to what I have to say. I’ve been waiting, Flyer, since January, to get back into a CSWA ring, and now, after stewing on this barge for god know how long, I’ve finally got my opportunity. I went through hell to get to this point in my life. I’ve dreamed of being a part of this company since I was twelve years old, Flyer.

I just turned 30. Long time in the making, I guess.

The point is, I’ve gotten to the point in my life where I can no longer afford to allow myself to get distracted by anything. That’s been my curse for far too long, and that’s changing. For me, at least. It seems some people in this profession still don’t think the man they’re about to get into the squared circle with is important enough to dignify without stowing away their pixilated obsessions for just a few minutes.

“Stowing away.” I’ve got such cabin fever I’m resorting to stupid nautical puns. And that says a lot for a guy like me, Flyer, because I loathe the pun.

But all this anxiousness, this “cabin fever”, it’s just filling up the tank of energy for when I get into the ring with you at PRIMETIME. That’s when everything I’ve been feeling for the past 6 months waiting to get back in that ring will be let out on you, Flyer. I hope to God you can break away from your diversions by then. If not, you’ll have little animated Italian plumbers spinning ‘round your head so much you’ll cringe the next time your toilet clogs.

Flyer, you better come prepared at PRIMETIME. I know how good you are, I know how tough you can be when you’re on point. Right now, I’d say a few things might just be getting to you. Hopefully for you, you can find Tori before we meet in the ring, because I’d hate to have that she-monster in the back of your head when stepping into the ring to fight with a man who desperately wants to put his name into consideration as the number one man in the CSWA.

Plus, that’s a really big sword, and I don’t fancy that thing being around the ring. It’s a bad idea to run around with such a sharp, pointy object.

So Flyer, before we meet at PRIMETIME, either get your head in this, or send me the secret decoder ring so I can understand what the hell is going on in that melon of yours. Either way, I plan on drowning out the sound of coins collecting in your head with the constant thumping noise that will be your head meeting the canvas.

Gotta run, Flyer. Maybe if I decipher what you said, I’ll be able to do something productive on this barge. Like find out that I’m the last living descendant of Jesus before a crippled British guy, an albino, and Alfred Molina can plot to kill me.

Adios.

Troy plugs the iPod’s earbuds back in, the faint sounds of Led Zeppelin’s “The Battle of Evermore” can be heard as Troy picks up his book and begins reading again. The cameraman takes this as his cue to exit, he turns and leaves the cabin, heading back into the halls of the ship.

…FADE TO BLACK

Pulled back to his day job, Marvin sets aside dreams of cracking the Hacker's grip on the Parsons Cruise Liner. It isn't Simons this time, he's waiting to be told what to say. No, it's the answer to the question of how to fill out the rest of the studio show, as well as the answer to where some of the missing talent has been.

A new video file has been uploaded to the CSWA servers remotely and pinged for the attention of the production crew. A video with Hornet cutting a promo somewhere on this ship. And the only one with the kind of access and authority to push the file through is Poison Ivy, which means she must have recorded it. As he watches, Teri Melton comes into view on-screen as well.

Marvin's been around long enough to know that the three of them together in a small cabin can't be a walk in the park for anybody. But it's the background that catches his attention.

A metal door?

A hole in the wall?

And then Hornet says his last line.

GOT YOU, YOU BASTARD!

(Hornet is sitting on the bed inside what looks to be one of the ship’s cabin. Hands behind his bed, his head rested against the headboard, Hornet isn’t paying attention to the camera, which appears to be lower quality than usual. He has an uncharacteristic growth of beard on his face – more than a five o’clock shadow, as if he hasn’t shaved in two or three days. The dark circles under his eyes show that, whatever has been going on, it hasn’t been a vacation for the former US Champ. As he begins to speak, he looks straight up at the ceiling.)

You know, for eighteen years in this company, I’ve been taking orders. Go here for this on-sale. Catch this plane to get to a merch signing. Defend your belt here. Wrestle in the NFW. Wrestle this guy. Do this interview. Make this commercial.

But no complaints, at least not many. I’ve been paid very well for it. It’s part of the price of a big paycheck. A life in the public eye where every nuance of your life – who you date, what you drive, what you wear, what groceries you buy – is captured, sifted, analyzed and regurgitated back to the public, with ‘commentators’ judging and giving their opinion.

The orders have usually come from Merritt or Thomas or both of them. I’ve been accused of being a company yes-man, and I’ve been told I’m a liability. And sometimes I’ve even rebelled, staking my own claim, so to speak. But now, now the orders come from a disembodied voice from a speaker, like I’m some sort of bizarre Charlie’s Angel. Somebody’s idea of a cruel prank – let’s throw Hornet in with two women who hate each other and who aren’t too fond of him. And then, let’s get our jollies by seeing what they do.

I don’t know if this’ll ever be aired, and I don’t care. I was supposed to have a match against Triple X and Shane Southern, but our host decided it was more important or more fun to keep me locked in here like some sort of hostage. I’m told that next I’m supposed to have a tag match against the men who cost me the US Title. So I suppose, like a good little soldier, I should say something about them… even though I don’t know whether I’ll be allowed out of here by then or not.

Kevin Powers. Kin Hiroshi. Someone’s sad idea of a dumbed down “Powers of Love,” without the part that made it famous. “Good God” and the “Muffin Man” – a team for the ages. But who am I to talk? They were good enough to take the US Title away from me… well, with an assist from Ruben Ross, of course.

KP – I’m used to being told I’m too old, too washed up, too broken to make a difference. And yet, I just had the United States gold around my waist. What have you done lately, ‘Good God?’ You’ve teased us with two retirements… but you haven’t held the US Title or the tag titles since your heyday? Don’t tell me that you’re ‘washed up’ too?

Or maybe you’re just back to your old tricks? Mouthing off enough to look like you’re the one in the lead… but really hiding behind Kin Hiroshi… Eddy Love… Steve Radder… Apocalypse. Whoever it takes, so that when you fail, you’ve got somebody to blame. A sucker to throw under the bus as you try to salvage what’s left of your so-called legend.

And speaking of suckers – there’s Kin Hiroshi. The poor, unfortunate soul that Kevin Powers has attached himself to. But now you’re the US Champion. So all is well, right? Except that you’ve got Steve Radder coming after you. And… assuming I get out of this room, you’ve got to deal with me too.

(Hornet lowers his voice as he slides down the bed and stands up in the small cabin. The obviously hand-held camera follows him with some big jiggles. Teri Melton is sitting in the background in the new angle. Near her, there is what looks to be a hole in the wall.)

But I’ve got a little secret for you. In fact, I’ve got two.

I don’t take orders anymore.

There’s nothing left that the two of you, or Ruben Ross, or Stephen Thomas, can take away from me.

And the other secret?

(Even quieter.)

I know how to get out of here. And I’m coming.

(Hornet grabs the television off its built-in shelf in the small cabin and tips it onto the floor as the camera goes dark.)