Toxxic 0 Report post Posted July 18, 2007 Shortly before Storm… SWF World Heavyweight Champion Alan Clark approaches his dressing room in the corridors of the Stade de France. Sure enough, it has on the door a nameplate saying ‘Alan Clark - SWF World Champion’, so he knows it’s his. Apparently, even the French are in awe of the SWF. “So Walter,” Alan says, halting before the door, “what do you reckon is behind this? Snakes? Spiders? Wombats?” “I wouldn’t like to guess,” Walter Reynolds tells him. Clark shrugs, unlocks the door and pushes it open without stepping inside. Not out of fear, but with the air of a man who has had too many things land on him over the last couple of weeks to be careless. “Well?” Reynolds asks, keeping an eye on the corridor in case someone is looking to send inflatable mammals towards Clark while he’s distracted. “It’s… Spike.” Walter looks around at that, to see that in the middle of the dressing room floor someone has placed… “A cardboard cut-out of Spike Jenkins,” Reynolds corrects his charge as the two men enter the room. “Ah, yeah,” Clark laughs, “so it is. For a moment I thought it actually was Spike.” “Really?” “Yeah, but then I saw it had too much personality.” Clark places the World Title down on the bench and regards the cardboard cut-out steadily for a few seconds. “Walter, you know what I’m going to do tonight?” “Not really.” “I’m going to win,” Clark says. “I’m going to beat Spike Jenkins and show everyone that you can’t jump in line and take a shot at the World Title just because I’m holding it. And then tomorrow…” a wide grin creases his mouth. “…I’m going to have a magical day.” Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
