Driven

Written: 1/4/02

Location: Trey's Nissan Pathfinder

It seemed like yesterday he was sitting against the wall of a hotel somewhere in Washington, clutching a bottle of whiskey to his chest, staring across the room at the pornographic images on television. He had been waiting for April Donnelly to arrive, so he had been killing time, as is all he had been doing for the last month or so. After all, he'd lost his job just a week before that night and hadn't shaved or showered in as long. The future was looking very dark. TV would not be on TV. Life would never be the same. For anybody. Not him. Not the millions of idiots who lived vicariously through his every success.

Like most people in this business, he had to break in at independents, filled with talentless hacks and greener than green performers. Trey was not great at first by any stretch, but he picked up this business like it was in his blood. He was a student of the game for a bit, getting his hands on any videotape, studying matches. Once he learned all he could from that, he began to concentrate on the superstars of sports entertainment and less on old school technicality.

Trey got 'Attitude.'

Trey became a sports entertainer.

He decided there was only one way to become an icon in the sports entertainment world. Be THE NAME everyone recognizes when the sport is mentioned.

He devised a philosophy. In matches it was punch and kick, use big or high-impact spots and screw your opponent by any means. Outside the ring? Audacity. Piss off everyone. Walk alone or use others to get what you need. Backstage? Backstab. Play politics. Kiss the promoter's ass. There's no shame in that, as long as it produces more air time.

His new persona did not fit the independent level anymore. It was time to evolve. Time to became a face on television and pay-per-view, the promised land.

For a short period of time, getting a contract didn't look promising. Unless you had an in, places weren't accepting new, unproven talent. So he fell back into private investigation. He had studied it. Trey's father had been a police officer before he was paralyzed by a bullet and had to retire. His father had wanted Trey to go into the criminal justice field.

Whatever.

He killed time. Trey was good at being a P.I., it just didn't do much for him. He didn't feel satisfied reuniting people, finding criminals or helping in general. Too much stress, too much trouble, not enough credit. Private just ... is wrong. Why do ANYTHING if there is no credit in it for you?

Trey craved attention. He needed to be on television. If not in sports entertainment, then in a backup plan. The life of a private investigator, filmed much like 'Cops,' but starring Trey Vincent. He wanted to call the show 'TVPI.' He sent FOX some footage, complete with Trey's adventures and full of Trey's witty remarks. He also sent the tape out to a bush-league (hardcore) federation, in hopes that his charisma would be enough to get his foot in the door. FOX didn't sign him. But the bush-league fed did. He had no love extreme wrestling, being put through tables, thrown off scaffolds or being busted open. It was sick entertainment for losers.

Poor losers with no lives and no chance at getting laid. Or, poor losers who should never have kids. Fat, drunk slobs.

But Trey paid his dues there, won some gold and got to introduce them to sports entertainment. He had hope of raising that fed to new heights, but with financial troubles, Trey bailed out. Simple enough, if there was no pay, Trey didn't stay.

He eventually signed with another federation. No talent, no organization, little pay. But he got to be on TV for a couple of weeks. But the bad times in the lousy fed stirred up the whole alcohol problem. He was depressed. He needed to be in a big time fed. He needed...

fWo.

Survivor was his shot, his ONLY shot, at getting in that place.

Trey remembers sending the fWo an application of some sort. Perhaps he had been under the influence at the time. He's really not sure. But he waited and waited and waited for the call that he had been accepted.

It never came.

How could ANY federation claiming to be a sports entertainment company, not to mention one as high quality and respected as the fWo, not want to give people a reason to care about the wildly unpopular Survivor competition?

And then....one night....he saw the biggest travesty. The biggest joke. Some boring, bald bastard taking up air time that could be put to far better use.

That could have been Trey's....

If Trey HAD been accepted into that competition, he would have won. He would not have been eliminated and been crying about it here in jOlt. No.

That's because jOlt wanted Trey.

Trey remembered looking down at his cell phone, seeing that he had a new message. He dialed in and listened. The message was simple:

'Welcome to jOlt.'

jOlt may have been second on his list when he was first unemployed, but now it was the only company that mattered. Somebody UNDERSTOOD the talent. Someone understood the commitment he would bring. His only goal was to get hired in the fWo or jOlt and make the other company regret not hiring him.

Trey's presence in a fed makes people take notice. He makes the rest turn up their volume so Trey can't drown them out completely. jOlt, in the short time Trey has been here, has gone from being on its death bed to dancing on other feds graves. Everyone is at the top of their game. Well, almost everyone.

Lance Knight. He's a pest.

When Trey came to jOlt that first night, he was expecting to see the best in the business. For the most part, he did. But then the show began to lose steam. Right around the time Lance began to do his imitation of sports entertainment.

Enough was enough.

Trey would not work with Lance Knight. Trey doesn't work well with anybody, but especially with people who rank as high on the loser scale as Lance.

Envy and anger about Survivor? Done with.

Time to deal with the problem, Trey decided as he took a right turn onto Taylor Thompson's driveway in his black Nissan Pathfinder, as Strapping Young Lad's 'City' CD blasted at full volume.

'Everything has a way of working out. For me.'

NEXT CHAPTER: New focus, new target >>

©2002 John Leary