The camera opens on a city street. Not any particularly dangerous street. It's more of a small-town street, with well-maintained storefronts selling reasonably priced goods. The kind of town you could settle down in and start a family. Folks don't lock their doors in this town. There's a coffee shop across the road. Somebody walks their golden retriever. A man and woman push a stroller past the camera. In the distance, we can hear a sprinkler rhythmically ticking back and forth. A man steps into the frame. He wears baggy black jeans with a single leg rolled up, an oversized white T-shirt, and a baggy, unzipped hoodie, complete with a fake chain almost certainly from a hardware store. He wears a wave cap with a backwards black baseball hat. It is the Edgecrusher, or as he is now known, "MC EC."

MC EC: YO!

He crosses his arms and stares intensely into the camera for a second in some failed attempt at intimidation.

MC EC: It's ya boy.

He throws up several random hand signs. Peace, live long and prosper, and scissoring are the only ones noticeable to anyone.

MC EC: M to the C to the E to the C, dawg. And I'm straight outta the streets.

A nice car drives behind him and politely stops at the crosswalk, allowing MC EC to safely cross. The driver, an elderly man with coke-bottle glasses and solid white hair, waves to MC EC with a big smile. MC EC waves back.

MC EC: Thanks, Mr. Miller. Tell Mrs. Miller I'll see her for the book club on Tuesday!

As the car pulls away, MC EC catches himself.

MC EC: I mean...

He turns towards the car and reaches into the back of his pants like he was pulling a gun out.

MC EC: KEEP ON ROLLIN', PLAYA!

The car makes no attempt to increase its speed to escape the threat. Mostly because Mr. Miller needs to change his hearing aid battery and didn't hear a word of what the Edgecrusher said. MC EC turns back to the camera.

MC EC:  Toyota Hicks... 

His expression becomes dead serious, at least as much as possible for him.

MC EC: You done fucked up, girl. Warfare... this ain't no wrestling match. Nah. Ain't gonna be no collar-and-elbow tie-up, drop-down leapfrog international. Ain't gonna be no body slams, ain't gonna be no side headlock takedowns, ain't gonna be no ref cramping MC EC's style. Ain't nobody telling MC EC what he can and can't do. You want a street fight?

The Edgecrusher slowly spreads his arms.

MC EC: BITCH... I'M FROM THE STREETS! Look at this shit...

He points towards the pavement beneath his Adidus shoes.

MC EC: Concrete. Asphalt. A storm drain.

He crouches down in classic '90s hip-hop album style and touches the pavement.

MC EC: This is my world!

He struggles to stand back up, groaning loudly and holding his bad knee. He is visibly winded.

MC EC: Thing is, Latoya, you saw the Edgecrusher and thought you knew what you were dealing with. You saw a wrestler, a well-oiled takedown machine dominating thanks to his sound ring technique and dashing good looks. But you don't know my past. You don't know where I've been or the shit I've seen.

The Edgecrusher lowers his voice and steps closer to the camera. He stumbles a bit, as his bad leg still hasn't recovered from that recent squatting.

MC EC:  I've been in the hood, dawg.

A very long pause, seemingly because he forgot what he was saying.

MC EC: Recently. I was out hanging with a real thug. A real gangsta, a real motherfucker, and he accepted me into his world. He showed me what life on the streets is really like.

His eyes narrow.

MC EC: We played pinball. Hardcore shit, G. You ever play pinball with gangstas, Lacoix? I don't fucking think so. That changes a man. I've seen things now. Things you couldn't understand. Flashing lights, multiballs, high scores, and tilts.

The Edgecrusher shudders.

MC EC: Especially the tilts. Once you've seen that shit... you don't come back the same.

He looks towards the horizon in a contemplative manner.

MC EC: Me and that machine went to war. And when the smoke cleared? Only one of us was still standing. Well... technically, the machine was still standing too. But I had fucked it all up, so that counts.

He turns back to the camera.

MC EC: Point is, Tommy taught me the streets. Maybe he didn't know he was teaching me. Maybe he didn't actually teach me anything. Maybe at several points he specifically told me to stop touching shit. But you can't put a price on that kind of experience. And now? MC Edgecrusher is street certified.

He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it. Written across the top in Sharpie:




There's a signature line that remains empty at the bottom. MC EC quickly folds it back up and returns it to his pocket.

MC EC: Official paperwork, don't worry about it.

He clears his throat.

MC EC: Which brings us to you, Latoya Jackson. Poor, poor, POOR Latoya Jackson. You get stuck with the Edgecrusher in the one environment he becomes something more. Where the rules disappear. Where civilization ends. Where two warriors settle their problems using whatever the streets provide.

The Edgecrusher looks around.

MC EC: There's a recycling bin, a parking meter, a newspaper box. Weapons everywhere.

He walks over to the recycling bin and gives it a good smack on the side like a used car.

MC EC: You see a place to separate paper from plastic, I see opportunity... and a place to separate paper from plastic.

He picks the bin up and immediately realizes there's random trash inside. He drops it hard, causing trash juice to splash out onto his face.

MC EC:  Aw... fuck... I got a little in my mouth.

The Edgecrusher spits several times onto the ground, then turns back to the camera.

MC EC: ANYWAY... Opportunity... because that's the difference between us, Lajoya. You're walking into a street fight. I'm coming home.

He begins walking down the sidewalk. The cameraman follows closely behind.

MC EC: I know these here streets. Every corner, every alley, every...

The Edgecrusher stops at an intersection. He looks left. He looks right. He looks left again, then right just in case something changed.

MC EC: Hang on, dawg.

He pulls out his phone. Checking Google Maps, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

MC EC: EVERY... FUCKING... STREET! People think being a gangsta is about where you're born. NAW, DAWG. Being gangsta is a mentality. It's something inside you. Knowing when shit gets real, you're ready. Knowing when somebody steps to you, you step back harder. It's knowing when somebody beats your high score...

The Edgecrusher stops walking.

MC EC:  You fuck that pinball machine up. That's what Tommy taught me. Probably because he saw something. He saw a man willing to stand his ground, a man who don't back down. He saw a man who saw his pinball machine and said...

He pauses.

MC EC: Well, I don't actually remember what I said. But I'm positive it was gangsta as fuck.

The Edgecrusher resumes walking.

MC EC: And now you're gonna see it too.

A kid, maybe twelve years old, is standing nearby looking at him. He eyes Edgecrusher's outfit with a bemused expression.

Kid: Hey mister, why are you dressed like that? Are you trying to be John Cena?

The Edgecrusher stops in his tracks.

MC EC: What... wait... no... NO!

Kid: You look like some broke-ass rapper from 2004.

MC EC: I'm MC EC!

Kid: Who?

MC EC:  ...The Edgecrusher. MC Edgecrusher...

No response from the kid besides a blank stare.

MC EC: XWF?

Still nothing.

MC EC: Warfare?

The kid shrugs.

Kid: My dad watches AEW.

The Edgecrusher stares at him.

MC EC:  I ain't Mr. Rogers, Get the fuck outta my hood.

EC waits for the kid to walk away.

MC EC: Little motherfucker's lucky I'm a respected OG.

He turns towards the camera.

MC EC: Don't... Don't put that part in.

The camera keeps rolling.

MC EC: What was I talking about again? ...OH YEAH... Latoady. I want you thinking about something before Warfare. You aren't fighting the Edgecrusher you've been watching. That man is gone. He died in the hood. Not literally, obviously. I would have mentioned that. Spiritually? The Edgecrusher is dead. The streets changed me, and I emerged from the ashes harder. Something colder and significantly more gangsta.

He removes his backwards hat. Underneath it is a bandana. He removes the bandana. Underneath that is another backwards hat. He adjusts it.

MC EC: MC Edgecrusher. Master of the streets. King of the Hood. A gangsta's gangsta.

He holds up one finger.

MC EC: Undefeated in street fights this week...

He thinks for a moment.

MC EC: ...as of right now. Latrine, Warfare is your introduction to my world. There won't be ropes protecting you. Won't be any rules to hide behind. Nobody will stop me from taking whatever I can find and beating your ass with it. Trash cans, chairs, tables, signs, shopping carts, pinball machines...

The Edgecrusher freezes.

MC EC: Actually, no. Not the pinball machine. We respect the pinball machine now. Everything else is fair game. Because this isn't wrestling, this is survival. And Lexmark? Whoever booked you in this match must hate you. They put you up against an animal who's been gangsta since Thursday.

EC throws up the same incomprehensible hand sign from earlier.

MC EC: Word life.

The scene fades out.