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Matt Strikmore stops in his tracks and stares at the door to his hotel room. The door is open -- just a crack, but definitely open. He knows he shut it on his way out to dinner. No light coming from inside the room. Crazed fan? Or did the cleaning lady just forget to shut the door all the way? No, that isn't right, cleaning ladies usually come in the morning, not at a quarter to midnight.

Strikmore creeps toward the room, feeling a bit silly for doing so. Then again, life in Twisted Championship Wrestling can leave you looking over your shoulder. With one hand, he gently pushes the door open and slips inside. In the dark there are too many shadows, too many places for an intruder to hide. Even in the dark, though, Matt can tell something is wrong. Furniture is out of place, overturned, the TV is on the floor, the mattress looks torn up. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and flips on the lights.

Matt: "Oh hell ..."

His room has been totally trashed, both its furnishings and his belongings in shambles. The bed looks like someone took a razor to it. His clothes got the same treatment. Pages of the hotel room Bible, now torn in two, lie scattered on the bed and floor. Stuck to the walls of the room are pictures Matt recognizes, pages torn from wrestling magazines, pictures of himself. Some show him in the ring, some at the TCW press events he's come to loathe. Then there are some he doesn't recognize, photographs taken by a telephoto lens of him in airports, getting into a cab, going in and out of his hotel. In every photo, his eyes have been carefully cut out.

To make things worse, there's rancid day-old trash scattered on the floor with all his stuff, old food, including several piles of what look like rotting meat. Matt feels the contents of his stomach rising to the back of his throat. He rushes into the bathroom, shoes crunching bits of broken glass and sloshing through water that almost makes him slip . The mirror is broken, the pieces littered on the floor. Larger shards are collected in the sink, more in the shower. The toilet bowl is partially smashed, pieces of porcelain mixed with the glass. His shoes are already soaking.

The room phone rings. Matt answers.

Matt: "This is Matt Strikmore."

The voice on the other end chuckles.

"How's the room?"

Matt spits the name of the caller back at him.

Matt: "Drakus."

Drakus: "Glad you haven't forgotten me yet."

Matt: "I was trying."

Drakus: "Not gonna happen. I'll bet you won't be able to think of anybody else until Endgame."

Matt: "Don't bet on it. I'll get another room, and as soon as my head hits the pillow you'll be out of my mind. Trash all the rooms you want, it's not going to psyche me out."

Drakus: "Yeah? Y'know, after I got in the room, I thought about just waiting for you, waiting 'til you walked in the door, smashing that pretty face to a pulp with my bare hands. Then I thought, maybe I'll just wait until Endgame ... or maybe I won't."

Matt swallows hard.

Matt: "And maybe we'll see what happens if you try."

Drakus laughs.

Drakus: "Listen to the golden boy, talking tough. All those pretty pictures going to your head?"

Matt looks up at a photo of himself, smiling at a meet-and-greet for sick kids, empty eyes staring back at him.

Matt: "Guess we'll find out at Endgame. Stern made it a submission match."

Drakus: "Good. I love hearing people beg for mercy. Never does 'em any good, but I sure do enjoy the sound of it."

Matt: "I'll bet. Let's see how tough you are without weapons or cheap shots."

Drakus: "In the ring, you mean. A lot can happen before then."

Matt: "I get the picure."

Drakus: "Think so? You ever stab somebody Matt? The eyes, that's the best part. First surprise, then the pain hits. You ever feel pain like that, champ?"

Matt: "Can't say I have. Guess that's because I'm a wrestler, not a psychopath."

Drakus: "Nah, that's not what you are. You're a victim."

The line goes dead. Matt holds the phone in his hand until the dial tone changes to an annoying beep. He considers calling Stern, calling the police, even calling DeSean. Finally he hangs up the phone, picks it up again, sighs and dials.

Matt: "Hello, this is Matt Strikmore ... I'm going to need another room for the night."