[CAMERA: Static shot. A rusty chain-link fence rattles gently in the wind. Behind it, a train yard sleeps under overcast skies. Lowlife Larry Edwards leans against the fence, a half-smoked cigarette pinched between his fingers. He squints into the gray. He doesn’t look into the camera—he talks like it ain’t there.]

LOWLIFE LARRY:
So this is Jack Havoc, huh?

Big bad biker from Detroit. Been ridin’ cross state lines barkin’ about pain like he’s the first man to bleed for a buck. Talkin’ about how he’s gonna tear me up and leave me layin’.

Cute.

I heard the noise. I seen the vignettes. Harley’s loud, sure. But volume ain’t violence. And all that talk about pain? Brother, pain don’t scare me. Pain’s a roommate. I been wakin’ up with him for years.

You don’t know me yet, but you will.

Name’s Lowlife Larry Edwards. Ain’t much to look at. Ain’t got no sponsors, no merch, no brand deals. Just a beat-up pickup, a half-torn gear bag, and two fists that don’t quit.

You ain’t comin’ to fight me, Jack—you’re signin’ up for a brawl in a broom closet. You want a body count? You better bring a damn shovel, 'cause I ain’t goin’ easy, and I sure as hell ain’t goin’ down.

I got scars older than your patch jacket, son. And if this is your first stop in ICW? I got no problem sendin’ you limpin’ back to Michigan with a receipt tucked in your teeth.

So bring the chains. Bring the smoke. Bring whatever leftover Halloween horror movie’s rattlin’ around in that head of yours.

Me?

I’ll bring what I always bring.

[He flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot.]

Blood. Guts. And a damn good reason not to get back up.

See you at Fight Club.

[Fade to black.]