It was a cool, rainy night in Orlando.   In a small hotel room, Samoa Joe slept… and dreamed.   It was a dream he had dreamt many times before.   He is a guest on the Oprah Winfrey Show, being interviewed in front a live audience, with millions watching at home.   It was the biggest interview he had ever been a part of.   For the first time, a TNA Superstar was sharing a couch with Oprah, gaining a lifetime’s worth of exposure in mere seconds.   Oprah would interview him, ask him about his training, why he became a wrestler, and with each question, Samoa Joe would tell his story, the journey from Polynesian Dancer, to Mortgage Broker, to Professional Wrestler.   She would ask him about performing at the Olympics, defeating Kurt Angle for his first World Championship, his struggles to get to the top of the Wrestling World.   She would ask him about possible movie roles, an upcoming book… whatever relevant thing his dream would allow for on a given night.   Soon, she would open to forum, and allow Joe to take questions directly from the audience.   And, as one might expect, the predominantly female audience of Oprah would ask him things about his family, his wife, and why such a nice young man would want to spend his life fighting inside a six-sided (or four-sided) ring.

Then, an unexpected voice comes from the crowd.   A familiar voice from Joe’s past.   A voice who would ask him how it felt to lose the Ring of Honor World Championship to Austin Aries.

Joe would deflect the question, saying something like, “you win some, you lose some, and that night, Aries was the better man.”

“All right,” the voice would continue.   Joe would look to the audience, but because of the television lighting, he was still unable to see the man who was speaking clearly.   “How about when Kurt Angle broke your undefeated streak in TNA, forcing you to tap out?”

Once again, Joe conceded that Kurt was one of the best wrestlers in the world, and then reminded the man that he had defeated Kurt Angle for his first, and only, TNA World Championship.

“Only?” the man said.   “Only one World Championship?   I’ve held three, Joe.”   Joe stood up, and through the lights he was finally able to make out the man who had been asking him these questions, his most famous rival, CM Punk.   “But, then again, I’m the one who went to WWE, where wrestlers actually DO become mainstream stars, unlike you, Joe.   After all, I’M not the one dreaming about being on Oprah, now am I?”

With those words, the scene dissolves.   Joe now finds himself in an ROH ring, standing across from CM Punk as hundreds of rabid fans begin their dueling chants, half cheering for Punk, the others, Joe.   Punk is now holding a microphone, addressing Joe and the ROH crowd.

“Now this is more like it, Joe,” Punk taunted.   “You and me, face to face, in the very ring, at the very arena that made us famous.   You remember that day, don’t you Joe?   You and me, for sixty minutes, in this very ring.   You couldn’t beat me, though, could you, Joe?   Sure, you retained your title, but you never actually beat me that night, did you?”

The scene dissolved again, this time, to the Impact Zone in Orlando.   Joe saw himself inside the six-sided ring, tapping out to Kurt Angle’s anklelock.  

“Wow, Joe,” Punk taunted.   “You’re a real tough guy, aren’t you?   How many times did Kurt Angle beat you, anyway?”   As Punk asked that question, each defeat played itself out inside the six-sided ring.   “I’m amazed you ever got a win on this guy at all.   I, on the other hand…”

The scene dissolved again, this time, to a WWE ring.   Inside, each of Punk’s notable victories played out.  

“Look, Joe.   ECW Champion.   And, look, Money in the Bank.   And look there!   I just beat Edge for my first World Championship.   And look now!   The Tag Team Titles, with Kofi Kingston!   And, what’s this?   Money in the Bank, again?!   Twice?   In a row?   Are you seeing this, because I know I am!   And… and.. what’s this?   Beating Jeff Hardy for my second World Title.   And, oh my god, Joe!   I did it again!   A three-time Straight Edge World Champion!   And, if I say so myself, perhaps my proudest moment yet… ending Jeff Hardy’s WWE Career inside a steel cage!   Pretty impressive, if I say so myself!”

The scene dissolves once again, back to the Impact Zone.

“So… while I was in WWE being all awesome, what was Samoa Joe doing?”

Inside the six-sided ring, Joe watched defeat after defeat, as he fell prey to the likes of Sting, Nash, Steiner, Daniels, Styles, Angle… even Desmond Wolfe.

“Wow,” Punk said, shocked.   “Looks like you were… losing.   A lot.   No wonder your stock’s plummeted.”

“So,” Joe said sternly, “What?   You’re here to gloat?   Just because you couldn’t beat me in Ring of Honor, you’re using this as a way to finally get one over on me?”

“Joe,” Punk scoffed, “don’t you realize what’s happened here?   The once dominant champion of Ring of Honor is now… nobody.   Meanwhile, the guy who ‘never beat him’, the so-called ‘lesser half’ of that great five star match all the fanboys are still talking about, years later… he’s on top of the world.   You remember when we first got signed, you to TNA, me to WWE, and how everyone was saying that you were so smart because you got to be on TV right away and you got a big push right away and you were mauling over the entire X-Division… you remember, right?   Well, I never forgot about it.   All that time I spent in OVW, learning the ‘WWE way’, being humiliated and talked down to by idiots 30 years past their prime, I watched you, Joe.   I watched as you went undefeated for nearly two years, won the X Division title, crippled Chris Daniels, damn near killed AJ Styles… do you know what they did with ME in TNA, Joe?   NOTHING!!!!   Not one goddamned thing!   I walk into TNA with ‘X’s on my hands, with a goddamn Straight Edge tattoo on my stomach, and what’s the first thing TNA does with me?   Put me in a stable with that drug-fueled sociopath, Raven!   Do I look like a junkie to you, Joe?!”

“Is this what this is all about?   You’re jealous because TNA used me better than they used you?” Joe replied.

CM Punk laughed.   “You really believe that, don’t you?   You really think that, if you just play by the rules and do everything Mama Dixie tells you, she’s going to reward you with another World Title reign?   Are you completely clueless, Joe?   You haven’t been standing here, with me, watching defeat after defeat after defeat?   You’re worthless to them, Joe!   Nothing you do matters.   The fans cheer you, and TNA does nothing.   The fans boo you, TNA does nothing.   You give them more consistent, main-event caliber performances than anyone else on the roster, and what do they do?   Tell you to wear some facepaint and let Taz do all your talking for you… for about a month before they decide they’d rather have Taz do commentary, leaving Joe and his ‘Nation of Violence’ nothing.   That’s what this is about, Joe.   No matter what you do, good, bad, or otherwise, Dixie’s never going to give you a shot.   And now that Hulk Hogan is in charge…”

The scene dissolves again, this time, to the new Impact Zone, complete with the traditional, four-sided ring.   Inside, Joe is watching AJ Styles and Kurt Angle… and Joe, nowhere in sight.

“…it’s just more of the same, isn’t it?   Can you see it, now, Joe?   The Future of TNA.   It really doesn’t matter what you do, Joe.   You’ll never be a part of it.”

The scene dissolves one last time, this time, to pitch blackness.   Only Joe and Punk remain, standing face to face in the vast nothingness around them.

“Once upon a time, you were a God among men, Joe,” Punk concluded.   “You were considered to be the absolute best wrestler in the world, hands down.   Now, you’re not even a blip on the undercard.   When it’s all said and done, Joe, you simply no longer matter.”

“It’s a lie… YOU LIE!!!” Joe said, leaping angrily towards CM Punk.   Punk, though, is one step ahead of him, using Joe’s momentum to lift Joe to his shoulders before striking him down with the dreaded ‘Go To Sleep’.   As Joe fell to the ground, a vision of all of his losses flooded his sense, overwhelming him.   It was as if he was reliving every single failure simultaneously.

“Joe,” Punk says to his fallen rival.   “You simply don’t matter.   Not anymore.”

With that, Joe awakens from his dream in a cold sweat.   Looking around in his empty hotel room in Orlando, Florida, Joe tries to shake off this recent nightmare.   Unfortunately, he couldn’t put the thought out of his mind, no matter what he did.  

He looks at his Feast or Fired case sitting in a chair in the corner of his hotel room.   His one guaranteed World Title Shot, perhaps his last.   His one last chance to prove to himself, even the world, that Samoa Joe was still relevant.   TNA could not deny him this.   He had risked his career, his spot in TNA, for this case, this chance to become TNA World Champion.   But the thought still haunted him.   He could not, for the life of him, silence the voice of CM Punk, taunting him in his head.   The thought that maybe, Punk was right.   No matter what Joe did in TNA, it didn’t matter.   Nothing would change.   Samoa Joe, once the most dominant champion in professional wrestling, simply did not matter anymore.   But Joe would not, could not accept this.   He had worked too hard, too long, and sacrificed too much just to walk away now.   He could not, even in the face of overwhelming evidence, concede himself to obscurity.  

But, yet, Joe did feel… disconnected… from the business.   With each waning day, with every defeat and setback, a piece of the fire he once felt inside of him was dying.   There were even days he had thought about quitting, about walking away.   He was making decent money as a mortgage broker.   Sure, he wasn’t a millionaire, but he would be able to support a family, have a nice home, live in a decent neighborhood where his kids would actually be able to play outside in daylight.   It wasn’t like the money in wrestling was that much better.   Sure, an extra thousand or so a year, just because you’re a TV star, sounds nice, but in the overall, doesn’t really add up to much more than your average middle class workhorse with a little extra cash so the kids can go and see the Grand Canyon or Disney World once in their lives.   After a while, it doesn’t seem to matter.   You’re still just an average guy, with an average house, an average car, an average job, sitting at the PTA meetings, asking about your child’s curriculum.   Joe wanted more for himself, for his family, than just the run-of-the-mill, average life.   His mother came from humble beginnings and made something of herself, running her own Polynesian dance troupe before meeting his father.   Both of his parents worked hard, incredibly motivated people, which inspired Joe to work just as hard, to be just as motivated, as they had been when he was growing up.   But, as time went on, Joe began to question whether his hard work meant anything at all, whether his motivation was all for naught.   He would lie there, alone in his hotel room, his wife at home back in California, trying to go back to sleep, thinking about all of these things, wondering if any of it even mattered anymore.

The next day, at the Impact Zone, Joe walked up to the big board set up just outside the locker room.   On it was a rundown of all the matches scheduled for that evening’s TV taping.   Joe scanned the board carefully, looking to see who he would be facing tonight in front of the rabid Impact Zone audience.   He kept looking, and looking, but could not find his name.   ‘They’re taping three weeks of TV, for Christ’s Sake!’ he thought to himself, ‘and I’m not even booked?!’   Joe started to panic, frantically searching the board for his name.   Just then, Kurt Angle walked up behind Joe.

“Hey, Joe,” Kurt said to him.   “Got anyone good, tonight?”

“Hey Kurt,” Joe said.   “I don’t know… I just got here.”

“Well, there I am.   Oh, look, another Title Match.   And people actually thought that ‘last title match of 2010’ stipulation would stick!   HA!   What a bunch of f*cking marks!” Kurt laughed, walking away.   Joe looked up, and immediately saw Kurt Angle’s name on the board, next to AJ Styles’ with the words “WORLD TITLE MATCH” written in large, bold letters.

“Well, well,” a voice called out from behind Joe.   The voice carried with it a rather distinct British accent, belonging to Desmond Wolfe.   “If it isn’t good ol’ Samoan Joe.   How are you Samoan Joe?   I’m well, thank you.  Now let me see if I have the pleasure of beating you again tonight, shall we?”   Desmond perused the chart, looking, and finding his name.   “Ah, there I am, teaming with Orlando Jordan.   Looks like I impressed the ol’ Hulk good, didn’t I, Samoan Joe?   Now, how about you?   No… I don’t think I see your name up there.   Well, don’t worry, there’s always next week… oh, wait, we’re doing three weeks’ worth of TV tonight, aren’t we?   I guess there is no ‘next week’ then, is there?   You might not even be on the pay-per-view this month, from the looks of it.   Perhaps, that’s your new gimmick.   A Samoan Dennis Stamp!   Not sure how that’s going to put any butts into the seats, but hey, maybe you can make the best of it, you know?   Maybe there’s a horde of losers out there just dying to buy up t-shirts reading ‘I’m Not Booked’, or DVD’s filled with footage of you, sitting on your fat ass backstage, holding your little briefcase, wondering, ‘is Mr. Bischoff ever going to let me wrestle?   I thought I was the #1 Contender!  I mean, sure, I haven’t won a match in months, but I have me little briefcase here!   Don’t I get a shot, Mr. Bischoff?’ And all the while, the answer should be obvious.   You simply don’t matter, now do you?   And to think, everyone used to be so afraid of you in Ring Of Honor.   If only they could see you now…”

“Look, Nigel,” Joe said, angrily getting in the face of the man formerly known as Nigel McGuiness, “Just because you have one, ONE WIN, over me, doesn’t mean I’m not capable of breaking your limey ass APART inside that ring, get me?”

“Temper, temper,” Desmond taunted.   “You don’t want to get yourself all hot, then have a heart attack or something, do you?   I mean, a man of your size…”

“What about my size, Nigel?” Joe asked, looking for an excuse to deck Desmond right in his smug little face.

“Well, that should be obvious, shouldn’t it?   You’re certainly not what we would call a ‘Cruiserweight’, after all,” Desmond pointed out.   “But that’s not what you’re really angry about, is it?   I mean, you must hear the fat jokes all the time…”

“Do you have a point, Nigel, or are you just here to bore me?” Joe asked.

“You keep calling me ‘Nigel’.   You know I don’t go by that name anymore,” Desmond said to Joe.   “How would you feel if I just went around calling you ‘Fat Boy’ all the time?   Probably hurt your feelings, I’d think.”

“You know what?   Forget it!   If you’re not going to get to a point, I’m not going to stay here and listen.   I have better things to do,” Joe said, walking away.   Before Joe could leave, though, Desmond Wolfe was able to get one last word in.

“So you do, now?   What would that be, perhaps?   You going to broker someone’s mortgage or something?”

Joe ignored the question, and walked off, but the sting of the words stayed with him.   Despite Desmond’s childish taunts about Joe’s weight, he was right about at least one thing.   Joe hasn’t had a significant win in some time, and, because of this, Joe was now being left off of cards entirely.   This would severely affect his bottom line.   Being booked on Pay-Per-View was a valuable source of revenue for Joe, and if he was now being left off of those events, he would lose out on a decent percentage of his yearly income, an income he and his family depended on, and because of his contract, he was not allowed to accept outside bookings to make up for that lost income, either.   This simply could not happen.   Joe had to do something about it, and so, he marched towards the office of Hulk Hogan and Eric Bischoff.   As long as Joe still had his Feast or Fired case, and his guaranteed World Title Shot, Joe felt that Hogan and Bischoff had no choice but to keep Joe a major focus on TV, and a regular on Pay-Per-View.   Doing otherwise would mean a loss of revenue for them, as well, as the eventual Title Match would not draw well if Joe was not properly promoted.   Joe believed they would see things his way, that they’d have no choice but to put him back on TV, to book him on Pay-Per-View.

Just outside of Hogan’s office, Joe saw Abyss and Bobby Lashley, waiting each to see the Hulkster.   Joe took a seat by them, setting his Feast or Fired case on his lap.

“Hey Joe,” Lashley said.   “What brings you here?”

“I’m not booked,” Joe answered.   “So I came to see Hogan and Bischoff.   Thought if I explained to them that as long as I still have a guaranteed title shot, they have no choice but to keep me on TV.”

“Oh,” Lashley sighed.   “I don’t think that’s going to work.   See, I have a guaranteed title shot, too.   Won the Thanksgiving Championship Series, and earned a title shot.   Since then, TNA’s treated it like an afterthought, letting my wife do all my talking… man, sometimes, I think I should just stick to MMA.”

“I have guaranteed title shots, too.   Like, six of them.   Won them all back in 2004… 2005 maybe.   Don’t really remember.   I’m not sure I ever got to use any of them,” Abyss added.

“Wait… you’re kidding me, right?   SIX guaranteed title matches, from, like six years ago?   And they never let you cash in one of them?” Joe asked Abyss.

“I think one of my matches with Sting counted as one,” Abyss answered.   “And I think I lost one of them to AJ Styles at the first Lockdown Pay-Per-View.   I don’t really remember.   It was all pretty confusing, back then.”

“Yeah,” Joe sighed.   “I bet it was…”

Then, a voice called out, “Joe Senoa?   Hogan and Bischoff will see you now.”

“That was quick,” Abyss noted.   “I’ve been sitting here for weeks now.”

“We can tell,” Lashley added, catching a smell of the unshowered Abyss.   “Good luck, Joe.”

“Thanks,” Joe said to Lashley before taking the long walk down the hall to Hogan and Bischoff’s office.

As Joe reached the door, he hesitated for a moment.   The weight of what he was about to do had finally hit him, and, in a moment of clarity, Joe realized what he was about to do.   He was about to go into the office of the two men in TNA with all the power to do whatever they wish with whomever they wished.   He had heard the rumors that those who openly opposed the new administration were not only given their release, but were brutally beaten and humiliated as well.   Alyssa Flash nearly suffocated to death during her release, Suicide got locked in a mental institution in New York, and Matt Hardy, who had stood in the way of Traci Brooks’ release, was still in a hospital in Anaheim.   Meanwhile, Kong had been missing for weeks, ever since her incident with Bubba the Love Sponge.   No one was even sure if she was still with the company or not.   There was even a rumor that Taylor Wilde had it in so bad that Hogan had sent Ken Anderson to personally let her know just how much Hogan intended to make her suffer while still under contract to TNA.   There was something definitely going on in TNA, and Joe knew, by walking through this door, he could very well find himself a victim, as well.  

Then, Joe thought of his wife, his son, and he knew that, no matter what happened, he needed to be able to earn the income to provide for them.   It was a risk, but a risk he had to take, for himself, for his family.   This wasn’t about just a title shot.   This was about his family, his livelihood.   Not being booked was simply unacceptable.   Joe took a deep breath, and walked into the office, knowing what he had to do.

As Joe entered, he saw a man seated behind Hogan’s desk with his back to Joe.  He wasn’t sure who the man was, but assumed it was Eric Bischoff.   After all, only one other man would have the audacity to sit in Hogan’s seat, and, as the man seated was not wearing a bandana to cover his bald spot, Joe assumed that there was no way this could be Hogan.

“Samoa Joe,” the man said, “it was only a matter of time before you came calling.”

“Well,” Joe began.

“Sit down and shut up!” the man behind the desk barked.   As Joe sat down, the man turned his chair around to reveal that it was not Eric Bischoff, but in fact, Ken Anderson sitting at Hogan’s desk.   Anderson smiled his infamous cocky smile as Joe sat there, shocked at the sight.

“Anderson?” Joe asked, looking around.   “Where’s Bischoff?   Where’s Hogan?”

“Oh, them?” Mr. Anderson began.   “They’re busy right now, attending to things that actually matter.   Which leaves us to you, Shamu.   You’re here wondering why you’re not booked, right?”

“Yeah,” Joe answered.

“And you think, just because you have that little briefcase there, you can bully Mr. Bischoff and Mr. Hogan into letting you on TV, is that right?” Anderson asked.

“Well…” Joe said, about to concede that Anderson was right.

“You know, I had a case like that, once,” Anderson said.   “Money In The Bank, they called it.   You want to know what happened to me after I got that case, Joe?   I’ll tell you.   Some punk kid named Edge went and STOLE that case from me, then went on to become a 9-time World Champion.   And what happened to Mr. Anderson?   I was forgotten, buried in the midcard, left off of TV, and eventually fired!   Now, tell me, Joe… do you really think that, with my position here in the Hogan Regime, that I’d just let some Indy No-Name walk around with Money in the Bank while I, an actual NAME in this business, get diddly squat?”

“Well…” Joe said futilely, knowing Anderson would just cut him off.

“You listen here, Free Willy!” Anderson shouted.   “There’s a new game in town, now.   So you’re going to sit back, keep your damn mouth shut, and maybe, if you’re good, Hogan will put you back on TV.   In the meantime, maybe you should try, I don’t know… hitting a gym or something.   God knows you can stand to lose a few pounds!”

“So…” Joe began, “Am I special, or are you always this much of an a$$hole?”

“Oh,” Anderson said, standing up from behind the desk.   “So that’s how you’re going to play it.”   Anderson then walked out from behind the desk, approaching Joe.   Joe stood up, and the two stood face to face, glaring at one another.   “You do know what happens to those who oppose the New Regime, don’t you, Joe?”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Joe replied.

“Oh, believe me, they aren’t rumors,” Anderson assured.   “In fact, I’m actually surprised Kong hasn’t turned up yet.   Isn’t there a new season of ‘The Biggest Loser’ coming up?”

“You really seem to like fat jokes,” Joe noticed.   “Ever think of, I don’t know, trying new material?”

“Oh, please,” Anderson replied.   “Do I look like Jay Leno to you?   Going out night after night, bombing over and over again?   No, Joe.   I leave constant failure to people like you.   I, on the other hand… I’m a winner.   Always have been, always will be.   And now that I’m playing for Team Hogan, nothing’s going to stop me from becoming the biggest star in both wrestling, and Hollywood.”

“Except that part where you can’t act worth sh*t,” Joe stated.

“Funny man.   You’re a regular Conan O’Brien, there, Joe,” Anderson said.   “Sure, your show gets canceled and you get replaced by some has-been comic who couldn’t get over a live audience if his life depended on it, but hey, at least you get to walk around with your self-respect intact.   Well, guess what, Coco?   This is TNA, not NBC.   Things don’t quite work out that way.   Nobody’s going to pay you off to keep your mouth shut here.   Here, if you have a problem with management, management makes you their bitch.   So, unless you want me, right here, right now, to personally make you into my little Island Princess, I suggest you take your little briefcase, walk out of this office, and thank the Lord Almighty that you still have a job here, you get me?”

“Yeah,” Joe said, clutching his Feast or Fired case.   “I get you.”   With that, Joe takes his case with both hands and violently swings it towards Anderson’s head.   Anderson dodges, leaving Joe off balance as he misses with the case.   Joe turns around, but it’s already too late.   Anderson has him locked in a Mic Check, and drives Joe face first into the floor below.   Joe rolls onto his back as he begins to lose consciousness, looking up to see Mr. Anderson take his Feast or Fired case.

“Wow, Joe, a World Title Shot, just for me?   You shouldn’t have!” Anderson said, claiming the case, and title shot, for himself.   “Maybe next time, you’ll know better than to take a swing at MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR…. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDERSON!!!!”

As the world turned black around him, Joe, with his last few moments of consciousness, watched helplessly as Mr. Anderson walked off with Joe’s Feast or Fired case.   Before Joe passed out completely, he was able to hear one final time…

“…ANDERSON!”