Proof of Partnership - Printable Version

Proof of Partnership - Printable Version

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Proof of Partnership - Kristoffer "Vamp" Arroyo - 07-11-2026

Location: The DMV.

The camera opens on a ticket pinched between two grimy fingers.

**B-47**

The shot pulls back to reveal Graves staring at it.

Beside him sits Arroyo with the Anarchy Tag Team Championship resting across his lap.

A man arguing over a license renewal.

A crying baby.

And a crackhead leaning against a vending machine.

"Micheal..."

"Hmm?"

"Why are we here?"

"To get verified."

"We are champions."

"Exactly!"

Kris waits.

"I'm waiting for the rest of that thought to become less stupid."

"Last Anarchy, nobody could tell which Centurion was real. So clearly the XWF has an identification problem."

Kris stares at Graves with three whole centuries worth of disappointment.

"You dragged me to the DMV... to prove we are not secretly Centurion?"

"Real ID office. Don't say it like that. Makes it sound dumb."

"It IS dumb."

"It's leadership, asshole."

"Do you have brain damage?.. Seriously..."

DING.

**B-12**

Graves looks at his ticket.

"Son of a bitch!"

Kris reclines.

"We are going to be here until Bad Medicine."

"Good. Plenty of time to think about what Andy did."

"What Andy did?"

"Let himself get copied.

That’s what keeps sticking in my head, Krissy. Not that Pennyfarthing dressed up like Centurion. He did it to me once. The embarrassing part is it worked."

The baby starts crying louder.

Graves turns.

"Quiet that sonofabitch up. Adults are murdering a legacy over here!"

Kris raises one hand apologetically.

"Sorry, he's mostly harmless...

Listen, you are not entirely wrong."

"Say that again, but louder."

"No.

Centurion's reputation is supposed to mean experience. Instinct. Awareness.

Then one skinny British lunatic put on his face and turned the entire match into a clown show."

Graves snaps his fingers.

"There it is."

"It was proof that Centurion has become so formulaic that he's been reduced to a mere costume."

"Easy to copy, and easier to predict."

DING.

**B-13**

"I'm gonna murder that board."

Kris turns to the camera.

"This is what awaits you, Centurion. At Bad Medicine, there will be no duplicate to blame, no mystery to untangle, no committee deciding whether the corpse was you or a cheap copy."

Graves leans forward.

"You ain't fake because somebody copied you, Andy.

You're fake because the copy was enough to fool everyone."

DING.

**B-14**

Graves explodes to his feet.

"BULLSHIT!"

He storms to the counter with his championship over one shoulder.

"Sir, your number hasn't been called."

Graves slaps the title onto the counter.

"This is my fuckin' number."

"I need a valid form of ID."

Graves taps the title.

"Valid."

"No, I need a photo ID."

"There's my name."

"That doesn't prove you are Micheal Graves."

Kris places his shades back over his eyes.

"To be fair, his paperwork may prove he's actually a missing circus animal."

"Whose side are you on?"

"The side of accuracy."

The clerk types.

"Full legal name?"

"Micheal Alexander Graves."

"Date of birth?"

"What calendar?"

Kris stares.

"What?"

"Romans? Catholics? Druids? I seen a guy swear it was year twenty-five after Dale Earnhardt."

The clerk exhales.

"Do you have aliases?"

Kris rolls his eyes.

"This should only take the rest of civilization."

Graves counts on his fingers.

"Micheal Graves. Dark Warrior. Gravy. Green Jesus. Nightmare Daddy."

"Green Jesus?"

"Don't get hung up on the small stuff."

The clerk looks to Kris.

"And you?"

"Kristoffer Arroyo."

"Date of birth?"

"That is complicated."

"Bullshit. You're a fuckin' vampire."

The room stops for a moment, then the baby cries again.

"Thank you, Micheal."

"Sir, are you claiming to be a vampire?"

Kris leans forward, offended.

"Claiming?"

"Careful. He gets real Judgemental Judy about that."

"I get irritated when three centuries of existence get reduced to a punchline."

The clerk looks like she wants to retire early.

"Both of you. Secondary verification."

"See? VIP."

"No. This is what happens before security's called..."

Secondary verification is a tiny room with a metal desk and two plastic chairs.

On the wall, a poster reads...

HOW TO SPOT A FAKE ID

Graves notices immediately.

"Krissy."

"Do not."

Graves reads aloud.

"Bad photo. Wrong details. Poor imitation. Expired information. Missing security features."

A grin crawls across his face.

"It's Centurion."

"Unfortunately, that is also not entirely wrong."

"Bad photo?"

"Check!"

"Wrong details? Calling yourself the future while everything about you smells like yesterday."

"Poor imitation? Pennyfarthing turned the mighty Centurion into a matching pair."

Kris looks into the camera.

"That's the humiliation. Lane'l didn't just prove that nobody could tell which Centurion was real.

He proved it really didn't matter.

Your reputation used to open doors... Now it gets questioned.

And then there is Oleandyr Reitan."

"You got fight in you, Oleandyr. I ain’t blind. But fighting and tagging ain’t the same thing."

"A black belt does not teach you what to do when your partner is three steps late and Micheal Graves has you by the throat."

Graves leans against the desk.

"Oleandyr, I ain't gonna do the lazy thing. Your identity ain't my punchline. Your politics ain't my problem. None of that is why you're gonna lose."

"You are not the joke. You're the receipt."

"Proof that Centurion needed a new story to try and find footing in the modern age."

"A new partner. A new banner. A new reason to believe the future still has room for the past."

"Nellie saw a fighter.

Centurion saw a chance at renewed relevance.

Management saw a draw and called it a shortcut to a title match.

You didn't beat the Imposters. Didn't beat American Storm. Damn sure didn't beat us. You barely survived a Scooby-Doo ending with officials too dumb to pull the mask off the old man.

You couldn't put away Pennyfarthing playing dress-up and whatever bargain-bin version of me he dragged out to the ring.

So what makes you think you're taking these belts from Arroyo and the 'Real Deal Gravy-field'?"

"Great, another nickname..."

The clerk slides two forms across the desk.

"Both applications are unable to verify."

Kris looks down.

"Funny. That didn't stop Centurion from getting a title shot."

The clerk reaches for another form.

"I also need proof of partnership."

Graves blinks.

"Proof of what?"

"Partnership. Shared residence, business documentation, joint obligations."

"Shared residence? I would rather chew glass..."

"I got a receipt from the adult store!"

"Do not produce that."

"So you have no proof this partnership is legitimate?"

Graves and Kris stop.

"Of course we do."

"We've proven it time and again!"

Kris steps away from the desk.

"A team is not real just because Nellie explains it well."

"Or because Andy nods like he understands any of that new-age nonsense."

"A team becomes real the second something goes wrong and neither partner has to stop and wonder what the other is going to do about it."

"Andy wants to prove he still matters."

"Oleandyr wants to prove they belong in the ring."

"And they all want this to mean something more than a title shot none of them earned."

"Which means they have their work cut out for them.

They have to learn timing. They have to decide who leads. Centurion will want control. Oleandyr will want impact. Centurion will want to protect them. Oleandyr will want to prove they do not need protecting."

"He hesitates. They overreach. We hit the opening."

"And that, unfortunately for them, is where the bell may as well ring."

"And the best part? They gotta figure all that out while we're punching 'em in the thinking meat."

The clerk stares.

"Are you threatening someone in a government building?"

"Spiritually, yes!"

"Legally, no..."

"Leave. Now."

Graves grabs his title and marches to the photo station.

Kris follows.

"Micheal, what are you doing?"

"Making ID."

"That is illegal."

"Only if it sucks."

A security guard walks over.

"Sir, you cannot use that."

"I'm an employee."

"Of the DMV?"

"Of violence."

The guard looks at Graves.

Then Arroyo.

Then the belts.

"*sigh* Just don't break anything..."

"No promises!"

Flash.

Kris looks at Graves' photo.

"You look like a mugshot escaped from a dumpster and joined a gym."

"Perfect. Your turn."

Flash.

Naturally, Kris looks flawless.

"Bullshit!"

"Superior undead genetics."

Graves faces the camera.

"This is what you don't understand, Andy. You and Oleandyr are coming in trying to prove something."

"Trying to prove the team is real. Trying to prove that draw meant something. Trying to prove Oleandyr belongs here and that you still do too."

"We ain't here asking permission."

"We are not waiting for verification."

"We don't need Nellie or anyone else explaining us to the crowd."

"We do not need a cause to disguise ambition."

"We don't even need trust."

Kris looks at him.

"No, but I trust that when the bell rings, you will become a deeply unpleasant problem."

"And I trust you'll do that elegant vampire bullshit where you make people feel stupid while you hurt 'em."

"That might be the nicest thing you have ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it."

Kris faces the camera.

"That is why this works. When the match goes sideways, we become simpler."

"Meaner."

"Sharper."

"And harder to stop."

"Centurion and Oleandyr are complicated. That is where they lose."

"First time Oleandyr gets clipped, Andy makes a choice. Protect the rookie or protect the match."

"Oleandyr will feel Centurion watching. Feel Nellie needing this to mean something. Feel every eye on them asking for proof they belong in the title picture."

"And people trying to prove shit always leave something hanging for a bastard like me to grab!"

"When they rush, we split the ring."

"And make Andy watch the new kid learn ugly."

"That's the match. Their inexperience creates openings."

"And we fuckin' seize 'em!"

Kris raises his title.

"And unfortunately for them, we are very good with seizing openings."

"These titles? Real."

"Their momentum? Paper thin."

"Your title shot is built on confusion, and barely surviving The Imposters."

"Oleandyr, you might become something. But not by Bad Medicine, and NOT against us."

"We ain't here to train you."

"We are here to retain."

"Andy, when this goes bad, don't look surprised. Don't look at Nellie. Don't look at the ref. Don't look around for another you to pin the blame on."

"There will be no counterfeit to hide behind."

"No draw."

"No mystery."

"No Scooby-Doo bullshit."

Graves lifts the belt high.

"At Bad Medicine, the Midnight Stalkers walk in Anarchy Tag Team Champions."

Kris raises his beside him.

"And walk out exactly the same."

Graves leans into the lens.

"This time, Andy, when you're flat on your back staring up at the lights, don't worry.

We'll make sure everybody knows it's really you."

The clerk appears behind them with a stamp.

"Absolutely not. You are both—"

The clerk stops.

She looks at the photos. The belts. And the mean looking men holding them.

Somehow, against all common sense... she slams a stamp down onto both.

VERIFIED!

"See?"

"I hate that this worked."

"Real champions!"

"Now please leave."

But Graves is already looking the red stamp on her desk.

"Micheal..."

"Hmm?"

"Do not."

Too late.

Graves snatches the red stamp, grabs a flyer from the counter advertising Bad Medicine, and slaps it down over the faces of Centurion and Oleandyr.

DENIED!

The clerk gasps.

"Sir!"

Graves holds the flyer up to the camera.

"Centurion and Oleandyr."

He taps the red letters.

"Denied."

Kris smiles.

"Now that is acceptable."

Security starts yelling.

Graves tosses the stamp back without looking.

The clerk screams.

Graves and Arroyo walk out past the crackhead, who salutes them with one shoe on his hand.

The camera lingers on the number board.

DING.

**B-47**

From just outside.

"SON OF A BITCH!"

Cut to black.