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~~Brandon Moore~~ · (01-06-2017)

The sky is black, but the world is glowing from reflection of light off of the white fluff. It's night and snow is falling. Temperatures are subzero and the wind is not helping in anyway. XWF's resident metalhead and Federweight Champion, Brandon Moore, is braving the cold. He's bundled up in plenty of layers. That still doesn't negate him being a lunatic for being out in this weather, though. His new favorite device is with him and in hand. The video camera is turned on. All he needs to do is hit the record button. He fumbles with the camera for a second because his huge gloves don't make it easy to operate. Nonetheless, the record button has been pressed, the camera is pointed to Brandon Moore's face, and he is ready to roll. Brandon pulls down the part of his coat that was zipped over his mouth so he can be heard as snow clings to every inch of his apparel and his now exposed face. His breath is easily seen escaping with each exhale and word he speaks.

-Brandon Moore-
“About a week after my father was taken to jail, they started to close up my home. I didn't own the place. I wasn't going to make payments on it at age sixteen. They said they'd give me assistance, but I told them to fuck right off. I ended up sneaking back in to the school and sleeping in the gymnasium office for a few nights. That was until I saw a flier one of those days taped to a pole outside of a Walgreen's I was about to steal some beef jerky from. It read 'Omaha Wrestling Assocation: Help Wanted.' I ripped the flier off the pole and ran inside Walgreen's. I had somebody print me out directions to their office building. It ended up actually just being the owner's house and the office building was a room connected to his garage. I've always fucking loved professional wrestling and this job, maybe, just maybe, could turn my attitude around.

It was almost ten o'clock at night when I got to the house of the OWA owner and full time roster member, 'Gorgeous' Alex Gretzky. What a fucking name, huh? I pounded on his fucking door and when he finally opened the damn thing, I shoved the flier in his face. He laughed and invited me. He started asking me all sorts of questions about myself. So, I told him. I told him everything. I also told him I didn't need his fucking pity. His exact words were, 'Too bad, you're getting it, kid.' The guy had a fucking spare room just for his dog that he let me stay in, on the condition that I let the dog come and go as she pleased. Anyways, the OWA was growing and they needed people to clean up when their shows would end, people to serve concessions, and people to serve the wrestlers' needs. I told him no way to that last part. It sounded like jerk off central. I was down to hand out popcorn and chips and shit, though. So, I did.

I stayed in this guy's house and I worked for his wrestling company. I'd stop in after school to workout with some of the talent. I'd catch some training sessions with a handful of them, too. My foot was in the fucking door and I was on the path to becoming the hardcore motherfucker you're seeing today. A few years went by and I was basically Alex's protege. I finally had a fucking purpose in life. I trained like a maniac day after day after day and it looked like it was finally going to pay off. I was out of high school by this time and Gretzky came up to me and told me I was going to have my first match. Fucking finally! At the next month's show, I was set to debut against a guy named Devin Thomas. He just lost the OWA Championship after holding it for like two years and Alex wants to put me against him? I was nervous as all fuck! But I wasn't going to back down. Those days would teach me a lot about the business and a lot about respect.”

Brandon turns around to look at what's behind him. The snow is still heavily falling, but lighting makes it easy to figure out what he's pointing the camera towards now. There is a giant “G” at the top of the building he is standing in front of. Underneath that reads the iconic words “Lambeau Field.” He pans across the front of the sports stadium for a few moments, making sure he gets all of its glory. Brandon then turns the camera back to his frosted face, poking out from the overlaying hoods of his jacket and coat.

-Brandon Moore-
“Respect. You see, I'm a baseball guy, but just like any other American, I fucking love me some football. I'm not a fucking Packers fan one bit, but they are a franchise you have to respect. They are a fucking dynasty. The number one most important thing I've learned about the wrestling business? Every single fucking person is a snake, but there are some you just have to respect. Thomas Nixon and Cain, I can't fucking stand either of you, but I respect you. And I'm going to make you respect me. Cain, I respect that you're big as fuck and can hurt people. I kind of even like that shit, but if you think for one second that I won't break your fucking jaw just because I 'respect' you, you're wrong. This match has nothing to do with you. This is between Nixon and I. You wormed your way in somehow, so there's nothing we can do about it. Except drop you like a fucking fly.

Now, Tommy Nixon, my man. I respect the fuck out of you, too. If there was a roof over Times Square last Saturday, we would have blown it clean the fuck off. You're the Television Champion...er, were. You were the Television Champion until Vincent Lane shoved his whole fist up your ass and suspended the title. What gives with that? That's one thing I can agree on with you. I want to beat you, as champion, for the title. I know I will, so fighting for a title with no champion just mucks up the whole goddamn experience. Oh well, I guess. Nixon, I don't know jack shit about your lizard rebellion or whatever the fuck it is. I know that you can go in the ring, though. I won't underestimate you. I promise you that. And whether it comes down to you and me or me and Cain, I'm walking out of Savage Saturday Night the XWF Television Champion.”

Brandon pauses and turns his camera to face in front of him. He starts to walk forward as snow hits the lens. Brandon circles around from the parking lot he was standing in to the front of the Lambeau Field Atrium. Located there are two statues. They are of Curly Lambeau and Vince Lombardi. Brandon stops between the two statues and surveys them with his handheld camera for a moment, before shoving his frozen mug back into the camera's view.

-Brandon Moore-
“Look at those fucking guys, will you? The Packers basically are the history of the entire National Football League. Curly Lambeau has this massive fucking field named after him. Then you've got Vince Lombardi. The trophy that every team fights for is named after the guy. Football's greatest fucking prize, winning the Super Bowl, grants you the 'Vince Lombardi' trophy for fuck's sake. They've had Bart Starr who, under Lombardi's coaching, was a fucking stud. The guy lead his team to win the first two Super Bowls of all time! That's fucking something! Moving on to more recent times, look at Brett Favre. The guy showed off his dick, managed to win three league MVP awards, a Super Bowl, and get into the Hall of Fame. Even more recently, the Packers have Aaron fucking Rodgers. The heir to Favre, this motherfucker is still going. He's got a Super Bowl, a Super Bowl MVP, and two League MVP awards! The dude has the best career passer rating of all time! You don't have to like the Packers, but you've got to respect their fucking legacy!

That's what I'm out to do. I'm going to make the entire fucking world respect my legacy. I'm going to create a dynasty with Havoc. We are going to be known as a force to be reckoned with for fucking centuries to come! The Packers have made people respect them. Brandon fucking Moore is going to make people respect him! Whether it's Cain or Thomas Nixon or somebody else down the line. Whoever it is, they'll know they are getting into a fucking war when they see I'm the guy on the other side of the ring waiting for that bell. Savage Saturday Night isn't the be all end all for me, boys. For you two, though, it's going to spell disaster. When I leave with the Television Championship, Thomas Nixon and Cain will be left in the center of the ring, wondering what went wrong. They'll be wondering why things didn't go their way. Why didn't they win? Why couldn't they put it away once and for all? The reason for that is simple, ladies and gentleman. It's because they didn't have the fucking will to get the job done! They just couldn't match up!

Taking that Television Championship is only the beginning. Ronnie Cage and David Stone are coming after those Tag Team Titles. When all of this unfolds, Havoc will reign fucking supreme and there isn't shit that anybody can do about it. From Doc and Soldier to Nixon and Cain, Havoc is going to be wreaked on fucking everybody! Come Saturday, I won't be doing a Lambeau Leap up into the stands after scoring a touchdown for the greasy fans to lay their hands on me. No, I'll be doing my own leaping, from the top rope onto Cain and Nixon's punk asses. I'll give them plenty of reasons to respect me. I'll give them plenty of reasons to show why what I say is not just fucking words. It's a way of life. When I say I'm just plain better, I don't think it. I mean it. I fucking know it. Step up or step aside, chumps, because I'm just plain fucking better than you. Deal with it.”

Brandon turns the camera up one more time towards the sign that reads “Lambeau Field Atrium” with the tops of the Lombardi and Lambeau statues visible. Massive snowflakes are still falling from the sky, giving a nice visual effect to the ending of his solely produced segment. He uses his thumb within his giant glove to press the record button yet again, this time stopping the filming process. Brandon folds the video screen of his camera back into place and is able to fit the handheld device into the large pocket of his black winter coat. Brandon heads off in the direction of highway. He pulls out his cellphone, hoping and praying that there is an Uber driver available to take him back to his hotel room in this mess of a snowstorm.

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