Previously on "North Korean War Criminal”...

Week of March 20th, 2015

Quote:“…This morning. I wake up.”

“I walk over to the bathroom.”

“Run some water to wash my face.”

Quote:NKWC then swiftly kicks each man on top of the head…

A cadet tosses a flamethrower to NKWC! NKWC points it high towards the corner that has the Stars and Stripes hanging from it.

Quote:“… I take a long hard look into the eyes of a conned man… And he gets angrier. And I get angrier looking at him getting angry.”

“But we’re the same man, I reason… Even as I get more and more furious, I’m wondering… Why is staring at my pissed-off reflection… pissing me off? Why is me getting angry… getting me angry?”

Quote:The fans start to boo what is happening in the ring as NKWC ignites his flamethrower, spilling burning fuel onto a few of the cadets’ shoes.

BOOOOOOOOOOO!

With the pull of the bail on the nozzle of his flamethrower, North Korean War Criminal scorches the American Flag, leaving Old Glory to scatter in cinders in whatever direction the arena's ventilation systems will carry it.

Quote:“Saturday? I’m not North Korean War Criminal.”

“I’m all of North Korea. I’m a representative of my people. I’m representing the Greatest Country on the Planet Earth, comprised of the greatest, hardest-working people that walk among us today.”

Quote:But wait, someone in a KKK outfit comes up behind NKWC and attacks him with kicks and punches, knocking the flame thrower to the ground! This man is beating the shit out of NKWC!

Quote:“Their anger fuels my anger. Their rage focuses my attack. Their mistreatment at the hands of the good ol’ US of A?”

“Is the source by which I derive my will to fight.”

Quote:The hooded figure then takes his hood off, it's Thomas White!

"GLORY TO DIXIELAND MOTHERFUCKER!"

Thomas White then puts the noose around NKWC's neck! He then picks up the Korean, gives him the bird, and throws him over the top rope with the noose still tight around his neck! NKWC begins choking and tries to fight out of the ropes, but to no avail. His face turns a deep purple, and his motions begin to slow. Finally, NKWC stops moving, with Thomas Green letting go of the noose and letting his limp body flop to the floor like a sack of shit.

The crowd goes silent, in shock.

And now, the continuing story of "North Korean War Criminal..."

***

Quote:When it comes crashing down and it hurts insiiiiiiiide...

An empty conference room. Lights left dim to save electricity. A thin but visible layer of dust around the chairs, around the conference table, around the projector, around the XWF logo engraved into the wall.

A door is nudged open with a foot in a low heel red pump. A frizzy-haired intern carefully sidesteps her way into the conference room, her arms full of conference call voice system phones. It’s unclear to her why she bothers to dress up for work anymore, considering she’s the only presence physically in the office and it’s been that way since March.

Of 2020.

She gingerly sets down the first phone cradle and mechanically plugs each wire into the ethernet. She’s done this so many times, it’s muscle memory. Fascinating how after enough time passes, the bizarre and the horrifying become mundane.

She grabs the last Polycom VoiceStation. The pinnacle of office technology… in 1991.

Once state of the art, then hilariously outdated, and now, in this global climate, a necessity for this publicly-owned, Fortune 500 wrestling company.

The intern spends a few minutes, plugging in each device, then punching a nine-digit code into each phone, then finally, plugging a large audio cord into the room’s speaker set.

”Okay, we’re hooked up. Can everyone hear me?”

“Yes, I can. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear everybody.”

“Great. This is... perfect. Thank you, Thérèse.”

”No prob.”

A beat of silence.

”You know, Zoom is a lot more in fashion nowadays, I could try and set up a corporate account.”

A pause.

”Y’know. Might be more convenient than everyone dialing in a long code. It might… uh...”

She stops speaking. One of the callers has begun heavy breathing at even the thought of a Zoom call.

“Thérèse, a number of our stakeholders prefer a level of... anonymity. If… ownership were aware we were meeting without them to… exercise influence…”

“Something as simple as an IP Address recorded onto a company server presents an amount of… RISK. That would be … untenable to the company.”

This voice speaks with a high degree of care, pausing as if a perfectly chosen word would be the difference between life and death.

”...Yes, of course, I understand.

Thérèse bites her lip, wondering if she should apologize for over-stepping.

“I- uh… I’m s-”

“Thank you, Thérèse, for the… benign suggestion. But, this will do fine. Take notes, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

Thérèse pops open her laptop.

“Okay. Let’s talk… Diversity.”

“Do we have to?”

…

“Um, I just mean… Is Diversity THAT important?”

SIlence.

“I just… I feel like we’re ALL thinking that… right?”

The energy is sucked out of the room. If phones could give an evil eye, everyone would give one to… the phone that made that comment.

“...I just mean, do we NEED to…? I just… Uh… I’m not racist. Some of my best friends are… uh… diverse. I just th-”

“Thérèse, could you pull up that… presentation you e-mailed me last week?”

Thérèse looks up from her notes, surprised. Then, deeply perplexed.

“Project it? Here?”

“Yes, Thérèse.”

“To... the phones in the room?”

“Thérèse, we have… eyes in the room. We’ll follow along.”

Thérèse’s eyes briefly dart. She’s pretty sure she’s spent the last hour as the only person in this building. She scans the ceiling. Cameras, maybe? None she can see…

“The presentation, Thérèse.”

Thérèse immediately flips open Powerpoint. The projector hums to life as the words “Emerging New Markets!” skitter across the screen.

“So…” Thérèse clicks through several articles announcing XWF talent that has come and gone.

We see past newspaper articles about former talent with headlines like “Escaped Mental Patient Latest XWF Signee” and “Robot From The Future Going To Wrestle?!?” and “Peter Gilmour Contract Extensions… Why!?!”

“As You Can See, Our Hiring Practices in the last ten years have been both, erratic and eclectic.”

Click. New Slide.

“On-the-run serial murderers.”

Click. New Slide.

“A Satanist Zombie We Summoned Via Hell Portal.”

Click Slide. Click Slide. Click Slide.

“More than one cult leader.”

Click. New Slide.

“...A Nazi.”

“His whole deal is… he’s a nazi. This is a guy we hired in 2013... and kept for… Like, a WHILE. Him and a guy who called himself “The GRAND WIZARD”...”

Thérèse briefly lets the timbre and volume of her voice betray a modicum of hostility. A wisp of hair covers her face before she nudges it back into the wild collection of frizz atop her head.

She takes a deep breath.

“Can anyone point out a hiring pattern here?”

A pause.

“They all… had Garamond font on their resumes?”

“Overwhelmingly, hiring them ended up costing the company millions of dollars.”

Click. New slide, which shows a series of expense reports including items like “Court Fees”, “Hush Money to Foreign Governments”, “Resurrection Liens”, “Hush Money to God(s)”.

One of the items on expense report #3 just says “Samples of Hitler’s DNA (purchased monthly)”.

“Workplace injury lawsuits, hostile work environment complaints, social media boycott campaigns. Half our revenue ends up going to the ACLU in Discrimination Settlements. All of the hiring decisions we’ve made from 2012 to 2020 are biting us in our ass. And our ass is made of money. We’re hemorrhaging money out of our financial ass.”

“This is ridiculous! We have record ticket sales! The product has never been better! How can we be losing money?”

“....Hold on, I didn’t think we’d cover Economics 101, but okay.”

Click. New slide with a graph. There’s a large blue arrow pointing diagonally upwards… But a much stronger arrow pointing downwards.

“So, our revenue is at an all-time high. Our costs are also at an all-time high.”

“But that’s the cost of hiring the best wrestling talent. Hell, we’ve committed blood sacrifices and offered virgins for some of these freaks. Like… we can’t get our souls back from where we sold them… Can we?”

“Yeah, um, can we get a status on that? It’s not a HUGE deal, it’s just that I no longer feel warmth in my heart when my son smiles.”

“...I’ll ask the… accounting department about its returns policy after this meeting. Thérèse, continue.”

“Yes, the talent is great, but this is a new age of consumer tastes. What draws maximum profits in 2021. It’s…”

Slide. Click. A single word.

“Diversity.”

Thérèse mimes rainbow hands as she says ‘the special word’. She hopes this will both emphasize the importance of this word and make it clear, she feels like she’s talking to a group of children.

Slide. Click. Countries highlighted in shades of red. The United States is bloody crimson. The further we look east, the map lightens and by the time we hit Asia, the countries are white as snow.

“We have a tight grip on the American wrestling market. But, we are losing money. Other companies are developing an international brand.”

“I mean, what else can we do? We’re doing a show on the moon! There’s nothing more international.”

“Right. On that subject: We’re the biggest wrestling company on the globe. And… I’ve mentioned this, but it’s INSANE we’re doing a show on the moon.”

“I know right!?!”

“No, like… BAD insane.”

“It’s never been done before! To the mooooooon!”

“I understand that. But, we’re spending almost 100 times the company’s value getting wrestlers and fans travel accommodations to the moon.”

“TO THE MOOOOOOOOOOOOON!”

“We built an arena. ON THE MOON. No one’s ever done on a sporting event on the moon, we had to build an entire infrastructure to accommodate hosting an event there.”

“THE STOCK PRICE WILL GO TO THE MOOOOOOOOOOON!”

“We’re spending more money than we have to do this show! The entire American economy is dependent on this show’s success. If we don’t sell it out, we will create a Global Depression!”

“Which is why we’ll make it all back after we do the show! We’ve already converted most of the company’s assets to Dogecoin and Gamestop Stocks! A PPV on the moon? We’ll all be filthy rich with DOOOOOOOOGE!”

The phones begin screaming in unison, a complete frenzy.

“$GME TO THE MOOOOON”

“$XWF TO THE MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!”

“TO THE MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON”

“I just don’t thin-”

“DOGE TO THE MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON”

“BRING ELON MUSK TO THE MOOOOOOOOOOOON”

“ELON MUSK FOR 24/7 CHAMPION OF THE MOOOOOOON!”

“Wait, Are days 24 hours on the moon?... What flies around the moon to determine how long days are?”

“PUT THE BELT ON THE MOOOOOOON! THE BELT WILL FLY AROUND THE MOOOOOON!”

“AROUND THE MOON ON THE MOOOOOOOOOOON!”

“PUT DOGE ON THE MOOOOOON!”

“PUT THE BELT ON DOOOOOOOGE AND THEN PUT DOGE ON THE MOOOOOOOOON!”

“Gentlemen.”

The chanting dies immediately.

“Thérèse, wrap things up.”

Thérèse sighs. Click.

“Now, as I’m sure we’re all aware, it’s AAPI month.”

“The elderly get a whole month now?”

“You idiot, that’s AARP. She means the American Academy of Paraguayan Impregnators. They created the Octo-Mom, the XWF’s most disappointing experiment...”

“YOU FOOL! She’s talking about Atlantic & Antarctic Private Investigators. And it’s about damn time they got a month. If it weren’t for them, Obama’s penguin army would have taken the country by now. God bless Global Warming for keeping this country free.”

“Gentlemen.”

Silence.

“Thérèse, pretend everyone on the call isn’t up on the… latest trends.”

Thérèse sighs.

“It’s Asian American and Pacific Islanders Heritage month... and it’d be a slam dunk to have an Asian performer on the show. We haven’t had a dedicated Asian following of notable size since... 2016.”

“How is that possible? We did an entire show in Pyongyang!”

“You mean the same show where we blew up the first Asian-born GM with a tank?”

“The same guy that ended up getting LYNCHED ON OUR NATIONAL PROGRAM! Do you know how much money we had to wire the FCC so they wouldn’t RAID THE BUILDING?!?”

“THEY DIDN’T EVEN HAVE A CODE FOR AIRING AN UNEDITED HATE CRIME! THEY HAD TO ADD THAT IN! THE NEW LAW SAYING YOU CAN’T AIR AN UNEDITED HATE CRIME IS NAMED ‘THE XWF LAW’.”

Silence. Some of the phones click their tongues or smack their lips trying to think up a comeback.

“...That lynching...was in self-defense?”

…

“Stand your ground?”

“Thérèse, disconnect phone #4.”

“With pleasure.”

“WAIT! I’L-”

Click, dead dial tone.

“...What option would you suggest given the ...current climate?”

Finally, some headway.

“An easy idea is we bring back some former AAPI XWF talent for a one-night contract. Surprise talent returning makes the Twittersphere go nuts. And an Asian wrestling for XWF might stop people from reposting that… hanging video with the hashtag #StopAsianHate.”

“Great, sign one.”

“...Um, so about that. We don’t have… a ton of former XWF Asian talent. Hence why the hashtag #XWFSoWhite has been going viral.”

”Hey! We signed John Black to a lifetime contract! What else do they want from us?”

“Plus, how could they even know Grand Wizard was white? He was wearing a hood!”

…

“...It’s racist of them to assume!”

“Disconnect phone #12.”

“I don’t even SEE col-”

Click.

“We have some ex-wrestlers that fit your… criteria. Sign any of them.”

Thérèse drops her clicker and reaches into her briefcase. She has a series of file folders. She drops the first one on the table.

“...So, Neonero is currently… missing. He might be ‘trapped in an ouroboros of his own machination. Or something he’d say like that.”

A much thinner folder drops like a leaf.

“Hisoka Itazur-”

“Who?”

“Hisoka Itaz-”

“God Bless You!”

“Hisoka Itazura. The first Heavymetalweight Champion.”

“None of the words you’re saying mean anything to me.”

Another folder drops on the table.

”Michael James is actually int-”

“NEXT!”

“Hard pass!”

His folder flops onto the floor as if gravity itself rejects the idea.

The last file slams like a heap of bricks, shifting the table. The biggest file.

“Well, unless Tomoko Hanahara starts answering our calls again… those are the ones worth mentioning. The only other Asian competitor of note was LYNCHED on live television. He died in the ring.”

…

Silence. An awkward cough. It’s so quiet, you can hear awkward neck scratching over the phone.

“... Right?”

...

“...Part of a non-disclosure agreement set up by our legal tea-”

“HE’S STILL ALIVE?!?!”

***

Cut to furious protestors. Blue-collar, angry wrestling fans. Security is being forced back against a metal guardrail, but for now, they hold.

They stand out in the pouring rain, the wind howling,

They scream to make their voices heard over the storm: “GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!” and “LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT!” and “FUCK DENNIS RODMAN!”

The guardrail protects a thin, makeshift alley. At one end of the alley is a tour bus. The bus has a logo on its side that reads “TKW”.

On the other end of the barely-secure alley is a tented bubble dome. On the outside reads a sign, “TRUE KOREAN WRESTLING! Featuring the TKW World Champion: North Korean War Criminal”

Then in very small font, “Seen on inferior XWF programming”.

Draped across the entry, in bold red lettering: “ADMISSION FREE FOR PEOPLE, $20 FOR AMERICANS”.

That moment, the bus door swings open. The mob screams even louder in protest. Arms reach, clawing and scratching.

A tall Korean man in a security jacket, steps onto the bus’s entry stair, then swings his arm in a circle like a skydiving instructor.

A squad of gaunt, emaciated jobbers, dressed in tights, TIGHTS! that somehow hang off their waists, sprints off the bus, screaming in terror as they bumrush through the hostile crowd towards the “arena”.

“GO! GO! GO! TUCK YOUR ARMS IN! KEEP YOUR HEAD LOW! PROTECT YOUR LIMBS!”

One 6 foot, ten-inch black man, dressed in blue tights and a luchador mask, gets grabbed by his face by two hands. Those hands yank the luchador back against the rail, where more hands wrap around his throat and tug him completely into the crowd of angry protestors. They latch their nails into his rainbow-dyed hair.

A finger loops around his nose ring, trying to tear it out. The thunder rolls as security wraps around this mugging...

In the wavering flap of the tent, a figure leans near the metal railing. From his sleeve, he wields a device...

He flips a switch. The device buzzes and crackles to life! A taser!

The security attempt to free the captured wrestler with batons, but for every hand, they beat away, three more coil around the luchador.

“El Wormo” begins to hyper-ventilate. He tries to brace his feet against the ground, but the rain has made the asphalt slick. He feels his heels leave the ground… Then his toes...

The crowd lifts the massive luchador off his feet and yanks him into the writhing angry mob, pummelling him on the back and face.

The figure plunges the taser into the metal guardrail!

BZZZZZZZZZZZZT! An explosion of electricity as the charge runs through the metal.

Hands recoil and shake violently as the metal screams, electrified. The crowd recedes. The luchador himself sputters and spasms, falling forward away from the electrified human mass.

“El Wormo” is speared through and forced forward. The tall Korean, the man they call Kato, rushes him into the tent.

As they scurry to safety, they pass the figure, lit from behind.

“Come, Comrade Dennis Rodman.”

The luchador glances up…

And sees True Korean Wrestling’s owner, smiling down on him.

His face illuminated by a flash of lightning.

North Korean War Criminal.

“The show must go on.”