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**12-15-2016, 03:16 PM**

RADICAL/IMAGINATION/XWF#014

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Seven different colored lawn lights illuminate the yard of XWF's own Thomas Nixon. The camera comes up to the door, cracked open. It fast forwards through the house into a room where a man servant in a onsie is laid out. Fast forward again, through a few other oddly themed rooms and finally arriving in a bedroom with leopard print... everywhere. The television is on with a DVR light blinking. The shot pans to see 'The Radical' sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed like Willy Wonka, eating hot cheetos then rubbing his cheeto covered hands on the sheets and smacking loudly.

Who the fuck has seven lawn light shades? It feels like a fucking chocolate factory. Is it, one for each yellow color down Thomas Nixon's back? First, a faint yellow for his inability to see what's coming. Second, another slighty orange yellow that reveals his ignorance to be more than lame. Third, pale yellow to represent the weakness of his name. Fourth, regular yellow like the stripe down his back when he remembers my name. Fifth, a darker shade for when he is feeling brave. Sixth, almost red to show how his sanity is insane. Last but not least, the darkest hue, to reveal how even when at his best the Television Champion will come up short... I gotta give it up Tom... this place has pure imagination.

Reno grabs the remote control and flicks on the DVR recording. It comes up to an XWF promotion of Thomas Nixon walking through a cemetery.

Wow, you DVR your own promo's... and I am the one who's egotistical? That's okay, because I sure FUCKING AM. I admit openly what I am... I wonder what I might find in your closet... hmmm? I mean I am here, I could go and just... check. Or maybe I already did... afterall, where do you think I got this costume? You've been hanging out with dead spirits all day only to then discuss how you don't believe in them... wait... is it Nixon... like the President? You know, with a legacy behind his name. Not one of triumph, but elimination of rights beyond the people's brains. Taking advantage, what a magical sight... like I will of you at Savage, whether it be day or night. Sickafantic super BITCHES. I know them when I see them. Acting beyond reproach to the smallest sliver, but ultimately weak in how they deliver. Scenes of granduer in undecided past teachings. Things to remember in Radical ways you can be left heaving. Yet a silver lining can be the difference... not for your success, for my speech when reporters ask how I dispathched you as less. Come on, Odd Thomas, give me some credit... the last time you had this much attention you were rated 50% on the "faggott" version of Redditt. Trivial pursuits, they aren't as easy as a locker with a name. Sometimes in life you sigh, because even you don't know how to play the game. And in all of this, we haven't even gotten to the best hitch, when all else fails, I will overwhelm, and you will still be a sad, pointless, underperforming... little... BITCH.

Gabe pauses it, then hits "DELETE" on the recording. He tosses his empty bag of cheetos under the bedsheet then walks toward the kitchen for a refreshment.

A walk among the tombstones to talk about God and what is... meanwhile Reno snuck into your house, found your picture, and took a wiz. You can talkedy talk, about what people are and the meaning of life. I prefer to walkedy walk my way over to your refrigerator and unplug that shit so all your food rots like the corpses, to which you're so impolite. But death is an awfully good analogy... I don't think it has ever been done before. Oh... wait... going into a match at a place called "Savage"... using dead bodies that don't exist... and talking about how Chris Chaos has "better things to do". I'VE GOT IT! WHO IS... THE LEAST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD!? Ha. Stay thirsty. BITCH.

Reno grabs a cold beverage, unplugs the fridge, then sits at the breakfast nook. Pulling out a pocket knife, he carves something into the wood.

So, do me a favor Tom... you seem to have quite an imagination. So imagine this. Years from now, you are a wild success. On top of the world as a wrestling prodigy. cast as the next superstar. It affords you luxuries once unimaginable. Mansion shopping in Brentwood. Perusing European sports car dealerships in Beverly Hills... you could have it all. Yet here you, Tom, are on a late December afternoon, idling in the mud outside a vacant cemetery in a misbegotten patch of God knows where. The sun from the south is kicking your ass in all that black garb, the temperatures into the 90's as you stroll down disturbing souls that haven't seen that much depression since their last trip to the undertaker. And for what... to prove you are "deadly"? Yet you yourself made it clear that what I search for is far deeper and unable to be whisked away.

Reno takes a sip, then turns and looks at a gallery wall full of pictures of Thomas in different poses for a photographer. The praying mantis. The ugly dog. The whistling willie. The

frog. The leaping lizard.

It really is a beautiful home here: the marble floors, the stained glass windows, two built-in waterfalls, one on both floors. It is the jewel of the neighborhood, half a dozen blocks from a Walmart... I bet you and the greeter "Thad" are on a first name basis. But... I wonder where it came from... all this... because you aren't a prodigy yet... like, did your grandparents pour their lives into it, and you dreamed that someday they'd leave it to you? Was it all you ever wanted? Then, sure enough, they did. They put all their blood, sweat, love and trust for decades in the hands of a family member who took out a loan against the house, even though it was paid for, to finance his dreams of making it big in professional wrestling. Did you learn the real estate business to try to buy it back, to save it, but you couldn't? So all that exists now is a few days where you make desperate last-stitched effort bland promotions in graveyards to try to get someone to finance you back the money, but deep down know in a few days it will be all over... you'll fail... again? You'll walk out one last time to ankle-high grass and a few stone steps that lead to nothing but your mistake.

He smirks, and walks out front.

Hey, even after the place is gone, you will have pictures handy as conversation starters... "Oh, it was really something." You'll stop here 10 minutes into what will become a three-hour tour of hell to work everyday from the ghetto. This home was your responsibility, and they trusted the wrong person, and look what happened. And though the pain is still there, always will be, you'll feed off it, reminding yourself how easily one mistake can destroy what it took a lifetime to build. How without eternal vigilance, the most precious things can be taken from your life and bulldozed. Enter Savage. Enter Gabe Reno. In the not so distant future, you'll come back and visit all the time. Sometimes you'll grab McDonald's or where ever lizards go and pull up here to eat. Sometimes you'll tell friends to meet you... so you can pretend it is still yours, and that you didn't let your sweet dedicated grandparents down. Sometimes you'll drive by, just because, you're snaking through town on your way to another failing promo for another failed match, it will be a lesson that shapes you. And I will teach it... but hey, after all that, prodigy... maybe? If you imagine it really hard... maybe... some day. I guess the real tombstone you are trying to avoid is... your own.

Reno turns and chuckles, walking away with a shit-eating grin on his face, singing something.

Commmeee with meeee... and you'll be... a BITCH with pure imaginationnnnn. Ah... you know what... maybe I'm the one with the imagination...

The camera cuts back to the carving in the breakfast nook... "PATROL THIS".

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END.

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