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~~Sid Feder~~ · (03-10-2014)

The scene opens, but the fact that I need to tell you this already has me wondering about your observational skills, sir or madame.

Now, moving on -- We see one "Sid Feder;" or at least the man we've recently come to know as the XWF's very own Sid Feder.

The surroundings of this scene? You can trust they're as dark and undefined as your television screen is suggesting; there's not a whole lot more for me as the narrator to explain about this scene just yet, other than the fact that Sid Feder is sitting back in what appears to be an old, shaggy, dirty recliner -- is it an official Lazyboy brand chair? Most unlikely when we consider the poor workmanship and the fact that it looks like it should be in the trash. I'd go on about the condition of this beaten and tattered chair, but that would be just as pointless as discussing the future of Theo Pryce when all he does is look, think, and walk backwards every moment that he is breathing our air.

The room? Poorly lit; in fact it would seem as though the only source of illumination is the black and white television set that Sid Feder has his eyes locked on. An occasional bright flash from the screen as it plays whatever Sid's watching can give us a glimpse of some 'kill trophies' hung up on the wall -- there's what appears to be a bear's head oh the wall, and what's that? Is that a bull shark? With all the bull these people try and shove Sid's way in XWF, they better take note that not even a full fledged bull shark has been able to stop Sid; limp and all. Maybe bull isn't the best ammunition to use on Sid? Eh, no matter, they'll still do it.

Another few flickers of brighter light take our eyes further back to where we see the head of Sebastian Duke and Theo Pryce hanging on the wall.

Kidding.

Kidding.

We both know Sid hasn't gutted them alive yet so how would he already have their heads on his wall? Instead, there are two empty plaques in that spot that have names written at the bottoms and a mount for whatever Sid decides to hang on each plaque. One of them is colored pink, and the other is colored brown --

and shit are what comes to my mind; what about you guys watching at home? What's that? You're still thinking of Theo and Sebastian? -- Ouch. That's harsh, guys, but I do see your point.

In a surprising turn of events, it becomes clear that Sid here can actually hear me -- Watch those dumb fucks talk shit about you as if it were my own words, Sid exclaims from the comfort of his recliner, leaning back with his hands behind his head as he keeps watching whatever's on his television with the sound on mute. The logical assumption here is that he's watching footage of his upcoming opponents' 'promos' -- or possibly footage that airs of those same individuals but which they'd try to claim weren't actual promos; a weak retort but one you can already expect from common underachievers if you dare tell them how foolish it was on their part to allow said footage -- regardless of what they call it -- to air on XWF programming.

I'm not watching shit from my opponents, man. I assure you of that. Oh? Interesting; it would seem Sid here isn't watching anything on his opponents right now. I just said that, man, so can ya just please focus on what I'm doin' and stop sharing so dang much of yer own fuckin' opinions on shit? I'd hate to have to be a fuckin' like Sebastian Duke and resort to narrating my own pure shit because I had to murder my own narrator. -- Sid doesn't sound like he's messing around, but may I bring up a point of concern right now, Sid?

Sid adjusts himself in his chair, leaning harder into it and shifting his weight more to his right as he rests his arm on the arm rest of the chair -- an arm rest that falls right off of the chair as a result of the extra weight being added. Sid just lets the arm of his chair dangle off to the side, limp, just like it was Smoke's equivalent to his own manhood being relayed through his recent bullshit that he chose to air live for all to see-- Hey! I like Smoke, man! --but Sid, are you saying Smoke Man or are you saying the name Smoke and then calling me man? Man; his name's Smoke, ok? And he's a good kid; I got nothin' but respect for the guy even if he is stuck on the wrong team for now.

Interesting.

Sid has respect for one of his opponents. I wonder what that really translates to?

Doesn't matter what it translates to, but before we look as fuckin' as that talentless Weapon Ashen, how about you and I stop this god damn back and forth dialogue so I can get on with what I was doin' here? I'd hate for somebody to think I was as bland, boring and useless as the three assholes who we're supposed to believe are all crammed into Ashen's body. Definitely a fair request from Sid, but I still feel the need to point out the obvious--

What the fuck's the obvious? That Lucena already defeated that 3-in-1 , Judy Ashen, so next Lucena's going to move on to wipe the toilet seat -- yes, toilet seat; not floor -- with that talentless sack of shit known as Mrs. Radio?

Actually, Sid, no -- I was going to point out that you being able to physically hear your narrator even though I'm not in the room with you might be something your lower level opponents might try to focus on and somehow use against you.

And I give a flying shit why? Do you know how stupid they'd look if they question a verbal exchange between a real life human being and another real life human being in a setting such as this? -- Sid brings up an interesting question, certainly, and I'm not exactly sure how to respond as he continues anyway -- We're in a fuckin' "federation" if you can even call it that, in which these fucks go round-n-round claimin' to be outer-worldly beings from the future n' shit, right? We've got fuckin' third grade level talkers like Mr. Supernova who, if you have paid attention to long term, you'd realize is supposed to be a person who has not only gone through losing an arm but also I guess regrowing that arm like he's part fuckin' fish?

I don't get it, Sid. Are you saying fish can regrow their arms?

Dip shit; I'm saying a star fish sure can.

Starfish, sometimes called Sea Stars by who don't like the word fish, can do just that. These five-limbed fuckers have the ability to regenerate their arms and sometimes their whole bodies. Now, if Mr. Superstarfish is trying to tell us that he's part star fish, then yeah I could maybe buy some of the horse shit he's tried flinging into my eyes anytime I see footage of his, but damn, son, he ain't tryin' to claim to be no dang star fish. I bet if I accused him of being a star fish, he'd retort with some mindless babble about how I'm old and I must be gay. Or, he'd call me a star fish, because that's what a lotta these fucks on that team are basically doing anytime they get crushed in the public fuckin' view -- just throw the same goddamn insult back--

It's basic John Samuels 101, for those who would like to know.

Anyways, man, back to my fuckin' point about you and I having a discussion.

Right; go on. I'm listening.

Oh shit! You're listening? But you're the narrator. Isn't that contradictory somehow? Shouldn't I pretend I'm Theo Prince and put a picture of your title "narrator" on the screen while replaying that you said you're listening and act like I somehow proved something?

Is that really a thing? Would Theo Pryce do that? He would, responds Sid, which blows my narrating mind 3 x over.

Yeah, he would, but that's besides the point so I guess I digress.

Ok, Peter Gilmour.

No no! You're supposed to call me the 'president of Peter's fan club,' since that's what on Theo Prince's team call me every now and then -- ya know, since Peter constantly talks about me and worships me, just like he did the Sid Feders before my time. It must mean I am Peter's biggest fan, right? I'm not seeing how that adds up, but I can pretend it makes sense if you like, Sid. I work for you.

Eahhhh, fuck it.

Moving on--

Once again back to my point about you and I talking; I can't wait to see the fuckin' confuse your words with mine or even act like it makes no sense for me to be able to have a discussion with a human even though they all believe aliens and vampires exist, and actually go to such great lengths to play horse shit out on film that we are supposed to believe wasn't planned. We can even somehow literally see into the future in some of this footage, or even the past, right? I ain't talkin' some fuckin' old tapes or some kinda flash back footage -- no sir -- I'm talkin' about how we're led to believe we're watching reality each time Mrs. Radio and Mr. Starfish travel into the past to fuck their own mothers in the asshole and then become their own fathers.

But you just called Radio, Mrs. How would he become his own father? And how does fucking one's anus result in a child? Aren't you contradicting yourself now?

Fuck that -- call me the walking contradiction who is still walking all over these brain dead fucks if it makes ya happy. If I say I saw footage of Mrs. Radio impregnating her own mother so she could become her own father, then I damn sure saw it. Why is that any harder to believe than the other werewolf shit or the even bigger piles of lies we're supposed to believe, such as Sebastian Duke having the ability to wrestle in a ring? How is my example weirder or more fucked up in nature than any of that shit, man? How? Tell me right now!

Sid slams his fist down on the arm of the chair; the arm that hadn't yet fallen off and, well, it falls off too. Now Sid's sitting in a recliner with both of its arms dangling freely just like Theo Pryce's nuts finally got around to doing something around 2 days ago when he hit puberty.

He hasn't done that yet.

My fault, sir. I retract that statement and I am ashamed to have made such a foolish assumption about such a green, young, underdeveloped rookie who was handed a crown for free by his best friend.

Good. So anyway are you clear now on how fucking stupid it will be if any of these idiots try and pick apart a single thing I say or do?

Well I think so, Sid, but what happens when they start calling you repetitive because of how many ways you just illustrated basically the same overall point about how nobody can hold a candle to you when it comes to making points, talking, breathing, or being a man? I feel like we already spent too much time on this particular subject.

I agree, and I guess I just can't help myself there but if I fuck Scorpio's left eye out of his socket and then do it again to his right eye, who really got hurt by that repetition? Me or him?

Well? Don't go silent on me, narration man! I can't be left to narrate my own shit! Answer me!

At this point, Sid just starts laughing his ass off, almost falling out of his chair because of what a joke this entire concept of anyone on Theo's side being real competition to him truly is. Oops, there he goes, tumbling out of the side of the chair because the arms had fallen off earlier.

Sid claps his hands and jerks his dick a few times and both of the arms on his chair miraculously regenerate! Oh Em Gee! Wowzers, kiddies! Magics! Aliens! Space fish!

See that shit? I just proved I have just as much power as those like Mr. Starfish and John Samuels -- shit, wait, I think I'm mixing up their names; I don't think Samuels pretends to regenerate anything at all; I'm pretty sure he's happy being the half man that everyone knew him as a year ago. Shame on me for confusing him with somebody who would pretend to improve themselves in front of a camera. Instead he sits there going out of his way to do the exact opposite of that.

I know what you're thinkin' Mr. Narration Man -- "but didn't John Samuels win some big stupid match that you also were in, Sid? And didn't he defeat Mister Mystery a million years ago?" -- and honestly, maaan, all I can say about that is yes he did. Yes, he, did. John defeated a guy in the past who, for some silly reason, he assumes is a relative of mine aaand John won a big ol' match that I was sleeping through due to lack of caffiene, and you know where that all has gotten him?

--nowhere.

He's not even the one that got chosen to go for the fuckin' US Title! That prissy, pink obsessed nancy boy Theo Prince gave the fuckin' shot to Mrs. Radio of all people. Don't you think somebody like Samuels might have stood a better chance at winning round 1 than a bag of pussies like Radio's stale ass? Does Theo Prince not get the fuckin' point of round 1, for christ's sake? If I was on his team and he put Radio in first, I'd take Theo's own foot out of his mouth and promptly wedge that shit right up his pink, probably hairless asshole!

Careful, Sid, he's going to use that against you and ca-- I don't give a shit! I could sit here making fuckin' borderline ass comments for a month straight and he'd still have no chance in hell of stopping me in a wrestling ring.

That is what matters most, after all. All the ways these and cockblowers bury themselves via their own inane ramblings is only a foreshadowing of what's to come in the goddamn fuckin' match when these pricks get their limbs ripped off and various dicks shoved up their asses. I'm a straight man, man, and you know what, man? I just said man as many times as Theo Prince likes to tell people he's waiting because -- quite frankly my dear -- all he's been doing since birth is waiting. Waiting hand and foot on Sid Feder while waiting to be somebody -- note the proper usage of waiting twice, but with dual meaning. Bitch.

I, uh, I'm not sure that makes sense, Sid. Did you guys know each oth-- It doesn’t have to make fuckin' sense or be based on reality! This is XWF! If Theo gets to pretend to run a company and have people answering to him, then I get to act like I had sex with his mother and poked my dick in his face when he was a baby! Fuck it, I can even claim he bit off my dick and I regenerated it like a fish.

Star fish?

fish.

Alright then.

(silence)

Sid eventually just rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his own television set after sitting into his freshly "regenerated-arms" Super Chair. We still don't get much of a view of what's actually on his television set, but he has assured us that it's not footage relating to his opponents, and I'm inclined to believe the man.

Ya may as well just call this a wrap and release this shit on their asses so they can try and use it against me, which in turn will be them just burying themselves further into the pit that I'm going to fill with my own piss on Sunday. Just air this shit, man, and let me get back to my television. I'm reacquainting myself with someone who was at one time believed to be very close to me.

The camera turns a little and shows a flash of a psychotic looking man who probably has blonde hair, but it's hard to say for sure on that cheap black and white television. Oh my goodness -- is that, is that, the original Sid Feder on Sid Feder's screen? Unresponsive at this point and focused hard, Sid just keeps watching that television. Looks like more bait for Sid's empty headed opponents to try and use; this will open the flood gates to Sid supposedly planning to "reinvent himself" yet again or go out of his way to be overly shocking and surprising.

Too bad those same people who say those things don't realize every single action of any Sid Feder is automatically 300 x Better than their single greatest accomplishment in life.

Sid cracks a friendly smile and looks toward the camera one last time--

Ya know; I could introduce a toilet bowl filled with my own feces as being a new Sid Feder and -- guess what? -- that pile of shit would proceed to humble each and every Average John on the roster.

See ya soon, ya wastes of fuckin' space.

Oh, and the reason I ain't watching footage of you fucks right now?

You wanna know why?

Because I've already been there, done that. I'm gonna make you fucks wait for my direct retorts to all your bullshit, because I don't want you to shy away from continuing to premature ejaculate all over yourselves -- ahem -- Theo Prince and Sebastian Duke. Too bad it doesn't stop with just them; I'm going to cut through each and every one of you worthless assholes' piles of shit like there was gold hidden at the bottom.

Because guess what?

Under all that shit.

Under all that worthlessness you all thrive on. (except for Smoke; he's my boy)

Beyond all those brain dead analogies and ass backward attempts at logic you fucks spew.

There's gold, and it's waiting, for me.

World War X is just a stepping stone for me. It's not even a question of who wins or loses that night -- it's already been said, done and delivered by the one true force that lingers beyond the gates of what you may believe as reality, and I'm already looking past that night and makin' plans with the bookkeeper above. Eli has shown me the light; Amos has dictated the path; Sid Feder has already won.

It's already over for y'all bunch of losers who are barely qualified to be setting up my ring or shining my boots. May The Congregation and those who you have yet to see before you have no mercy on your souls as you're left behind to see this friendly ol' man soar like no man has done before him.

.

I said .

Dead air. Breathe it.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode 100% TRASH, right down your cockblowing throats -- RP1 of 9
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