Nighttime.

Spooky.

My eyes dart all around the series of unfolding scenes around me. It's like a montage of increasingly poor life decisions; loving parents with their ungrateful children rocking around like spastic apes in plastic backed booths, some disheveled thirty something with droopy, bag filled eyes propping his head up with the palm of his hand placed on his cheek, and don't even get me started on the rest of the staff. Such is the life when you work the night shift at McDonald's, I guess. I lay my hands down the counter and wait for the next sad story of a human being to pass through the doors and hope to drown their sorrows in a Big Mac. Cure for all life's problems; because it'll clog your arteries and leave you dead of a heart attack sooner or later. You'll never have to face them again.

It's times like this when I wish I'd get a call from the Organizer. Sure, I wasn't too eager to head back out into the field either, but it had to beat the complete and utter monotony that was ticking away my life and sanity minute by eternal minute. Anything could. My fingers drum along the top of the counter, as I start to wonder why a family of four would be stopping at a McDonald's for a sit down meal at 2 o'clock in the morning. Dead Eyes at least had an excuse; there's no way that guy's life wasn't falling apart, but the family? Weird shit there. Of course I wasn't going to say anything. Last thing I need is for them to get offended and for me to lose my job. As shit as it is, it pays. Minimum wage sure, but money's money and I don't have to worry about getting capped in some alleyway. Okay, maybe that wasn't all true but there was less likelihood of that happening than with my other part time profession.

My eyes wander back behind the counter, as watching the family would no doubt get me labeled as a child molester and Dead Eyes was about as much fun to watch as a porno with the lens cap on. Not saying my coworkers were much fun either, most of them were somehow worse off than me, and in the case of Philippe the fry cook, this was his third job of the night. Again, a montage of increasingly poor life choices. It's a shame really, Philippe's a pretty cool guy, if a little bit of a prick. Can't blame him though, I'd be pissy too if I had a wife that hated me and three little shits to look after. My foray into spying on my colleagues gets interrupted by the chiming bell attached to the door. I whirl my head around to the see a well built man with a long beard and long scraggly hair step inside. He looks like he just stepped out of a western film or something, like a Clint Eastwood fan convention or something. I start to laugh but cover my hand in the crook of my mouth as he makes his way over to the counter.

"Yeah, can I get a Number One?" he asks, and his voice comes out hoarse and croaking, like he'd been yelling a lot lately.

"Yeah," I say, as I punch in a series of buttons on the register and hand the order off to Philippe and Company.

"So, what's it like to work here, Guzman?"

"Who?"

I look down at my nametag, wondering if I had grabbed someone else's by mistake at some point in time. Could've been any of the illegal spics who show up for a week or two before running off further upstate to avoid immigration. Nope. Not Guzman. Where the hell did he get that name from? He smiles at me, reaching his hand over the counter and pinning my hands against it.

"Don't be so coy, Omar. Sending somebody else to look into me? Like I wouldn't notice?"

He presses my hands further into the counter, tightening his grip on my wrists with each attempt I make at pulling away from him. The mother of the family takes an interest in this unfolding scene as I try my hardest to keep on a professional face. Whoever this guy was, and whoever Omar Guzman was, something tells me that there's some bad blood between the two. Then why would he think I'm Omar? This shit doesn't make sense.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You lie."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are. Thou shalt not lie, Omar. Any good Christian should know that."

He releases my hands and I pull them back behind my side of the counter.

"Medium drink, please," he says with a smile. I shake my head to snap myself out of the daze I found myself in while he was holding me in place before stumbling over to where we left the cups and grabbing a medium sized one and sliding it down the counter to him. He snatches it up immediately and walks over to the drink machines. I don't waste any time in hopping over the counter and sprinting out the door with reckless abandon. I peek back over my shoulder as I take my first steps onto the cement to see if he was following me, only to catch a glimpse of him, still at the machines. A smile on his face as he turns his attention back to making a decision on which soda to get. I hear one of the little kids in the booth ask what was wrong with me, and neither parent was too willing to give an answer.

Once I learn that he's not following me, I slow down to a walk. No need to get anyone else anymore suspicious. I hate this. Walking out of my place of work into the dark, black night with at least one psycho on my trail. It makes everything so, real. Each step I take towards my car brings me further and further into the darkness of the night, and further from the illuminated oasis that is McDonald's.

Each step brings me one step closer to an exit.

That is, until I get cracked over the back of the head with what feels like a shovel and crumple to the ground instantly. My vision's blurred as a result of the impact, through I can vaguely make out four feet; two on either side of me as two sets of strong, cracked hands pull my up to my knees.

"You didn't mess his face up did ya?" one of the two asks the other, who simply chuckles in response.

"Aside from some gravel stuck to his cheek? Nah."

"Good. Let's get him back to the van. The Harbinger'll be happy to see this."

"The Harbinwhat?" I say without thinking.

"Shit, he's still awake. Shove the rag in his mouth!"

Just like that, one of the hands holding me up leaves its place on my shoulder and returns with a rag that it forces into my mouth. I open my mouth to help them, no use in fighting now. Not when I'm outnumbered at least three to one.

Whoever this Omar Guzman prick was, if I see him in Hell, I'm gonna kick his ass.

---

It's that time again. Tape recorder time. Sorry folks, for all the help my fuckin' camera woman's been givin' me, she didn't once think to bring along her camera to do any actual work so it looks like I'm stuck here just talkin' for however long I see fit to address my match this week. And what a match it is. Another week of subpar competition being placed in front of me. For fuck's sake, I feel like a goddamn gourmet chef being tasked with making a five star meal outta store brand, frozen vegetables. I can make it work because I'm awesome, but that doesn't mean I should be required to every time I set foot in an XWF ring. Eh, it ain't all bad. I get to face off with Loverboy Vinnie Lane again. Yeah, the guy who won our last match. Not by pinning me of course, and it seems like a feat the Madness monkeys aren't too confident about happening in this repeat either. Why else would they saddle in some fucking dead weight like David Shadows otherwise. No, they know what's going to happen this week. I'm gonna come in with some more fire after losing last week and they don't want to burden Loverboy with the full wrath of the asskicking I have planned this week. He is one of their champions after all, you wouldn't know that from looking at him since he gets his belts stolen more often than Peter Gilmour loses his dignity but still. In name he's a champion and that means they gotta protect him. So they stick in David Shadows to be the fall guy. It's a brilliant idea because you know what? I think I'm gonna focus all my time on David Shadows. No, seriously.

I'll beat the fucking piss out of him until his urine stains the canvas then I'll pin him after dropping you on your head a few times. Then after I win, I'll run around saying I beat you even though that's not what happened in the slightest. AKA what Loverboy's been doing since even he knows that no matter how much he tries to hype up pinning LH Harrison, no one's buying that as a credible accomplishment. So instead he's saying he beat me. Right. Totally. You won a match I was in. You did not beat me, Loverboy. Though you're also the kinda guy who argues with Pest. A whole fucking lot. Actually making sense is a concept foreign to you. I get it. But I gotta say, you're almost acting like me. Not as much as Gator but then again, Gator's obsessed with me and basically tried to recreate everything about me so I don't think anyone's as obsessed as that asshole. But no really, you're doing shit I woulda done. Beat the weakest link of the match while the biggest threat was busy practically murdering the other one, then run your mouth like you actually accomplished something more than grinding an ants innards against the pavement with the sole of your shoe.

But then, I'm a massive fucking hypocrite with no mental filter. Hell, I already contradicted myself because when I came back, I called that same ant you grounded into dust cool but guess what? I'll repeat; you've been doing the exact same thing! What's your excuse man? Are you that fucking brain damaged that you think that shit's a legit accomplishment? That you actually got me? Too fuckin' bad, man. Too bad. Oh boy, I can't wait to hear the next bout of shit that comes outta your mouth. Maybe you'll complain about how I'm supposedly a part timer again and that I'm stealing your spotlight just by existing because that was real riveting and intelligent the first fuckin' time around. Or maybe we'll get to hear you lose it all in spectacular fashion like you did with this gem I didn't even get around to addressing because I was out getting higher than a kite. Hold on, lemme just push play here, and go!

This Fuckin' Guy Said:Loverboy: LUCA ARZEGOTTI! What are you, some Italian mafia hitman? Is Arzegotti even an Italian name? Is Luca even a boy’s name? I literally have no idea what you are all about or who you are, man! You’re like watching a really bad episode of Franklin and Bash, only when it’s like, one of those “very special” episodes where they try to not be as funny, and try to tackle really heavy events, you know? Like when the fat chick got raped on the Facts of Life, or when MLK got shot on the Jeffersons? Oh! Or like the series finale of ALF! You’re like ALF dude! Man, who are you really, anyway, man? Are you a serial killer? Or a super cop? Or, like, a pro wrestler? You have a real identity crisis going on, dude! Maybe worse than Harrison and his dress up fetish! Luca, man, tonight is the night you find out that you’re over and done with, man! You can’t even carry my jock strap, if I wore one! If you pecker checked me in the men’s room while we were pissing next to each other, you’d probably kill yourself in shame! Like actually kill yourself on purpose, man, not by accident like Michael Hutchence or David Carradine. Those dudes were just trying to whack off. You though? You’ll want to die because you’ll be all like “whoa man, that dick is so big and pretty! Why can’t my Arzeconda be like that instead of the weird, twisty little pig tail that it is?” Don’t worry, Luca, it will all be over soon, man! For now though – YOU JUST GOT TRASH TALKED!

Brilliant, you fucking . Jumping all around, saying so much shit without making a goddamn point that it's ridiculous. Not bringing up anything that actually matters because you know the second you do that you'll see just how badly you pale in comparison. Then again, it's not hard to look weak when compared to the man who in this era of XWF, has spent the most consecutive days as European Champion. Not longest reign, because Heyman tried and failed to screw me outta the thing, but then I won it back the same night and fucked all his plans sideways. Yeah, dead title. Sue me. Though, with the absolutely stunning amount of competition that whole trios division has, so is your title. Dead in all but name. It's a fucking prop you carry around to convince people you matter. You never have to worry about defending it because no one gives enough of a shit to challenge for it. Hilarious. But let's take a break from the actual competition in this match and look at the other guy. The dark horse to not take the pin, David Shadows. Do I got beef with the guy? Hell no. I forgot the guy existed until I saw him on the card so there's no bad blood but that doesn't mean I'm gonna be all buddy buddy with the motherfucker either. No, he's gonna be too busy smoking week because holy shit, that guy smokes more than I fuckin' snort and that's saying something. And anytime Loverboy and I try to actually go after him with some trash talk, he's gonna be too busy watching some shit on YouTube instead of responding because he's the cool rebel type who completely crumbles whenever someone actually comes at him.

At least he isn't Loverboy and doesn't say stupid, embarrassing bullshit though.

Right, I'm supposed to be talking about Shadows. Thank you for the reminder Julia. Don't fuckin' look at me like that bitch.

Ahem, apologies. Yeah fuck that I ain't sorry. Where was I again? Shadows, or was it Loverboy? Shit I can't tell which is which anymore. Guess I gotta sniff out which one's trying to be more like me and I can identify Loverboy like the master detective super police officer I am according to his skewed perspective on my skewed perspective of the world.

Fuckin' .

Come at me, pussies.