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**12-14-2016, 04:40 PM**

RADICAL/BREAKDOWN/XWF#013

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The arena lights go do dark yellow and white. Instead of music the Public Address Announcer comes over the loudspeaker. "LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, PLEASE DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THE STAGE...": "Without Me" by Eminem plays while the crowd murmurs about what could be happening inside the XWF. The lights go back to normal, as 'The Radical' stands on the entrance ramp with a microphone in hand. He paces back and forth and signals as the music fades. A mixed reaction doesn't deter his train of thought. He puts the mic to his lips, chants of "CHAOS" begin in the upper level. Reno smirks for a moment, then holds the mic out toward the crowd. He nods his head, then puts it back to his lips.

Well... well... well. I take one show off and look who has become Universally cheered for. While I am sure there are many unanswered questions stemming from last Warfare and Savage about my match with the said individual... and the dissolved tag match... my suspension... let me make one thing clear. I don't give a fuck who has what questions. I don't owe anybody answers. My mind is fine, my motivation has never been stronger, and my mouth has never been more ready to make more sweet petty promises. So let's just end the speculation right here, right now! Chris Chaos... I attacked you at Wild Card. Twice. Chris Chaos... I am coming for you, Universal Champion or not... could be Savage, Warfare, a House Show, a typical Pay-Per-View, Shove-It, it could be in your own fucking back yard... but I am. And when you see me. When you hear the music, or hear the roar of the crowd after a match or before and turn and see me standing there, or finish mowing your lawn and notice me pissing on it... remember this. You may win a match, you may beat me down, you may make me seem like a footnote in the spectrum of XWF history for a second... maybe two; but what you will not do is ever be rid of the fly, the pestering sickness, and the undoubted ability that runs through my veins. Great stories have many chapters, twists and turns. Chapter One was Chaos... the rest is yet to be written. But it will be. And motherfucker... I promise you, it will be a hell of a read, regardless of how it ends.

The crowd chants "NIXON" because the new Savage lineup has been posted on the X-Tron. Gabe turns and looks up, then turns back around with a determined glare.

I could wipe my ass with the amount of fucks I give about Thomas Nixon. But then I'd have a dirty ass.

A few chuckles and boo's litter the arena. Gabe pauses and walk to the far right side of the stage, closer to a few heckling fans.

The most hated fucking man in XWF since Thomas Nixon announced Creed as his favorite band. IT'S MEEEEE. THE RADICAL. THE END ALL. THE ULTIMATE BITCH MAKER. The dilemma of all that was and all that still will be; the madness of Nixon within the fury of me. Scarcity, the same feeling that drew the stick figure that would become Thomas. With a generic fucking name taken from white haired men who jacked off in the middle of our first national forest. He must be on THAT HANDFUL LIST of people whose circumstances would actually be massively improved by death.

The crowd goes silent realizing the tone has changed in his voice.

He says all this bullshit, about lizards and Guppy THIS, and Tony Kornheiser THAT... okay, Tom, tell you what... you want a comeback? Scrape it off your moms teeth. BECAUSE I AM THE KIND OF ANIMAL NO HERO WANTS TO FIGHT. THE FOWL MOUTHED RELENTLESS KIND. IF YOU DON'T BUY IT... ASK THE FUCK AROUND TOMMY. Some of the sickest fucks in this industry have tried to belittle and humiliate me... and here I am. With a smile. Mmmmm. How sweet it is. Not valor, your moms pancakes. You know what I respect about PATROL... nothing. You know what kind of insufficient fucks do "patrols", the kind that don't have the cojones to actually act. They watch, they call, they bail. If there is any debate in the grand XWF backstage halls about Gabe Reno, the one thing that will NEVER be in question is my ability to act and be the first to say the most fucking unpopular thing possible. But I speak truth.

He walks back to center, then down the ramp and over to a fan with a "I ♡ PATROL" sign. He grabs it, tosses it down and squats an imaginary shit.

I don't care for alliances. I don't do all this to make friends. Popularity comes to those who dare, not who team with the job squad of never-were's. BITCH. I DONT GIVE A FUCK about lizard preservation... nor do I need back up from caped basement dad's that become "hero's" in the last inevitable step of mental breakdown before suicide. I don't believe in luck, I make my fucking own way. I rely on senses, and experience that I made on MY OWN. I don't need a stable of nobodies to mask my inability to stand alone. I like standing alone. I like knowing that with every defeat... that it is on my shoulders, and with every victory, they gravel at my feet. I love the smell of dirty wrestled on mat, the canvas where our art shines brighter, and my skills are sharper. Television Champion... yeah, it has a nice sound... it comes off the tongue well. But, what is even better... Thomas Nixon, staring at you, as your eyes flicker open, dazed gazing up at the track lights, realizing that you have been out for far longer than a count of three. Then watching your head fall to the side, the music blaring in your ears just behind the ringing left behind from an ass kicking, and seeing me on the ramp. With the TV Title over one shoulder, and your nightmares over the other.

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> Thomas Nixon. What a story. The man, the effort, the intentions... the phony, the talentless, the debacle... <

'The Radical' hits a cross body; cut to a forearm shimy; next a series of knife edge chops; a dropkick; boston crab; arm drag takedown. The sweat beads across his forehead. He stops and looks up at a clock above the ring. Empty seats, with an old trainer marching him on verbally to spar for another 20 minutes. "PUSH IT". The partner tries a german from behind, but a backward footblock, swinging turn counter into a vicious neckbreaker. Backing the sparring partner into a corner, and stomping him mercilessly, until the trainer slides in and breaks it up. Repeatedly he is warned, but in that kind of zone, a malicious rage... nothing was heard.

> What toll can one man take on another... what can a single pain threshold endure... how much is too much for Thomas Nixon... <

Reno backs away as the trainer attends to the other trainee. Putting his hands on his hips, Gabe watches the man finally get back to his feet assuring the trainer he is okay, the trainer shakes his head and stares at Reno. He exits through the ropes, just as Gabe attacks again. A front headlock. Russian leg sweep. Pointed elbow drop off the ropes, then another, and another. Springboard backflip splash. Roundhouse kick. Front kick. Slap to the face. Running bulldog. To the top rope, front flip 'Rated R' leg drop. The trainer enters again, instructing Gabe to exit the squared circle with his aggression.

> Where do the ploys and promo's end... and the pain and dues to pay begin... where does Nixon stand, when the canvas bounces better for another man... <

Pacing on the outside of the ring, Reno looks over as the trainer comes and tells him the other man isn't continuing and that he needs to tone it down a notch. Gabe asks for a new opponent, the trainer declines. Reno grabs his shirt and demands someone get into the ring. The trainer declines. Gabe tosses him onto the apron and rolls him in. Clothesline. Knee's to the midsection. Grabbing a fold up steel chair from outside, shot to the crown of the head. Shots to the crawling trainers back and shoulders. DDT on the chair. Spit in his face. Reno points at him.

WHEN I SAY GO, WE GO! I WILL NOT FUCKING LOSE AGAIN, NOT TODAY, NOT TOMORROW, NOT AT SAVAGE, I WILL NOT DO IT OLD MAN! EITHER GET WITH THE FUCKING PROGRAM, OR BECOME A VICTIM OF IT. EITHER WAY. I WILL MAKE IT HAPPEN! BITCH.

Reno exits the ring; the sparring partner limps in to check on the trainer's condition. Gabe throws a cooler and tips over tables while loudly cursing. A few other men hear the commotion and enter, looking into the ring at their beloved trainer down, and seeing Reno acting unreasonable. They walk over with hands up to calm him down. But he doesn't. Bite to the forehead of the first. Low blow to the second. Headbutt to the skull of the third. Glass bottle of vitamin water over the back of another. Unprettier on the cement to the first again. Superkick to the second. Insegurie to the third. Reno screams and slams his first through the wall, then walks through the door.

> Everyone has a point of no return... a final straw before a crack emerges... when weakness can no longer be disguised... Thomas Nixon has one too... and it will be found for his ultimate breakdown. <

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END.

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