Some weeks before this previously this disclosed moment:

There’s an explicit pounding feeling accompanied with violent vibrations and a jaw jarring-something amidst a shit-ton of nothing. Did that make sense? It’s dark, and something hurts to the nth freaking degree. It’s hurting in a way you would imagine this might be what death feels like had you survived it.

It’s hard to make sense of senses when you’re likely being beaten senseless- but I’m really doing the best job I can…

You’re being knocked around and you can’t see, or hear a fucking thing and all you can feel is this breath-thieving pressure collapsing down onto your chest… and then onto your head, and then your leg, then your head again, and then on your face for good measure.

All of this seems to repeat over and over again for all of eternity and you can’t make a sound because something is blocking your tongue from moving. The pain is immense. So fucking strong, and the natural reaction to scream out in mercy is being hindered, thus amplifying everything. This isn’t pain of the emo verity either; this is real life, physical torture.

You just want it all to stop, but you can’t do anything about it… it’s almost as if everything on your body is in paralysis until it hurts again.

But it’s becoming too much…

The pain…

It’s excruciating…


































There is no God here…


































There is no Satan…


































There is nothing to remember and nothing to love…


































But at least there’s some mindless comfort found in that uncomforting thought…

There's a sudden burst of the sound of your gasps wind-tunneling through a dark vacuum- it prods your perception back from the nothing.

...You're not dead yet, bitch...

A stirring voice jerks your sense back from the nether:

“So what landed a person such as you in this shithole?”

“I… I don’t even know where I am. What is this?”

“Hell my friend. Welcome to hell.”

The voice responds.

Buronan rises up his torso from a cold floor. He feels his face; it’s bulging, battered and bruised. Glancing down he finds what appears to be dried blood on his dingy t-shirt. He’s surrounded by towering concrete walls with peeling white paint exposing an ancient gray surface.

Buronan goes to move his legs, but he can’t. There’s a large rusty steel rod protruding from the concrete wall to his left that stretches out across the floor all the way to the wall on his right. There are two steel protrusions coming from the rod that bend into a U-shape and are locked onto the rod. These U-shaped pieces of steel are locking Buronan’s ankles to the rod and forcing his knees to stay bent in an uncomfortable position.

As if he weren’t uncomfortable enough to being with.

Buronan is a fairly frail guy to begin with, and likely hasn’t been nourished in quite a while, so his arms begin shaking as he tries keeping his torso held up. His body is aching, and in his mind, he’d much rather have stayed locked away in his prior purgatory- at least he had some suspension from reality there.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE MAN!?!”

Buronan demands to the man sitting next to him.

“I tell you already this foo… this Hell.”

Buronan looks over to see a disgustingly skinny [ethnical description redacted] man sitting in the same position, his ankles locked to the same rod.

Obviously Buronan knew this wasn’t hell literally… that’s kind of a strange thing to say isn’t it? How could he REALLY know what hell was, or IF hell was? Well let’s rephrase: Buronan was pretty damn sure he wasn’t dead, so he assumed the man must have been speaking figuratively.

“Why is this hell?”

Buronan asks.

“Because…”

He responds before we hear a striking sound,

“They only let one play with the fire here.”

The man raises a match with a sputtering flame on its end up to his face, exposing his creepy looking glass eyes. Okay, so that was pretty cheesy.

“AH!”

Startled by the sight, Buronan shifts to his side as if to jump away, accidently slamming his head into the concrete wall. The man begins laughing wildly, literally slapping his knee and falling backwards from the laughter.

'“Oh, oh, oh little one! You anger da’ wroooong people to end up here.”

The man continues laughing again as Buronan, a sour look on his face, rubs his head.

“Wait… you’re blind right?”

“I am.”

“Then how do you know I’m little?”

“It’s not yo stature I refer. But the binds you’ve put on yo heart that make you little.”

“Oh. Great.”

Buronan hates proverbs and shit.

In the distance, there’s an echoing sound of tight leather dress shoes smacking their way down a concrete hallway.

“Hey, what’s that?”

“Man walking.”

“Oh well know shit. What does it mean though?”

“It mean he not in wheelchair.”

The man again laughs wildly, in an even more annoying fashion now,

“Oh, you soooooo fucked! You fucked like me!”

There’s a loud bang on the pale steel door in the middle of the room. A 3x6 inch slot slides open near the top of the door, revealing a piercing set of blue eyes behind it.

“DIMAS! SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I RIP YOUR TOUNGE OUT TOO!”

The voice intensely hollers out.

The eyes then dart over to Buronan,

“And as for you…”

There’s a loud crack, followed by a pop and the squealing sound of the door hinges as it slowly opens, exposing the monster of a man standing behind it. The man is Anglo, dressed in a militaristic uniform, standing near seven feet tall with his jet-black hair greased back like some wop mafia fucker.

He walks into the cell slowly, and Buronan can’t help but notice his perfectly polished dress shoes shining in the limited light. The man leans down onto one knee, sitting right in front of the where Buronan’s feet are locked.

“…you’ve been enough trouble for me already. If you so much as utter one fucking sound without my approval, then I’ll bury you outback next to Dimas’ wife.”

The man’s words are as strikingly cold as his icy glare. He stands back up now, pulling from his waist baton. He suddenly swings down with all of his might, smashing the baton onto Buronan’s locked foot, likely breaking it at best.

Buronan howls, and screams out in pain.

“Ah! I didn’t approve of that, you pussy.”

Buronan pulls the front of his blood stained shirt up into his mouth, biting down hard and trying to avoid his urge to scream bloody murder- squeezing his eyes shut tight as tears begin to form around the edges.

The man puts his baton back into its holder on his waist, exits the room and slams the door shut. We can again hear his tight dress shoes smacking up the hallway, only this time accompanied with a mellow whistle.

If Buronan weren’t suffering from such excruciating pain right now, he’d likely be wondering how he got himself into this situation. He’d think about his cellmate Dimas, and wonder what happened to his wife. He’d think about the comment Dimas made about the size of his heart and wonder:

“Is he right? How is it that I’ve put a bind on my heart? For all my life, or for at least as much of it as I remember, I’ve always struggled with this concept of ‘heart’.

Which is a more exemplary exposition of ‘heart’? Being soldier-esque and fighting through until the bitter end, and even against insurmountable odds, showing courage and grit in the face of adversity; detaching completely from the weak minded fucks who self-medicate their sorrows rather overcoming them?

Or is ‘heart’ about showing compassion when compassion is the least popular route amongst the masses; opening up oneself to the world in spite of you and having the capacity nurture while speaking truth?

Either way, I didn’t feel much capable of any of that anymore. I’ve reached the end of the rope, well before even understanding how I’d gotten here. I love nothing, and my will to fight is beyond fleeting. This war is lost. I have become mastered.”

The scene fades...

---

---

Buronan RETURNS Vol. 1: NOCMM breaks the fourth wall while acknowledging the fourth wall in an attempt to say something disparaging about Buronan breaking the fourth wall.

We see Buronan doing something completely irrelevant, remembering that less is more for the sake of the oldskool fans and the voice of the oldskool fans who would purposely misspell school like some newschool hentai-bating basement dweller.

"GOODNESS GRACIOUS THA’ PAPER! WHERE DA CAAAAAASH AT? WHERE DA STAAAAAASH AT?"

Flipping one-dollar bills off of a large stack of one-dollar bills while rapping Juelz Santana lyrics is the irrelevant thing that Buronan is doing.

OR IS IT IRRELEVANT? OH THE MYSTERY!

Maybe this is just another long lost puzzle piece to an arbitrary work of art of highly pomp bullshit- that people who give a fuck enough to pay attention to garbage will understand with a half-hearted chuckle.

Anyway, I'm sure our Hero will explain:

Hey everyone!

Buronan is back! Yes, I am the rookie who was accused of being a rookie, while being a rookie, because of my wearing a mask and stating that I wanted to make fat stacks of cash. That meant that I was plagiarizing DeadPool. I guess I could have just as easily been plagiarizing Slipknot, Green Mask, or a burlap sack wearing rookie . But the advocate of God found it necessary to inexplicably point out, along with a slew of other arbitrary garbage, that I was biting Ryan Reynolds' style. I would assume it's because NOCMM is a trend following like the fatso I ran into at the comic book store. One of millions of no-nut-having lemmings incapable of free thought. Why else would he re-write and copy the harmony of the most overplayed Billy Joel song?

It makes sense though. Take it from the Jack Griffin and or Geist rip-off to explain it to you how someone else is infringing on someone's copyright. The pots are the best at calling kettles black... but don't worry, that's not the point of my rebuttal, or the peak of any form of verbal attack against NOCMM or his client. Doing and saying things that make sense in regards to doing battle with NOCMM and Hero is the easy way out.

That's why my narrator and I thought it most fitting to break from the monotony of the Saga of Buronan during round one; not because NOCMM invoked some bullshit Mastermind Fallacy (Defined by The Book of Hopelessly Cisgendered Invisible Managers as; a way(s) to mindfuck rookies into defeating themselves) over me and FORCED me to turn the corner.

Shit son, I've got vignettes for days!

No. It was more like when your child want's you to dress up like some sorta of animal, or dinosaur, or monster and chase them around the house while they giggle uncontrollably. It's a way to massage the limited imaginative fantasies of the innocently feeble. You see, when NOCMM first saw my first vignette his mind instantly went to Ryan Reynolds, it was way for him to justify in his Flores-Man-Developmental the idea that he might be so fortunate to see Ryan Reynolds wrestling with Hero XTreme. I can't say I blame him, Ryan Reynolds is a gorgeous man...



Just look at that bod. I bet he sweats Annick Goutal's Eau D'Hadrien.

But that's all aside from the point of anything, because the fact of the matter is that every bit of this pointless. Because at the end of the day I'll still be Rookiepool and NOCMM will still be an overplayed enigma who manages God and still loses. I don't really give a fuck either, because DING-DING-DING! I am a rookie you nut-sucking genius. Just go back and watch my bullshit. It's not on par with your old school mastery, mon amie.

Sure I have the capacity to hit your mark of excellence. I could just do a bunch of substance lacking bullshit for the fuck of it in a sad attempt to patronize my opponents by appearing to have no skill in this particular craft. I could break an egg into my skillet and show the old school fans their brain on NOCMM, but what good does that do? It's not my style.

My style for the Lethal Lottery is getting lucky enough to ride my partner(s) coattails into the finals and give the XWF something really special.

Your client's style is helping put over more rookies in his career than John Calipari.

Caedus' style is to verbally and physically eviscerate your client and your tag partner.

Your tag partner's style, is to be a much more sophisticated and entertaining version of your style. You know? Where it doesn't matter if the client wins or not. Edgy eccentric closet homosexual manager does the talking. Everybody wins because neither had any business beating anyone to begin with. Pretty simple card to play.

See, but I've got this shit figured out, bub. And I didn't fucking need God whispering sweet nothings into my invisible ear to do that.

Caedus, like Trax in round one, is going to use his superior talent to help will this team to a win over Hero and Crowe. Then, no matter what in the Semi-Finals, Buronan is going to be paired with another XWF newschooler with superior talent and walk into the Main Event of the Pay-Per-View. All while you, God, Luca Arzegotti and Malibu's Most Wanted slip back into obscurity.... and you better goddamn believe-it.

Well that's it for Volume 1 of 7.9.

The Buronan will be back, maybe later today, maybe tomorrow with Volume 2 where The Buronan kills Alt-Right Milo Yurnsuckalotadickalos and botches a hit Elton John Song.