The scene opens to John Samuels casually walking through an abandoned warehouse; a stream of gasoline pours from a red, metal can held in one hand as he twirls a Zippo lighter in his other hand. As the gasoline slows to a trickle, Samuels pitches the can to the side and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He sits in the chair, pulls a single cigarette from the pack and brings it to his lips. He holds the lighter up to it, pauses, and turns to the camera.

Samuels: “These things’ll kill you.”

Samuels flicks the lighter open and ignites the tip of the cigarette. He takes a slow drag off it and exhales a lungful of smoke.

Samuels: “You ever notice that people are so quick to point that out? It’s like seeing that smouldering cherry transforms random strangers into the surgeon general. But why? Do you think these people, these random do-gooders, really care that much whether you live or die? Or are they simply imposing their moral superiority? Letting you know that you’re making an idiotic decision, and they’re there to rub your face in it? I would guess the latter, it’s only human nature for us to demean and humiliate those weaker than ourselves.

But what if they’re wrong? What if that moral high ground is eroding around them and their noses are stuck too high in the air to notice their impending fall?

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the unfortunate tale of AX3:

Once upon a time, Micheal Graves’ intellectually bankrupt dick polisher questioned whether or not I bothered keeping up with the ‘product.’ The ‘product’ being this cancerous joke of an organization that birthed a group of pedophiles, underachievers and , slapped them with a nickname that may be the only thing less creative than the half-coherent ramblings of Micheal Graves, and presented them to the world as if they weren’t meant to be nothing more than a fleshy lump at the end of a coat hanger, discarded in an alleyway dumpster.

And the black king laughed.

He laughed at the notion that he could force himself to sit and watch as piss poor excuses for human beings like Micheal Graves flounder about, attempting to forge some semblance of a personality and failing to do so. Miserably. He laughed at the thought of loathing life enough to sit down and listen to Graves’ auditory vomit willingly. Mostly, he laughed at the idea that Michael Graves could ever become someone worth tuning in for.

He didn’t hate Graves because he lacked a functioning brain, that was hardly his fault. But his real issue was just how lazy Graves had become. Surely, a man who wanted to tout his little club’s dominance, would’ve done just a little more of his homework. Four years? Four years, he claims, since John Samuels last graced the XWF with his brilliance. Is he trying to sell him short? Trying to persuade what few people actually listen to his incoherent spew of garbage that John Samuels isn’t one of the greatest wrestlers this business has ever seen? Or perhaps he’s trying to convince himself. Maybe he thinks that if he ignores all the accomplishments that he’ll never achieve, that somehow it puts him on even ground.

But it doesn’t.

Micheal Graves is to the XWF what his mother’s vagina is to intercourse: disappointing, sloppy, and begging for a fist. Graves, I’ve been around the block a time or two, I’ve seen the very best, and I’ve seen the very worst, and without hesitation I can say I’ve never come across a more disjointed, delusional and utterly hopeless piece of shit. If your spine snapped while inhaling Jim Caedus’ penis, the world would rejoice at the realization of no longer having to suffer through another one of your god awful rants. If we were to supply our corrections inmates with one bedsheet and one Graves promo, overcrowding would be a thing of the past. The thing that fascinates me Graves is that you keep hyping up AX3 but you fail to stop and realize that you’re nothing compared to the rest of your stablemates. In your dime-a-dozen group of halfwits, you’re the weakest link. How you can beat your chest while simultaneously holding onto their coattails is about the most impressive thing anyone has ever seen you do.

But, hey, it could be worse.

You could be Chris Chaos.

If Graves is lazy, Chaos is downright lethargic.

Let’s just get this out of the way: While I do appreciate you fangirling so hard that you give me credit for 7 Federweight title runs that I never had, I can’t let you go on without correcting you. I won that belt once. Just once. Where did you get that number 8 from? It’s like you lazily scrolled through some website and blurted out the first thing you saw without possibly considering that ‘Hey! Maybe he just lumps together all the unimportant shit and I should double check this.’ Or I guess you could just stop being such a lethargic piece of shit and think before you speak.

But considering everything else I’ve heard come out of your mouth, I’m guessing that second one isn’t a realistic option for you.

It’s funny, you bringing up having to scroll down to see my name amongst those who have shaped the company. And you’re right, I’ve been included with some absolutely incredible talents. But how much did you have to scroll to see yours? Because I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t go look for myself and I scrolled…



And I scrolled….












And I scrolled…
















And I never once saw Chris Chaos’ name. I made it to the very end, all I saw were a few scrubs who made it on the list purely out of pity for the length of time they stuck around the XWF doing absolutely nothing. Take that in Chris, you’re not even worthy of pitying. You think this is your era now? Your era begins when your betters tell you it begins, and I’ll be using a cane to drag my ballsack across the nursing room floor on the way to that plastic bitch of yours’ eagerly awaiting mouth before that happens. I’ve had my own era, I know what it takes and it’s plain as day that you don’t have it in you. I don’t care what fluke got you the universal title, there’s a difference between winning a belt and being the man.

You’re slower than snail shit so I’m going to say this as mongoloid friendly as possible: I’m so far out of your league that I wouldn’t even bother shitting on you from up here. I just look down in disgust and hope you won’t smear when I squash you under my boot.

Deville and I, we’ve got these belts on lock. Our combined talent is tenfold what the entirety of AX3 possesses. Go ahead and call us rusty, call us old, fossils, relics, whatever. At the end of the day you’re going to be calling us champs, and that’s what really matters. And don’t think it’s over after that, you’ve exposed yourselves to be the spineless pussies we all knew you would be, so it’ll be fun to step on your throats every now and then to remind you that we’re in control and you’re nothing but pointless playthings strewn about to be kicked around whenever we see fit.

Better watch those lazy ass habits, boys.

Those things will kill you.

Samuels flicks the cigarette to the ground which ignites the spilled gasloine. The flames raise and spread quickly around the room as Samuels slowly exits. The flames stop as the camera pans up to reveal the flaming message left behind

1X - GOAT.