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Imperial · (11-23-2017)

One, the number that’ll call out before Hail to the King hits the speakers. The number that’ll act as the trumpet call for the savior of both this show and the rebirth of the XWF. The crowds will go crazy, the ladies will scream as the men hold them back in desperation. The locker room will drop to a heart-stopping hush, sound itself enveloped by the loud rush of blood each superstar will inadvertently feel. The last thing we’ll here before we walk through those curtains and embrace our destiny.

One, for we are the one. We are the one answer to the problems this business is plagued by, we are the one solution to the frustration nipping at everyone’s hearts. Be it the tyrannical reign of The Kings, the plague of the circle jerk that is the pretty boys of the ol’ AX3 or the wave of insanity that seems to have struck our locker room. We, are the one way out of this mess.

One, for there is only one winner of this rumble. And though the fates have spoken to us and told us we’ll walk to the ring first, they have also told us we’ll be the only one to walk out of that stadium with his head held high. Not even Doc’ will come out of that night with satisfaction we’ll feel. It’s been said. It will be.

The sound of knives dragging across a concrete wall.

The cracking of snapping twigs.

The caw of a lone crow somewhere in the trees.

And the high-pitched cackle of a sick, sick man.

Danny Imperial walks into frame, illuminated by the flickering bulb of a street lamp stained yellow with age. The shadow of a moth smacking against the bulb dances on his unpainted face. A faint smile just peeks through his skin, no teeth just the stretching of skin.

He has on a maroon sweater, striped with dark green, tattered by the sleeves and spangled with holes. In one hand, he has a foot-long candy cane, sharpened at one end. In the other, he has a long cane with an ornate grip carved into the head of a gorilla. Danny’s fingers flex against the grip, the veins popping on his hand as the blood drains out of it.

“Doc, you’re a sick, sick man… Aren’t you?

Sitting atop your self-proclaimed throne, glancing into the fiery pits of the XWF and orchestrating a show for your personal entertainment. Watch men beat at each other, claw at each other as they fight for… Well for the chance of glory. No paychecks, no championships, just glory? And perhaps some prize you allude to giving.

And just like that, they have flocked to participate. From part timers like Nate Higgers, to never-heard-from James Ellsworth all the down to the Universal Champion himself, Robbie Bourbon. How many Champions dance for you on Saturday Doc’? 1, 2, 3? We couldn’t care less for the rest of The Kings or Jenny Myst. But Engy… We’re disappointed, we were really hoping to get a crack at Engy…

Hell, what we’d do for a crack at you. D’Ville. Maybe that’s what the prize should be, a chance to dance with the Doctor of Evil himself. It’s such a rare sight these days, but somehow, you’re still up there on the rankings.

Don’t get us wrong. We appreciate this opportunity for reward-less battle. We thrive on fighting for the sake of fighting. You see, the Hart championship? It means nothing to us but for the opportunities it provides. The ability to challenge whomever we want, because everyone wants a shot at this. A little screaming mixed with a little goading and we have Main for our next course, it’s wonderful!

Likewise, your rumble? Gives us the opportunity to face twenty other individuals, varying in skill from Bourbon to Scully. Varying in insanity from Bilbo to Caedus. Varying in prestige from Jimmy boy to rookie Lacertus. If there was ever a free flow buffet of wrestlers, this is it. And we thank you for it, Doc. But we also demand to come out first. We demand for the opportunity to face each and everyone one of these sad little sons of bitches, we demand for the chance to destroy them mentally and physically before shoving them over the ropes, not one of them will be defeated before we step into that ring… If we come out first.

It’s Christmas D’Ville. There’s no better prize than the heads of twenty men who’ve willingly signed up to dance with the devil.“

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Danny twirls the candy cane in his hand, sliding the sharpened end across his tongue and giving it a little lick. Exaggerated euphoria flickers over his features before he addresses the camera once more.
“Now the rest of you.

Have any of you heard of how one must deal with rats?

A wise old man with a funny accent and bold hair once explained this out to us, and all of you best listen as we did.

You have a home, infested with disgusting, hairy vermin. They eat away at your food, they chew threw your shirts and sweaters. The run through the rafters with their scuttling little feet and keep you up all night with their gnawing through plaster.

How do you deal with these pests?

Step One, you find a bowl, and fill it with boiling water. You dissolve a cup of sugar in it, get it nice and sweet.

Step two, find yourself a string and dip it in. Let the sugar crystalize all over it.

Step three, you tie the string to the edge of a barrel, oiled along the sides, base covered in fruit slices.

Step four, you leave the string by one of their filthy little nests and you let the rats follow the string, one by one falling into the barrel until you stop hearing the gnawing and gnashing.

Simple, no? You take the barrel, seal it and dispose of it… You’re done then, no? No.

What if there are more? What if some rats didn’t find the barrel and are simply beyond your capture. Those, those you still must deal with.

So, you seal the barrel, poke a hole in the top for air. And you wait. One-day passes, two days tick by…. And then you hear the sweet sound of teeth gnashing and bones snapping. Why? Because rats can chew through anything, rats will eat anything. Their hunger is their greatest weapon.

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Still you wait, until the sounds stop. You peek through the little hole at the top and you the wafting smell of decaying flesh and death slap you… Victory. But one will remain, beaten and scarred, have chewed up, the survivor of the barrel. Guess you’ll just have to shoot him and be done with it… No. No no, NO. For have you forgotten? There are still some you must deal with.

So, you let the rat escape, you let it run back into your house. And you wait.

You see that rat no longer eats through your clothes or chews through your rice… No, that rat only eats other rats, for it has changed. It has evolved by some exogenous force. You.

The Kings orchestrate everything, they lure us in like rats, they make us claw and fight at each other, so that our hunger averts from them to ourselves. You see what they’re doing? We see what they’re doing… But alas, we’re just hungry.

And our hunger must be sated. By them or by you. And you can be sure that after chewing threw my fellow athletes, we will go on to gnash at those who’ve stayed away, and when all have fallen to our appetite, we will feast on the only ones remaining, the ones at the very tippy top. All of us are the rats, the ring on Saturday is the barrel, the house is the XWF, and we will be the one rat who survives.

You who have fallen into this pit with me, inhale your last breath of fresh air, before all you smell is blood and death.”

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