Madison Dyson dips down a dark alley underneath the sweltering Bahaman heat, looking back and forth to ensure she's not being followed. She skitters up to a nondescript black door, where a small window opens up at roughly eye level. Behind a small metal grate, a set of crooked teeth spits out a command.

Password.

Madison backs up a bit with a look of disgust on her face. Say it don't spray it dickwad. Oh, and it's “Rectal Blossom.” Madison taps her foot impatiently, but finally the locks on the door give way with a clatter and it swings wide. Gliding past the door man, she makes her way down a long hall, finally emerging into a large room that looks like an old school lounge. Everything is red satin and fine leathers, and there seems to be a perpetual haze of cigar smoke clutching to the ceiling. Seated at a small table closest to the stage, is a familiar, or perhaps it would be more fitting to say infamous, face.

What's up baaaeeeee! Madison keens obnoxiously, throwing her arms out for a hug. She walks up to and envelops SHANE in it.

Maddy, you're late. You missed the horse show! Shane takes a seat.

Madison sits down across from him. Oh darn. Well I hope it was a good one.

Hmmmm....not the best I've seen. But of good quality nonetheless. Hey waiter, get over here! Shane claps twice, drawing the waiter's attention. What are you having?

What have they got?

Anything. I'll tell you what... He turns to the waiter. Give me a bottle of your finest Malbec, but with a shot of the tears of an orphan child that just watched their puppy get shot in the face.

As you wish, sir. The waiter bows and departs.

Madison, looking decidedly impressed, leans in towards Shane. You know, I thought this place was a myth.

Oh, most do! Club Diabolique is not well known for obvious reasons. Only the most elite of depraved fuckers even know it's location. Naturally, I'm a founding partner. Shane sits back in his chair. So, on to business?

I suppose. Lux knows you're involved.

Shane shrugs. It doesn't matter. If she comes at me I'll be ready.

You seem pretty blasé about it.

When you've lived through as much as I have, what's one little gender bending time traveling assassin? I got this shit on lockdown.

Madison casts a suspicious glance around. Yeah, well don't get overconfident.

I'm always just the right level of confident. Shane looks up and smiles to see that the waiter has brought their wine. They are both helpfully poured a glass, and he waves the server away. Raising a glass, he offers a toast. To the future?

Madison grins viciously. Or lack thereof. They toast, the glasses tinking together before they imbibe. Madison allows herself a satisfied sigh. I think I can taste the heartbreak.

So what about the virus we implanted her with? Impressions on it's effectiveness?

Hmmm....it didn't seem to have TOO much of an effect. Not yet at least. But the strain on Lux's psyche will likely start to take it's toll as other....elements....compile. Madison drains the glass heartily.

Damn, girl.

She reaches for the bottle and pours another glass, as a big red curtain on the stage pulls up. A midget in a large metal tank is wheeled out. Shane instantly looks giddy as a school boy on the last day before summer break. Oh Maddy, you're in for a real treat!

The midget is naked, save for a bag over his head and what must be a gag beneath the bag based on the incoherent strangled screams pouring out from beneath it. Upon closer inspection, he appears to be bound by chains to the vat. Madison cants her head at the strange sight. ….the fuck is this?

Just watch. This is avant garde extreme art in it's PUREST form!

The audio system slowly purrs to life and we hear the haunting tones of...well...this....



Meanwhile, guys in gimp suits come out from stage left and right, and start pouring gasoline on the midget. The midget howls in fear as he is fully doused. Finally, a match is lit and flicked into the vat, turning the poor bastard into an instant roman candle.

Madison arches her eyebrows in surprise, but she doesn't exactly look all that shocked. Shane actually looks...surprisingly skeptical?

The weird music plays on repeat as the midget writhes and screams in agony, until eventually his body gives out, slumping into sitting position where it finishes burning to a crisp. We are treated to every single excruciating moment of this torture until the flame finally dies out, leaving behind a lump of charred torso and ash.

Well, ya don't see that every-

IT WAS TRASH! Shane pounds his fists on the table. He looks LIVID.

What's your problem?!

It was a GIMMICK! A FAKE GIMMICK! NOT REAL! Shane gets up, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He pushes one of the gimps out of his way as he storms the stage and stabs an accusatory finger at the corpse in the vat. IS THIS WHAT PASSES FOR QUALITY NOW? HUH?! THIS CHICANERY?!

Madison sits back in her seat, arms crossed. Oh Jesus, Shane....

“Oh Jesus” NOTHING, Madison! There is literally only one possible way to burn a body and this was not it. And as the sole judge, jury and executioner of all forms of art and expression I deem this FAKERY! He reaches down into the vat and scatters the ash into the air.

Madison draws in a deep sigh as Shane continues to lose his mind in the background. Turning to the camera, she plasters on a smile and addresses the camera.

Hello Shove-It participants. I'm Madison Dyson and this is the promo you've been waiting for.

She smirks into the camera as Shane grabs one of the gimps by his face mask and screams in his face. AND YOU! WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT ANTONY THE JERK, HUH? I BET YOU'RE HELPING TO RIG SLACKLAND'S MATCHES TOO!

So, all kind of people have been coming up to me lately and going “Madison, why bother with Centurion's Shove-It? It's not like you HAVE to defend the Federweight in an actual match. And it's a charity show, which is completely antithema to your sense of pull yourself up by your bootstraps ultra-capitalism. Plus, it's not like you can't afford a trip to the Bahama's on your own, you have more money than God.” Naturally, after thanking all of these not at all hypothetical people for their clear fandom and knowledge of yours truly, I answered them.

A wider smile now.

Because I like making people suffer.

In the background, Shane pops the skull off the corpse and starts rubbing it on his crotch in a fury.

I get off on it. More specifically, I like HUMBLING people. Laying them low and really rubbing their faces deep down in the shit. Now, how do I plan on doing that you are no doubt asking with bated breath? Simple.

By winning.

Now, I know what you're thinking. DUH, right? But it's not that simple. Because here's the clincher. All these people saying that I'm washed up and past my prime. That all my best and brightest years are well behind me. Well....they're right! Madison laughs. They're right! I'm a shadow of a shadow of what I once was. I used to crush it across multiple promotions, winning titles like it was going out of style. And now? I pretty much just hang out in the 24/7 halls and laugh at people and collect fat stacks of cash from all my other global investments. What the fuck do I care about being a success in the ring anymore? I'm already the realization of the American dream.

So yeah, these days I'd rather down some hydros and jill off to James Raven's old matches from atop a Scrooge McDuckian mountain of cash than hit the gym. From an athletic stand point, I suck pretty hard now. She winks at the camera. I suck pretty hard in other ways too, Jimmy. She puckers her lips seductively at the camera and blows a kiss. But, all that being said?

I'm still gonna win at Shove-It. And I'm gonna embarrass the SHIT out of you also ran scrubs. Like, I'm not even gonna wrestle well and I'm still gonna win. Shit, I'm probably gonna be half down a k-hole when I roll into the ring and MOMMA'S STILL GONNA GET THAT DUBYA. That's how much you all suck. I'm gonna embarrass the fuck out of you by embarrassing myself. Just one of the bennies of having no shame.

In case you were wondering, Shane is STILL ranting and raving about quality control in the background.

Speaking of having no shame, and that's what we in the biz call a segue by the by, let's talk about this Thunder Knuckles guy. This motherfucker who's so sad he's trying to build heat off a bitch he says is washed up. Doesn't say much for you there, does it big guy? Nothing like shooting for the stars. Madison shrugs. But I mean, honestly? I've seen worse than you. The whole X-buck shtick is reasonably entertaining for something that probably took about five minutes of spitballin'. And unlike a solid quarter of the roster you can string five plus words together without sounding like a at least half the time. Sooooo...go you! So, because there is the barest hint of a foundation there, I'm gonna do you a solid and give you some career advice.

Numero uno, I admire your commitment to “Shock Value Word Salad”. I do! You already understand that branding your opponent is a key part of promo success. The problem? TOO WORDY! It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. It's not punchy! The average peon's already tuned out by the time you get to “word”.

Numero dos.....knock knock jokes? Like....okay! I get that it was sarcastic....but....just c'mere. The camera inches closer. Madison bitch slaps the camera! NO! BAD! Don't ever do that again! I mean you were on something of a roll until that botched abortion of a send off. The closing line is supposed to be biting and witty! One final twist of the knife! The climax! What you did was like railing some chick, hitting the g-spot over and over, and once she's in the throes of toe curling ecstasy pulling out, doing a celebratory meat spin and booking it out the door! You need to learn how to seal the deal if you wanna get anywhere in this business, Thundy.

Numero....uhhhhh....fuck it, I don't speak the savage languages fluently. NUMBER THREE. You need to learn how to focus. I mean yeah sure, Big D is about the biggest stack of missing chromosomes to ever set foot in the XWF, but he's also not in this match sunshine. What you pulled there might pass right beneath the notice of some of the...(ahem)....less talented among us, but to those who know the score, it's just padding.

And finally...number four. Madison makes a sheepish face. I'm not sure I'm allowed to talk about this one. Buuuuuuut.....

Madison Dyson winks to the camera as he says this. Referring to Thunder Knuckles and smiles. She reaches in her left pocket as she folds the book over her right knee face down to get a fancy gold lighter. She proceeds to light the cigar. Then she puts the gold lighter in hier pocket again and pats the pocket. She picks back up her book and unfolds it to be back right where she left off. She starts reading the book and starts talking at the same time.

Wait, what the fuck am I doing?

Madison puts down her cigar in the ashtray again. She picks up the crystal glass of brandy to take a drink. She has never once stopped reading since spewing her brandy thinking about Isabelle Ravewolfe fighting for the Federweight Championship, even when she poured her drink.

Oh come on, this is more wooden that Shane's dick during that horse show. Have some self respect, TK!

Madison tosses Knuckles' props, which seem to have appeared out of nowhere, back into the ether. She does this while talking at the same time. Leet.

You know what, I change my mind. You're a lost fuckin' cause. How can I TELL you think and talk like a brain damaged second grader's grammar test? FUCK! You know what, just keep drinking pal. You came into this life with a diagnosis of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, so why not finish the job, right?

And ya know what else? I'm gonna double down on my statement that you'll be gone within a few months. You have short term gag reel written all over that cornpone one trick pony that BUGGERED the pony, product of a family reunion fuck fest, mug of yours. You've even lowered your expectations right out of the gate! “Here for the Xbux”? Honey, if your highest aspiration in coming here is saving up enough scratch to buy a real life latex replica of Jenny Myst's ratty snatch, or whatever other shit our window licking marketing department came up with after their latest bender trolling on 8chan, then I just don't know what to tell you. Even I, in the twilight's twilight of my career, came to the XWF with loftier goals in mind...and reached them! You are quite literally DEVOID OF PURPOSE. So if you don't plan on actually accomplishing anything here, maybe you should just make way for someone more enterprising, like Finn Kuhn. I'm not explaining that shit to you, Google his disappointing ass or phone a friend.

Ugh.

Maddy looks back at Shane, who now seems to be sifting through the burnt remains. She returns her attention to the camera with a thin, sardonic smile.

Anyhoo, it turns out there's like two other (entirely forgettable) people in this match. Let's start with, ehhhhhhh, EZRA? Sure. Are you the ginger or the OTHER other one who looks like a desperate middle aged Gay man? Oh, who cares! You're all just bit players in the Azrael Erebus extended universe anyway. I mean, sure, sure, you've got your own powers and your own story and blah....blah....blah. But it's like in Star Wars where every single goddamn character, even somebody who appeared on screen for like half a second, has some kind of fully realized identity and an action figure and probably some poorly written sci-fi novella all about them. But literally nobody cares about any of it but socially stunted autists with custom made Chewbacca butt plugs. Bitch, normal people don't care about the BIT PLAYERS! And that's what you are! We're here for Han Solo, not random cantina alien number 437.

Which, when you stop and think about it, who the hell IS the Han Solo in your word? Erebus?! Jesus, that's got summer box office BOMB written all over it.

She laughs derisively for a moment. She then takes the wine glass and pours herself another drink. But to do that she has to pick up the bottle first. She pours the drink and puts down the bottle. Then she takes the glass and brings it to her lips. She drinks the wine. This scintillating narration is brought to you by TK INDUSTRIES! TK INDUSTRIES, WHEN YOU GOTTA FALL ASLEEP THE FIRST TIME EVERY TIME!

And fiiiiinnnnaaallllly.....this Ravenwolf chick. Ya know, I'm pretty sure I've seen your face plastered all over the discount rack at Hot Topic. Which kind of blows my mind because I didn't realize there was even THAT much demand for cut rate witchcraft. Now look, I'm not one of those HACKS that's going to go around telling people “A BLOO BLOO BLOO SO UNREALISTIC” and pretend like that's some kind of linguistic masterstroke. Although apparently I could make a KILLING on Anarchy doing just that. Heh. Nahhhh..... I think you are what you say you are. But to me, that just begs the question....how are you so BAD at it?! Like, bitch, you waltz in here every couple months on the dot, shoe horn your way into a pay per view you don't deserve to be on, collect that check alongside another loss, and away you go. Are “eyes of newt” really that expensive now? No, seriously, I've been out of the game for a while so I have no idea.

Okay, okay, so you're basically just showing up to get your shit pushed in and make some quick scratch. At least you're smart enough to demand real money instead of X-bux. But, I don't know, have you ever considered....ya know.....winning? I mean, that probably wouldn't even be that taxing on your arcane abilities, right? How hard would it be to give a fatass like Barney Green a coronary? Lord knows how clogged those arteries are from a nonstop shame fueled diet of Big Macs and Bleu Cheese Pizza. But no, you couldn't even get that much done.

In point of fact, do you even know you're booked for this show? You should be able to see this through your cauldron or your magic mirror right? Well, I hope you can anyway.

Madison flashes the camera the double bird.

Eat shit, Goody Fuckup. You're gonna be the one I pin. Callin' it now.

Madison turns her attention away from the camera again and we see that Shane is kneeling next to the vat of fried midget corpse. He appears to be holding a small silver ring in his hand.

What you got there, Shane-o?

Shane's eyes are wide with shock as he turns the ring over in his fingers. Then, impulsively, he brings it up to his nostrils to smell it. Madison winces. Sooooo....how's that smell?

It's unmistakeable. He turns to the show manager, who at some point had wandered on stage to calm things down. YOU ANIMALS! YOU MONSTERS! Shane rages, and he brings the ring up to his nose again to take a huge whiff. It still smells like....Gilly's asshole.....and Frodo Smackins' dick! Shane leans over the side of the tank, as tears start to form in his eyes. I gifted this cock ring to Frodo all those years ago. He was wearing it that day he raped Gilly.

Madison starts to dry heave in the background.

Oh Frodo....oh Frodo! WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO YOU?! Shane reaches into the vat and grabs a heaping of Frodo Smackins' ashes. FROOOOODOOOOOOOO! Shane howls in anguish and starts to rub the ashes and the cock ring all over his face. Madison pukes underneath their table.

Walt Whitman ain't got nothin' on this shit!

SCENE!