The beginning. We all have to start somewhere. I guess one could argue the beginning of my ascension within XWF’s walls took place at War Games. But, I beg to differ. That was merely a preamble. The prologue to a (hopefully) terrific novel.

It was detached from the journey.

The journey. My official walk along this treacherous trail begins THIS Wednesday. I’ve snared the attention of my peers. I’ve made my intentions known. This isn’t some one-night stand. I’m not some sort of one-off joke. I’m here to stay.

The parentage of my existence has been established and now it’s eventual impact will begin to resonate. Yes, the beginning starts on Wednesday.

---

I was all in. My first experience with Edward Mof assuaged any and every concern I had. The man had changed the entire trajectory of my life in the span of a few hours. If you had asked me, at that moment, I would have confirmed – Miracle Worker.

The next day, training was set to begin. I understood the journey was just beginning. I knew it would be long and arduous but, with Mof at my side, with the potential interest of a female looming outside my personal window, I had the confidence to face the challenge.

“You!” a voice cried out as I entered the gym for the second time in as many days. I paused. Mof continued walking, heading toward the grizzled trainer, handing him some cash. The voice belonged to a stout, angry-looking fellow who waited in between the ropes of a squared circle.

I pointed at my chest and looked around. No mockery, I was legitimately curious.

“GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!” This guy wasn’t fucking around. His cadence went from zero to one hundred in record fashion. My eyes found Mof. He tossed his head toward the ring, indicating I had no choice.

So, I did my best to produce a confident stride, sauntering toward the ring. I placed my palms atop the ring apron and looked up, smiling. He reached through the ropes and grabbed a hand full of hair.

“Ahh!”

The guy yanked me onto the apron and through the ropes. It hurt like hell. Before I knew it I was on my feet, bullied into a corner. My face was instantly compressed within the fury of his right hand, which resembled a hungry claw. I managed to open my eyes enough to see the agitated gaze bearing down upon me.

“So you think you can puke all over my new truck and get away with it?”

Oh...oh no. It was HIS truck. Fuck me. I’d totally forgotten.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Looking down, I saw a knee jammed directly into my abdomen. It pulled back and was thrust forward, a second time, sending me gasping for air. I tried to fall to my knees, but he would not allow any such reprieve. He stood me up and sliced through my chest with a blood-curdling chop.

Most of the students inside the gym grimaced. A few smart asses let out a ‘woo’. The chops continued until, finally, he backed away, shaking his inflamed hand. My chest, meanwhile, oozed blood. I sought refuge, looking over my shoulder. Mof stood in my corner, reaching in, he gave me a pat on the calf, “Hang in there, kid. Take it like a man. It’ll be over soon.”

I don’t know his definition of soon, but it was far different from mine. I took the beating of a lifetime that day.

Lesson learned.

Do not puke on someone else’s property.

---

A person has to take their lumps. Nothing of value was ever achieved without some form of painful growth. The beating I took on my first official day of training was an important lesson learned. And, it wouldn’t be the last.

War Games was an opportunity, make no mistake about it. It was an opportunity for THE WIZARD to show XWF that I’m more than a shitty five minute set at your local comedy club. I took that opportunity and I ran with it. I proved that I’m here to stay.

Along with that success came failure. I fell short of the ultimate goal – victory. To say I was disappointed would be a lie. A tall task? Sure. A foolhardy goal? Maybe. But one can’t help to dream.

Alas, it was not meant to be. I suffered at the hands of superior competition. One in a long series of reminders that I have a considerable distance left to climb. This, despite my impressive performance, is just the beginning.

With that trial by fire behind me, I turn my focus onto Greggo and Bilbo. Two individuals who appear to be the ‘Glass Joes’ of XWF. Yes, I’ve been playing a lot of Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out. No, I have not advanced beyond Super Macho Man – yet.

My hands are tired. My fingers are spasming. This game is not for the faint of heart. Normally, I might spare my phalanges the workload just in case I need to gouge an eye or take part in an impromptu thumb war but, I get the feeling these hands won’t be too terribly necessary. At least, not at 100% capacity.

When I originally saw the booking...I don’t want to say I was offended, but a bit crestfallen. My crest was fallen. Yes. That’s the term...CRESTFALLEN. I hoped after my War Games performance that the powers that be here in XWF would take THE WIZARD a little more seriously, pitting me against something resembling a contender. But, no. I was placed in the piss-break match of the evening. Comedy fodder for the fans with the shortest of attention spans.

Fine. It is what it is. I’ve never been one to complain. As I’ve said, this is the beginning. Another in a long trail of trials. In order to reach the next level, I must pass the first.

I intend on doing just that.

---

“So, you’re a wizard…” Mof’s voice trailed, slightly behind his brain as it worked to piece together the puzzle which resembled one of Picasso’s finest. It made no sense to Mof. But, that didn’t mean it was nonsensical. He just needed to get it.

The Wizard, head hanging in the midst of the Woods of Elderdom, let out a long sigh. He was defeated. Jamal had let him down. Edward Mof towered over him proving that life, is indeed, a cruel circle of painful reruns. He stroked his beard, hoping that might provide a sense of wisdom. It didn’t. Apparently, in order for a beard to be sage, it must be original, homegrown. Store-bought just isn’t the same.

“Do you...do any tricks?”

The Wizard’s head jerked upward. His eyes, at least what little of them Mof could decipher, were ablaze with fury.

Mof’s hands went up, “Okay! Okay! I didn’t mean it as a joke. I was just wondering if you took magic lessons or something.” Mof took a seat alongside The Wizard...their asses warming the cool, dead wood belonging to a deceased log. Edward, to his credit, was trying to understand.

“I guess…” The Wizard, despite all his powers and wizardry, sounded vulnerable. His voice carried the cadence of a man ready to open up. “I guess I just didn’t want people to recognize me.”

Mof leaned back, wearing a puzzled expression.

“Ya know, things were looking so good for me back then. I was in shape, increasing my in-ring repertoire, promotions were calling, asking about me and then…”

The Wizard didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. Both men remembered the day The Wizard ended it all. The day he threw in the proverbial towel, leaving money, acclaim, and celebrity on the table. In truth, he was a top prospect. Major promotions were HIGHLY interested in attaining his in-ring skillset. It all seemed a given.

A given until personal calamity struck, wiping out The Wizard’s muse. Smothering the light guiding him through the darkness. At that moment, he checked out.

The Woods of Elderdom had never been so still, so silent. Even Jamal was afraid to wave his branches around.

“Well then,” Mof’s hands slapped the thin fabric covering his knees, “The Wizard it is!”

The Wizard looked in Mof’s direction, wondering if this was all some kind of joke. Would Edward Mof truly accept his gimmick? I mean, it was kinda lame and goofy. Mof’s original intention with The Wizard was to turn him into a menacing, ferocious goliath.

“Seriously?”

Mof, taking the rare opportunity to look down upon his giant protege, extended a hand, “Absolutely. I get it. A fresh start. Erase the past.”

The Wizard stood. A familiar feeling began to grip him. The feeling of trust. He fought it away, “Well, good. Because that’s who I am. I don’t care what you say.”

“Mhm...but I think...I think we need to set something up.”

“What do you mean?”

“An autograph signing. I think we need to have you sign autographs at the next event. Get your name out there...get you back in the wild and out of these...these...woods.”

All of the trees swayed with anger. Edward’s expression was one of surprise. The Wizard raised his staff. The trees silenced. “Okay.”

Mof, surprised by The Wizard’s capitulation, smiled and gave him a pat on the arm. “C’mon, kid! Let’s head back to your place...there’s still time to mold you into something.”

---

It’s hard to say, exactly, when the Me-Mof train went off the tracks. I guess that’s how life works. You’re driving along smoothly until BAM, out of nowhere you hit an unexpected pothole, flip the fucking thing over, and emerge forever mangled.

I’ll give the dude credit. He whipped my lard ass into shape. My apartment was clean as a fucking whistle...which is assuming all whistles are clean. I bet they aren’t. Have you SEEN some musicians? Dirty as fuck.

Anyway, my apartment was super clean. Calvin’s old bedroom no longer served as a mortuary, reminding me of his faded presence. Instead, it had been transformed into a pretty decent work out room. All the necessary free weights, a stationary bike, and a bench for pressing. Keep those pecks tight. This is an aesthetic business.

And, if you choose to enter the squared circle with a body less than pleasing, aesthetically, you can always don a robe, becoming a wizard. Just saying.

But, yea, things were good. Mof dropped by every morning to make sure I got the day started off peachy keen. Protein shakes, smoothies, juice concoctions, organic meals...the whole shebang. He was worth every penny I shelled out for his services. Considering I found him on Reddit while in a drunken stupor, I have to say...I hit the fucking lottery.

Oh, and that chick I met at Starbucks? Things were going pretty solid with her, too. Mof was giving me instruction on how to proceed. How to dress. How to act. How to present the best version of myself.

Shit was tight, man. No longer was I feeling like the boy visiting comic-cons dressed as Professor Xavier. I had developed an inner voice of self-confidence that only a man acquires. I’d matured, finally, into the realm of adulthood.

If this sounds like a happy story...a fucking fairy tale, that’s because it is...or was. Ya know, up until the point it all went to shit.

But, ya know...I don’t really feel like getting into it right now.

There are bigger fish to fry.

So, let’s leave the past where it belongs. Let’s leap back into the present and see what the fuck Edward has in mind for this autograph signing.

---

“Okay, it’s all set for the local soup and deli.”

“The local Soup and Deli, you mean?”

“Yes, sorry...the local Soup and Deli.”

“Okay...and we’re sure it’s not the local SOUP and DELI?”

“100% sure, kid. You will be signing autographs at the local Soup and Deli.”

“Alright,” I paused, giving the idea some thought. The social anxiety I’d developed during my days as a hermit attempted a vice grip around the gumption I’d mustered to take part in the event. “I can do this,” I sucked down some wind into my quivering chest, trying to calm things down.

“Of course you can, kid. You just sit there in your hood and sign stuff.”

“Did you make sure that Mastermind is banned?”

Mof nodded. “You still angry at him, huh?”

Edward remembered my ordeal with Mastermind. He understood the genesis of my hatred in regards to this man. The silent understanding meant we didn’t have to take a stroll down that lane.

“Don’t worry, he’s banned.”

“Great…” my mind traveled into a compartment designed solely for mischief, “speaking of, I have an idea.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

---

Here we are, Tuesday night. On the precipice of my official XWF debut. The first test, of many, to see whether or not I have what it takes to succeed within this great, storied promotion.

Have you ever studied for a test...like, really studied for a test? Studied so hard you hit a fuckin brick wall so stout that you felt as though your head was going to explode?

Yea, okay, this isn’t THAT bad.

I mean, to say that I’ve labored over the bios for Greggo and Bilbo would be an incredible act in the art of lying. But, I have chirped, ad nauseam over this match, it’s meaning, and how focused I am to ensure it does not slip through the cracks.

At this point, I can feel my wheels spinning at a pace fast enough to blitz the field of an Indy 500.

Redundancy for the sake of length is a pretty shitty burden to place upon the head of a promotion so I think I’m going to cut this thing off before it becomes Return of the King and its twenty-something false endings.

Greggo, Bilbo...guys, brothers, quasi comedians...I look forward to the unique challenge you both bring to the table. It will be a lesson learned in the launch that is The Wizard’s XWF career.

When I’m XWF Champion and people head over to my Wikipedia page to find out when and where it all started, they’ll see the names Greggo and Bilbo. That’s about the best I can offer. Take it and bask in my aura.

---

The box arrived. Edward Mof, standing over the box, casually yanked a pair of box cutters from his pocket. He looked at me with a wry smile, wiggling both eyebrows.

“Why do you have that?” I asked.

“You know me, kid. I’m always prepared for whatever situation may arise.”

I guess that explained the baggy pants. And here I thought he wore them so that his...nevermind.

The box was slit open. Both flaps were pulled back. If this is beginning to sound grotesquely sexual, I apologize.

In a moment that can best be described as Pulp Fictionesque...gold rays of light exploded from the box’s contents, bringing eternal warmth onto the aging face of Mr. Mof.

He smiled, “Hot damn! These are marvelous.”

Barely able to contain my excitement, I rushed over, staring into the box. “Almost as nice as my Dave Matthews Band T-Shirt.”

Mof didn’t agree.

Regardless, the shirts had arrived. We were all set for the local Soup and Deli.