The city was a bleak, blasted hellscape of detritus stacked upon detritus. Consecutive concrete slabs laid prone over the screams of the indentured and desperate that came before. Plunging into the depths of that urban devastation, a lone figure scuttled down a claustrophobic alley, hemmed in on either side by crumbling edifice and pools of liquid that could easily have been sewage backup or piss. His journey is occasionally marked by the appearance of a delirious transient or the bloated refuse of some deceased animal.

Yes folks, Corey Smith is in deep.

With a furtive glance to his left and right as he comes to an intersection of this decayed labyrinth, he snuck a look at his phone hidden beneath his jacket to ensure his bearings were correct. Now assured, he made a left, stepping around a charred dumpster before arriving at a discrete iron door. Corey licked his lips nervously, before rapping his knuckles on the door three times in precise fashion. In short order, a tiny window built at eye level snapped open. A well worn staple of these “descent into a shady underworld” tales, but no less effective.

Beady leering eyes stared through the small egress. Password, bro!

Corey leaned in. Um, “King shit.”

The little window snapped closed, and a pregnant minute passed before Corey could hear a metallic screech coming from just behind the door. Then, it yawned ajar. The same voice from before barked out, Come on bro!

Corey opened the door ever so slightly, just enough to squeeze in. A pallid, unreliable light illuminated the scene. Corey saw that his interrogator was a well built young man. A veritable “Chad” if you will.



Of course he’s not wearing a shirt. Corey clears his throat before launching into a line that seems rehearsed. I am here to study in the ways of toxic masculinity at the feet of the master.

Damn right, bro! Come this way, bro!

Corey follows the rippling mound of muscle down a nondescript hall until they get to a service elevator. Corey follows him inside and the crosshatched door is pulled shut with a squeal. With a press of a button, they are soon headed downwards. Corey shoots a look at the muscle man. So, uhhhh, how long have you worked here?

No talking on the elevator, bro!

Okay. Yeesh. Sorry. Corey slumps a bit, chastened. After what seems like an impossibly long descent, they finally reach a hidden floor concealed well below basement level. The chad opens the door and beckons for Corey to follow. Soon, his view is aided by the warm glow of countless candles. Corey can’t help but marvel at the sight.

It resembled a prototypical Asian temple, except the columns holding the domed ceiling aloft were carved in the shape of flexing “dude bros”. Corey followed his company to a small staircase, where another dump truck full of muscle, devoid of a neck, was waiting. The two chads nodded at each other.

Bro.
Bro.

Corey tried to make out what was at the top of the steps, but it was more dimly lit. Um, hello…?

Suddenly, a meaty hand was clasped on his shoulder. Bro, you fuckin’ kneel in the presence of the master!

Corey relented, dropping down to his knees. Sorry, my bad! Then, turning once more to hone in on what was atop the stairs, he finds his eyes acclimating to the shadow, and soon the master was laid bare.



King Shit addresses Corey. What’s poppin’, bro?

Oh, well, thanks for asking your….um...majesty. I’m actually feeling pretty good today. It’s nice to step back into another comedy bit to kind of distract myself from…

You talk like a bitch.

Corey stops abruptly. I...what?

You talk like a bitch.

I talk...like a bitch…?

BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII……

Could you not….?

…..IIIIIIIIIIIIII….

I don’t know what purpose this serves.

……..TCHHHHHH…….

You about ready to wrap that or…?

……..CHAAAAAAAA.

The chads standing guard behind him are sharing a particularly goony sounding laugh. Corey looks up at King Shit, distinctly annoyed. Sir, I came here to learn the ways of toxic masculinity precisely BECAUSE I’m sick of being called a bitch and not being taken seriously!

Only bitches use words with lotsa syllables. That’s lady talk, bro.

Corey gesticulates in frustration. Okay, then tell me what I should do!

Okay, bro. First off, you gotta change your look. You look like if a dude was a lady and it makes me uncomfortable.

Maaaaaad uncomfortable, bro!

How do I do that?

Hit the fuckin’ gym bro. Hit it hard. Hit it ‘till you puke. Squats till your asshole falls out.

I mean, I already do work out…

King Shit ignores him. How do you think I got to be 800 pounds of pure muscle?

Corey looks at King Shit with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. Huh?
I’m 100% Alpha Male Gorilla.

I’m not comfortable with you calling yourself a gorilla, honestly.

Shut up, bitch!

Corey sighs, and shifts his weight on his aching knees. I don’t understand! I don’t feel like I’m learning anything!

How you fuck a bitch?

He shakes his head in confusion. “How I”….what?

King Shit grumbles before responding. How. You. Fuck. A Bitch. ?

You mean, “how do I have sex”?

Pbbbbtttt. At least you didn’t say “make love”. But yeah, genius! How you fuck a bitch says a lot about how much of a man you are. If you ain’t railin’ a bitch till she goes full quad you ain’t a real man.

Corey still looks lost.

Oh fuck’s sakes, bro! You pound that punnani pavement until that bitch a cripple!

Corey looks aghast, but King Shit continues on undeterred.

You put that bitch in one a them wheelchairs you gotta control with your tongue, you know the one...the one…

The one that scientist used!

Yeah, with the keyboard.

Corey looks around him with appalled incredulity.

Hellllls yeah! And she gotta roll back to your crib and type that shit out with her tongue, “Baby I still want more of that dizzick!”

Oh yeah! I’m getting hard right now.

The other chad distances himself from his counterpart. Dude! Gay!

It’s not gay he’s thinking about the wheelchair chick!

Corey leaps to his feet, holding his hands up as if to ward off the crushing stupidity all around him. Jesus, enough! I’ve heard enough! Toxic masculinity is definitely not for me! He looks up at King Shit. And as for you! He plunges headlong up the steps. The chads react too slowly to catch him.

Dude, step away from King Shit!

Corey reaches towards the crown.

Do not touch that crown, bro!

Undaunted, Corey plucks the crown from atop King Shit’s head. He looks down, crinkling his nose in disgust. Wait a minute, you’re just a piece of shit! Then, remembering he’s still clutching the crown, he tosses it away with a grimace and waves his soiled hand in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The chad bros, who had made it halfway up the steps before Corey reached their king, suddenly start to pant and wheeze. The scene goes full body horror as their flesh starts to soften and slip from their bulky frames like taffy. Corey holds his hand up to his mouth in shock, and then dry wretches when he smells the poop on it. Wrong hand. Smooth.

I cried at the end of Gilmour Girls! Chad number one howls as he puddles on the steps.

I love pastels! The other one cries as he completely liquifies, leaving nothing but a tank top and gym shorts.

Corey stands in numb shock at the sheer insanity of what he just witnessed. He starts to descend the steps, careful to avoid the soupy jocks that block his path. Finally, he makes it to the bottom and bends over at the waist, hands grasping his knees, as he tries to catch a breath.

Damn...that was….something. He pants. When he stands up again, he’s looking into the camera. But if that’s what it took to make me realize that Andre Dixon’s neanderthal swagger just wasn’t my bag, so be it.

He shrugs with a smirk. Then, dancing in place a bit, he snaps his fingers and starts to sing a rendition of Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain”.

Oh Andre, I bet you think this song is about you, don’t you, don’t youuuu?!

He drops back into a normal tone. Well, you’re right. It is. Because your personality is the equivalent of a long withheld Taco Bell fart cut in a crowded elevator. You know, you would think that the nephew of the great Jayzon Williamz would know enough to steer clear of every “angry newcomer” promo cliche in the book, but here we are! But maybe that brand of blithe ignorance is genetic, seeing as how you’re related to the man who willingly adopted a name that’s “what white people think black people spell their names like.”

Oh, yes, yes, yes! I know Jayzzzon Wiliamzzzz is one of the most accomplished men in XWF history. Maybe even THE most accomplished. But ya gotta admit….that name? Corey chuckles. And Jayzon, I don’t know where you got that pod person version of Theo Pryce that slobbed all over your nuts, but that could not have been the real Theo. Real Theo goes gaga over nothing and no one but himself. Man, when I came back from my stroke you’d think I would at least get a phone call? But nope. Theo sent me a card, a Happy Birthday card, with “good job” written inside. Corey shakes his head and mouths “pod person” for emphasis.

Anyhoo, here we have his progeny. The strapping young stud seeking to walk in that same path to greatness. I’m guessing you got those promo skillz from your uncle too? Man, if that's what passed for hype back in the day….he whistles. I’d say the standards have shifted a bit since he of the superfluous Z’s held court . Oh, you bet your ASS that’s a pointed “double dog dare ya” look at the camera!

So Andre, are you really here to fuck shit up? Like, really for reals FUCK SHIT UP?! Because I don’t know about you, but fucking up my place of employment sounds a lot like shitting where I eat and I just DON’T THINK THATS A GOOD IDEA!

But you know what, this isn’t about me, it’s about Andre. Remember the song? It’s about Andre’s prodigious research telling him that I’m a softball. Andre, did that same research inform you that I scored a pinfall on your boy James Raven in a tag match? Did you research inform you that I’m undefeated since my return back in October? And before that the last time this body was pinned or made to submit in an actual match was March 2019? Did your research uncover THAT? Did it uncover that I once shared brainspace with a masterclass assassin from the future, followed by a malicious genocidal artificial intelligence? Those might have been things worth mentioning if you had done your “research”. But I guess I can’t blame you too much. You seem like the kind of guy who was in the “guppy” reading group when you were a wee one. Research IS hard, isn’t it Andre?

You know what else is hard? Stepping out from the shadow of a more established family member. It’s possible, for sure. My good friend Thad Duke’s done it. But you? Heh, man is there like ANY daylight between your persona and Jayzonz Wilzumzzz? You kind of seem like a bland cover song take on your uncle. A remake totally lacking the soul and je ne sais quoi (that’s French!) of the original.

Let’s talk about some other real, real dumb things you said. Bonus points for calling me “one half of the tag team champions.” Turns out you slept your way through fractions too. There’s three of us, numb nuts. And congrats on being the one millionth promo to point out I got handed the tag title. Because you know what else I did? Defended them through TWO TLC matches within a month’s time of each other. You think I don’t got gumption? That I don’t know the hard way? Says knock off Fitty Cent who probably wouldn’t be working anything above a bingo hall without the rub from his more famous uncle.

Now let’s talk about weak links. No, scratch that, let’s talk about how Continuum has no weak links. And even if it did, in some strange, far away, alternate universe where Andre’s first promo wasn’t the second coming of fucking AMBIEN...it damn sure wouldn’t be me.

Check it, Ice Pube, I’ve been in four tag matches since my return. Four matches. Four completely different partners. One of whom I actively despise! And in each of those four matches, my team won. In three of those four matches, I’m the one that caused the decision in our favor. Now, what do you think the probably is of me being some useless weak link given that information? Don’t hurt yourself Pythagoras, it’s ZERO. The probability is ZERO. And if you hand actually done your homework, like you said, then maybe you wouldn’t have tried that brain dead bullshit on for size.

So why am I down here jerking the curtain with you? Maybe I just like slumming it sometimes. Or maybe I’m doing it to keep an eye on potential threats to Continuum’s spot. Or maybe I’m doing it because I like to put overconfident, cocksure, blisteringly ignorant rookies like you in your place. Regardless of WHY I’m here, I’m YOUR problem now. And if you’ve learned anything so far from any of this, it's that I’m a much, much bigger goddamn problem than you realized.

This is NOT going to be the birth of a new era. Ask the last 100 guys who said that about their eras. Spoilers, most of those births were stillborn. And yes, I do feel kind of icky making a joke about the unborn. My bad.

So let me tell you what this match WILL be. This is going to be me, sending a message to a multi-time former Universal Champion. This is going to be me, going over some puffed up macho steroid rage problem of a man….he pauses, and smiles a nasty little smile….and looking your uncle dead in the eye as I do it. That’s right Andre, you’re a means to an end. The appetizer before a main course. Because as far as I’m concerned, my healing, my return to THIS RING, will not be complete until I’ve slain a dragon. He pauses for as beat. Even if that dragon has a criminally stupid name.

Corey takes a breath, looking like maybe he’s wrapped this up. But then, he waggles a finger in the air and glances back at the camera.

Argh, God, I can't help it! I gotta do it again!

Fuckin’ PUZZLES, dude?! Old ladies do them while they soak their dentures in Polident! Lonely spinsters do them while they pretend they can’t smell 10 cats worth of cat piss caked into the rug! Preschoolers do them, Andre! PRESCHOOLERS! So suck this down, Mobb Derp!



Now who’s a shook bitch? Smith OUT!

He pretends to drop a mic as he walks off camera.

However, the camera continues to follow him a moment. The crew, assuming the camera has stopped rolling, stroll in to start breaking down the set. Corey stands off to the side, phone up to his ear.

Hey, Christian, I’m free now. What up, man?

The shot pulls up and over the scene, pulling back, further and further, as the sound of Corey’s voice echoes through the open sky.

Hey, Christian, I’m free now. What’s up, man?

Hey Christian, I’m free now. What’s up, man?


We follow the sound of the signal up past the clouds, pulled further and further through the atmosphere until finally breaking through to the inky blackness of space.

Hey, Christian, I’m free now? What’s up, man?

There, the signal from Corey’s phone is devoured by a hulking beast of a satellite, black as pitch. It resembles a perched bird of prey, it’s endless eyes and hungry mouths processing streams of data from Corey’s phone, Corey’s computer, Coreytopia itself. It even has a glance or two to spare for Thad Duke, Doc D’Ville, and Dolly Waters. The great artificial beast thrums with a mechanical unlife as it goes about it’s programmed mission.

The camera pulls back and behind the satellite now, where a red blinking light supplies you with just enough light to make out the Dyson corporate logo plastered on the great beast’s side.