March, 27th 2021

There’s hushed anxiety in the chamber, lending air for Mozart’s Requiem: Lacrimosa to infiltrate and haunt our senses from a classic spinning vinyl. Sweating pores drip onto fat-squeezing white collars, and fingertips fiddle against the gloss of a sprawling, vintage dining table, in a large room coated with 18th-century red velvet. A thick and swelling uncertainty is shadowing over a secret meeting. This meeting is tucked away in the den of an undisclosed mansion. A large group of global elitists has here gathered to discuss a new strategy for their particular brand of bloodletting cultism. Their last strategy, directed by their embattled leader of a growing ill repute, had failed.

“Rah!” an obese and balding man wearing a black robe over a white dress shirt and suspenders scoffs out while pulling a thick, partially lit cigar from his lips, “I don’t know WHY we didn’t just leave her there to die…” he continues on in a clearly contrived trans-Atlantic accent, “...That woman has done nothing but walk us further and further away from our main objective!” he emphasizes by slamming his balled fist onto the table, rocking the fine china and silver goblets that sit in front of each of the twenty table places.

“Calm down, Mattis.” A squirrely, frail little man named Morton says, also using that pompous accent from the thirties, as he sits next to Mattis. He’s sporting a combover atop of his sweaty forehead and wearing a monocle,

“I think we all know-”,

“I agree with Mattis!”, a giant, athletic-looking man named Mortis chimes in, cutting Morton off from his sentence and slamming his hand on the table as he stands to continue, “How much more of my time and resources am I going to have to pump into this operation, only for HER to use it on games of Whack-A-Hick with those mindless inbreds?”

Morton, the frail little man lowers his tone, but speaks snarkily, and directly to Mortis, “Our objective here is one that has been clear for centuries. Unlike our ancestors who began before us, we all happen to be standing in the midst of the turning point of the world. Not far removed from the objective.”

Morton’s words stir a frenzy. The men and women are shouting over one another and arguing about what this objective is, and what it means. The ruckus stays padded from the red velvet walls, keeping the grainy outside hallway in silence from all but an off-step clacking of high heels. Mattis stands to his weight-burdened legs and shouts, “Her actions only leads us astray from our purpose! When she arrives I am motioning for a vote of no confidence in-”, a heavy pop from the doorknob steals the attention of the room.

The cultists, each begin expressing their own forms of anxious ticks. Sweat whipping, cigarette lighting, hand fidgeting, all while keeping their eyes glued to the entrance. This is what they’d all been waiting for. This rouge troop of the world’s most influential power brokers all stood foreboding.

The door hesitates before gently pushing open. Misty Waters limps into the room with power and grace. She stops just beyond the threshold and pulls the hood of her black robe from her head. One side of her face is a beaten and charred abomination but emboldened with fresh foundation, eyeliner, and red lipstick.

The door hesitates before gently pushing open. Misty Waters limps into the room with power and grace. She stops just beyond the threshold and pulls the hood of her black robe from her head. One side of her face is a beaten and charred abomination but emboldened with fresh foundation, eyeliner, and red lipstick.

“A vote of no confidence?” her Southern drawl is relaxed, and patronizing, “in what, Mattis?” the room falls silent, albeit for Mozart still spinning. Mattis creeps back into his seat as Misty limps with a swagger into the room, taking turns glaring at each member of her fellowship. “If someone gots a problem with how I’m doing thangs-” her lip snarls as she looks at Mattis, “-then go on, speak up now. Remind me, if you will, darlin’, just what ’The Knights of M’ purpose is…”

Misty makes a poised, and purposeful round about the table. Looking down on each frightened member of The Knights Of M. The ghastly nature of her wounds is more visible to them all now. She floats around them all like a banshee or a curse. “I thought our purpose was clearly stated. Signed by each and every one of us in an oath of purity.” she bites, swaying her head between each word.

She stands behind Mattis now, hovering above him, giving him a gentle rub on his meaty shoulder. “C’mon, darlin’...” she strokes his face with her broken fingers, “SPEAK UP!” she shrieks.

Morton, the frail man next to Mattis, snatches a knife from the table and slams it into Mattis’ hand, stabbing through to the wood. Mattis howls out in horror and anguish. Misty pulls Mattis’ head back and slices deep into his throat, from ear to ear, with an ancient jeweled dagger.

It pierces and slashes in through the arteries of his throat as he makes a horrible gurgling sound. Blood sprays upward as she tilts his head back more. Misty stares into his eyes as he suffocates in his own blood. His arms and legs flailing and twitching. A collective look of terror on the blood-splattered faces of everyone in the room aside from Misty’s frozen features, and Morton’s maniacal grin. Mozart intensifies. Misty leans down into Mattis’s ear and whispers, “M sends her deepest regards.” before pushing his dying body back onto the table. The spilling blood from his throat trickling across the table like red dripping candle wax.

Misty tucks the dagger into her robe and looks over to Mortis, the strong man who was also questioning leadership, “Do you still ‘agree’ with Mattis now, darlin’?”, he pauses behind the beating sweat on his forehead, purses his lips, raises his goblet, and says, “Long Live M!”. The entire room follows suit. Misty grabs Mattis’s goblet and receives her toast. “Long Live M, indeed!”

The room eerily goes back to business as usual, eating, drinking, smoking, and laughing as Mattis still lies dying out on the table. Misty hobbles her way over to the wall in the back of the room where a large portrait is hung. Her eyes rolled up to meet those of the portrait’s, Mattis’ blood smeared across her face. She sucks on her teeth and nods to herself confidently.

“It’s almost time. Just a few more messes to clean…”


“...Empress Dyson."

A lifeless, but assured smile on her face,

It’ll take an act of God to stop us now.”

Heavens To Edgar

”I’m not doing a GODDAMN thing you say!”

I scream back into the phone, tearing my teeth into each other, my heart boiling inside of my belly. For my composure being stamped out with fury, I was still able to gather a cruel and steady tone as I spoke again,

”You listen to me, you stupid bitch. You’re either going to tell me where you are, or I’m going to come and find you, and so help me GOD, if dare lay a finger-”

A violent ache pierced into the side of my temple. I go blind. Faintly hearing myself scream in agony as my ears pop and ring. My body collapsed to the floor, but I only felt a numb thud. My head though felt like a watermelon being knifed over and over. The pain was indescribable. I thought I was dying from a brain aneurysm, but the white was fading back to color. The ringing in my ears subsided as my vision was restored.

My head was lying in a swamp of vomit on the floor next to the cordless phone. Blood leaking from my nose and my ears. I tried gathering myself, but I shook as if I had retched out every nutrient in my body. I heard Misty laughing through the phone, her voice causing it to rattle against the hardwood floor. I claw my way back into stability, panting, trying to massage my throbbing skull with the palm of my hand and picking the phone back up,

“What was that you were saying, sugar?” she says just as I put the phone back to my ear, “What have you done to me?!”, her laugh intensifies and grows more heinous, “What? Did you think I had you captured just to let that fat, homeless friend of yours come to rescue you? Let me make one thing clear to you, son. I am in control. I injected a microchip into your bloodstream that now controls your nervous system. With just the push of a button, I can make you suffer…” my heart races, “...or I can release a fatal dosage of tetrodotoxin into your brain. So again, HONEY, you’re gonna do exactly as I say, or you'll be seeing Marie up in heaven."

A crippling fear rips through my spirit. I have no option but to comply. My thoughts wander back to my father, and the meeting he arranged for me and Misty to meet months ago. I thought about the letter…

Onward Young Vagabond.

Why would he betray me like this? Why would he feed me to this psychopath?

He didn’t.

”What do you want from me?”

“Well, I was trying to tell you once before, until that human pile of opossum shit blew up my fucking house…”

Demos,

“...You’re coming back to Nazareth son. You’re going to go meet your daddy’s old Vietnam buddy, Chester Schelling. He’s got a package waiting for you. You’re going to take that package to Coreytopia, Florida, and detonate it on May Day. You’re going to kill my granddaughter and those two boys she runs with, or I’m going to kill you and your entire family.”

”Let me talk to them! LET ME HEAR THEM!”

Misty just puffs and scoffs,

“Let’s see if you can hold up some of your end of the bargain first. Get to Nazareth and we'll be in touch... and remember, you try anything stupid and I’ll put you out of your misery once and for all.”

She pushes a button again from clear across the globe, and I’m beaten down with that same agonizing chemical reaction in my brain as before. I hear her laughing as I drift in and out of consciousness, lying on my back dry heaving.

For all of my life I’ve always rejected the idea of the supernatural, of divine intervention, I likened any serious discussions about issues of the transcendent to that of fear-mongering fairytales. It was something I instilled in myself when I was young. I too prayed through the nights of quivering belly aches, but the prayers were never answered, and they never would be. If the heavens were real, they watched down on earth and human suffering with an indifferent eye. Even now, I think of my children and their gold-hearted innocence. What had they done to deserve such a fate as this? Marie… like me, she’d known nothing but agony. Who would continue on, tormenting people this way?

If anything at all, god was cruel and bungling. A capricious lunatic. A madman playing the music to our lives. I rejected the idea that a being of such caprice and callousness had any control over my life. My struggle was my own fight, the just-war that I wage alone. But yet there I laid on that floor, dehydrated, and in a painful daze as I tried scooping the vomit back to my mouth just to wet my tongue. Being controlled by an all-powerful, all-supervising megalomaniac and in need of a miracle.

The Stone.

It ignited and throbbed and bounced around inside of my pocket. The whole room became vibrant with a swerving glow of red, pink, and purple.The walls pulled away and bowed into themselves, curving as everything began to ripple. A crack of thunder, a strike of lightning… a heavenly miracle,

“You rang, Mister Edgar?”

Betsy Granger kneeled before me, smiling and holding out her hand, I returned a look of relieved incredulity.

“Are you ready to start believing? Because this war is long from over…”



Let me apologize to everyone first and foremost for subjecting you to listening to Chris Page talk circles around himself for the last few days inside of his echo chamber. But I told that dense fucker I wanted to give him some time to redigest that magnificent glob of a fuck-up he spat out.

Of course, he shoveled that meatless, watery puddle of shit back into his fat mouth, and my words right along with it, and now this whole "promoting" he claims he's doing has turned into nothing but the Regurgitation Olympics. It's turned into nap-time television like watching golf.

"Tune in today for our next episode 'THIS SUCKS', where we watch Chris Page playing in diarrhea-filled sandboxes, trying to mold shit into a castle! Yes, IT IS just like the last 47 episodes."

Chris can say what he likes, he can retcon and spin and lie but everyone watched him shit himself and scramble in his own inability to keep a story straight. Just like I said he would. What more can you expect from a coward who is too afraid to admit what they said? That’s what his pathetic title reign is all about, going back and trying to fix everything in the past to control the narrative of now.

I told you all that he was insecure, but who could blame him? There comes a point where you can only tear down every step that you made in achieving greatness before you turn around to find you've got nowhere to go. Before you render your own success a moot point, and before you get caught slipping and tumble back down your own stairless pit, just like Page has. He beat a weak champion, and everyone he's faced since then sucks. His words, folks. So according to the man himself, we're looking at the WEAKEST Universal Champion of all time. A man who has to pretend to be issuing challenges. Pretend that he's not going along with management and pretend that he isn't a stone-faced liar.

You can play make-believe all you want, pal. But tell me why I should have any reason to be afraid of stepping in that ring with you? You fucking swing with kid's gloves, bruh. I brought more substance, and more damning evidence of just how much of a punk you are in two promos than your rotting, overserved word salad has in six. I'm the one who got you talking about something interesting for once. You're welcome, everyone. I'm the one, the fill-in-the-blank synonym for worthless, who got you to do EVERYTHING I said you would.

No, I'm not just talking about laughing away at you considering promo features as a trap, while you play supporting actor in your shitty BOB fan-fiction. Anyone could see that garbage coming from a mile away. Apparently, features are a sore spot for the cameo king. Something he's probably heard about a time or two.

I'm talking about how I called you on how 90% of your promos are old match reruns, and filler. Then the very next time you dropped one, you cut that match of you beating Duke for the TV title down to the nuts and bolts, which is still too much to keep anyone interested. But you let me up in that head, huh?

I'm talking about me playing videotapes of YOU putting RL Edgar in your mouth. Felt pretty good by the way. But then, like a dumb, butt-hurt rookie you said that I was posting "screenshots."

--a dead-ass, blank fucking stare of confusion--

Screenshots? What do we type our words out now or something? Are you playing on the fucking internet too much? What an amateur. I played a videotape of you pretending to be the boss, and you got salty called it a SCREENSHOT! Goddamn, once again, Ghost Tank level shit, bruh. From the guy who airs nothing but XWF reruns of a jackass no one wants to watch, you would think Chris Page knows the difference between a videotape of himself talking and a screenshot. Are you missing your daily doses of turmeric, old man? I know listening to you talk is boring, and akin to reading oneself to sleep. But how could PERFECTION make such a stupid mistake? It makes me question how little attention you're actually paying, and how ill-prepared you are for this ass beating I'm going to deliver you.

But what else did you do? You started playing "screenshots" of your own. RL Edgar "screenshots". Did you know the difference between videos and screenshots then? When you fucking cried like a little girl about someone using your words, only to turn around and do the same shit yourself?

Pardon me for a moment while Chris Page looks for his pride...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You tried to use MY words to bend your mindless blathering I exposed back into something not-as idiotic. I'm sorry, Page. For even as concise, and direct, and wonderful as my arguments are, even they couldn't help you not look like a little a paper-tough guy.

After you shat a brick when I played your words back, you admitted to challenging Demos for the Universal Title, while also saying you only did it because Daddy Theo told you so, got any “screenshots” of that, boo? Of course not. I'm not saying it didn't happen. I told you from the outset that I would grant you whatever deductive you wanted to run with, and somehow, SOMEWAY, you did yourself in and chose the weakest of them all, saying that you lied about making challenges and that management made you do it-- words that self-damning never fall from your mouth without me knocking your teeth out first.

I said I would leave Chris Page scrambling to the promo booth, and what happened? Like a self-absorbed, frantic little bitch he ran, changing his story over and over. Suffering quality for quantity.

Just like what started with him saying that he was impressed with Edgar beating Lycana, which by the way, Modus Ponens, assumes the deductive that he thinks beating Lycana is impressive... he’s now turned that into Edgar not being worthy to face Page because Lycana pinned me in a tag team turmoil match that he said was pointless.

Jesus… Every other word you say negates what you said before it!

You’re one dumb piece of shit, Page.

Is this starting to sink in for anyone?

AM I SPEAKING PLAIN FUCKING ENGLISH?

Chris Page makes NO SENSE.

That’s what happens, AGAIN, when you mistake good promo work for pissing in the wind twenty-four seven.

Rather than build and admit that he knows Lycana is a tough customer, which would make his self-proclaimed victory over RL Edgar impressive, he’d rather shit on her via my proxy. Things are only impressive when they’re beneficial to Page. My win was impressive, but Lycana only worked her ass off to pin someone who sucks.

Sorry, Lycana.

I’ll give you credit even if Chris Page never will. You got beat straight up, one-on-one by a chump, and then scored a flooky inside cradle win on a chump. You beat a guy who was too “scared” to challenge you to Hart Title match, after you lost the Hart Title match, even though Chris Page says that champions don’t issue challenges, just when it’s beneficial for him to drive a fake narrative. More of that forgetting what you said shit on Page’s part.

Doesn’t that feel good?

Nice, huh?

Maybe stop riding Page’s dick so hard, Lycana. I know he might remind you of Baphomet being a coward and all, but at least your real dad knew when to keep dangling from the noose.

These are just more instances of Chris Page shitting all over his adopted children, be it BOB, be it Fury’s side fling with Baph he’s inherited. If you think Chris Page gives the faintest of fucks about any of you misfired gobs of semen, then think again. He’s already shit all over Bobby Bourbon, Thunder Knuckles, and consequently himself by dumping over my losses to Ned Kaye. Didn’t Ned Kaye beat both Bobby and TK clean? Didn't he beat Bobby for the Hart Title? The man who could handle TNGB by himself had to cheat, not once, but twice to beat RL Edgar. So tell me again, Page… what did me losing to Ned Kaye mean? Worthless? Wasn’t that what you said? Are you telling me that the guys who just knocked out Continuum, your out-in-the-open dickriders (Not whatever make-believe “backstage” bullshit you STILL keep gasping to bring up), are worthless too? Or does that mean that it’s not outside of the realm of reality that people can take a loss to Ned Kaye and come back and win? Chris Page lost to Thunder Knuckles. Does that now mean that Chris Page is shit because he lost to the guy who lost to Ned Kaye?

See what I’m talking about? When you consider everything and everyone in our line of work as “worthless”, you’re nothing but a man trending water right alongside everyone else, huh? So what comes next in your origins? Do we go back and retcon TK beating you? Make it an inside job all along? TK, I know you’re a no good bastard, but you can’t seriously be willing to let Chris Page cuck you out of the SECOND most impressive win of your career right? I mean he’s already weaseled his way into BOB and now holds Fury’s non-existent testicals in a jar, but you too? While simultaneously shitting on the career of your buddy, Bourbon? Hum. Some fucking friend.

At the end of the day, Page, you can’t run from the truth. You can’t run from your own words. You can’t say that you’re not going to be like every other Universal Champion and just fight who Theo picks out for you, and then turn around and say that you’re only fighting RL Edgar because the boss says so. That’s why I brought up Corey Smith, and Fuzz, and Dixon, and ANYONE else you could’ve “challenged” since you’re fighting such a “scab” in RL Edgar. Oh, but that’s right. You made that WHOLE fucking promo up, didn’t you? You weren’t challenging RL Edgar because I “warranted” a shot as you said, you were just being a good little bitch, laying around fat and happy stacking up wins against whoever Theo picks. Did Theo pick Drew Archyle too? Or was that Vinnie? Or Smoking Bob? I mean I know you “challenged” Anarchy Archyle to March Madness on live TV, just like you challenged me and Demos, but the fuck differneces does it make now. You said you don’t issue challenges. LOL

You’re such a petty little prick, and it’s going to so sweet putting you in your place on Warfare. Mad because a teenage girl’s Shove It is getting more shine than the Universal Champion. Maybe try not boring everyone to death with an endless origin story trying to fix all of your shitty histories and lying in the promo booth masturbating all day. It’s hard to watch, bruh. I know you’re used to getting plastic surgery and all, trying to change the past...

But if you seriously think you're doing anything other than burying yourself in front of the world in the process, think again.

Get ready, Page. This "worthless" wrestler is about to fuck your entire world up, and I won't be footing your next plastic surgery bill either. Eat shit.

Former:
1x Hart Champion
1x Federweight Champion
April 2021 RP Of The Month Still Waters Run Deep