2A: Relentless

Chicago, Illinois, USA.
26 September 2021.

The day had been relatively warm for Chicago in the fall, enough so that Dani had managed to get out and see the sights. A country girl at heart, born and raised out on a Nebraskan wheat field, this was the first time she had been to Illinois. When she would tell me the story, the details were still as crisp in her mind as they were the day that she was there. She went up the top of Willis Tower, took a stroll down Michigan Ave, and even got a lovely old lady to take a photo of herself in front of the Cloud Gate. Through every detail she recited to me about her day, it felt like I was right there with her.

While she was on her journey out to the Chicagoland Speedway for the third night of Relentless, the sun began to set, and with it, the winds seemed to change. A howling gust blew through. Looking back, she now wishes she saw that for what it was: a sign. This night wasn’t going to work out how she had thought.

It started with the planning. She could only afford to attend one night, and as far as she was concerned, there was no competition. It was always going to be Night Three. Not being particularly technologically-minded, however, it wasn’t until the day of the event that she realised there was no easy public transport running out to the grounds. Given that it was such a popular destination, she assumed the system would be set up well to accommodate the thousands of people travelling there any time there was an event. She was wrong. The speedway wasn’t embedded into the public transport system at all. Complicating things further, it was too late to rent a car, and the taxi fee seemed astronomical. As a solution that could cut costs down, she opted instead to travel as far as she could by train, and then just grab a cab from there. That was the second flaw in her planning. That night, the taxis were in hot demand. There were a lot of people trying to get out to the speedway, and darkness began settling in while she waited.

The crowd outside the train station - with a similar idea in mind as Dani, she surmised - began to thin, climbing into taxis of their own. She was one of the last to go, and by the time she got to the speedway, Robert Main was putting Cris Page down for the count in the first night’s match. With the benefit of hindsight, and knowing which of the two of them still shows their face, I couldn’t help but chuckle when Dani added that detail. It was like Main won a battle, but really, Page won the war.

There were five other matches between that opening bout and the reason she was here, but she stayed glued to her seat throughout, waiting.

It was worth it.

The war that unfolded in the Main Event was everything she hoped it would be, especially the ending. Some, she knew, like Charlie Nickles, had tried to slay the king on multiple occasions and failed every time. It was rare that anybody could put the doctor down twice. But He did.

She found it easy to look past what would happen afterwards. It wasn’t anything new for Him to be attacked by those seeking to stake their claim on the world, and that certainly described the intruders from OCW. When the dust settled, it wouldn’t matter. He would rise up again, she knew it. He would fight for his existence. And it would end the same way. It always did.

Always.

The true chaos came after the event when she was in trying to get back to the city. At first Dani was bumped and barged by the masses squeezing out of the exits. That led to a hunt around the edge of the grounds to find the taxi pick-up and drop-off zone - a trip that took her the entire way around, having clearly missed the signs right outside the exit she first left from when encased within the crowd. As with the train station before the show, by the time she was able and ready to go, the people had begun to thin out, leaving her waiting in near isolation. The wind began to pick up while she waited, and she hugged herself tight to try and keep warm. The red flannel shirt she wore over the top of her white tee was made more for style than for function - country chic. It offered little true protection, and in particular, exposed her arms entirely.

She didn’t know how long she waited there. It may have only been a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity. She was cold, tired, and growing more and more frazzled with every passing moment. When a taxi finally turned up, she rushed into it.

“Train station, please” she said, doing her best to keep intact the manners that were drilled into her from the day she was born. With an indecipherable mumble, the driver accepted the fare and pulled the car out onto the road.

The ride was relatively uneventful, and for that, she was glad. It stopped without much hassle, and she paid her fare and hopped out, huddling up in the face of the whipping wind once more. Accompanying the building gale, the first droplets of snap shower began falling from on high.

“Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no.” The forecast had said nothing about rain. Dani pulled on the collar of her shirt, yanking it awkwardly up and over her head as a shield from the rain, and she hurried across the pavement to the safety of the train station. With a big sigh of relief blended with exhaustion, she fell against a nearby stone wall. When she told me about this story, she could swear that a rugged, brown rat had taken shelter from the rain right next to her. She only noticed it in her peripheries, however, and when she looked up, it was gone.

A shudder ran up her spine. Not a shiver from the cold, but a creepy, haunting feeling of something other rushing up her spine.

The lights above flickered and zapped at the same time.

“Ugh,” she groaned, and tried to put the feeling out of her mind.

Making her way towards the closest turnstile, she rummaged in her handbag for her purse, and fumbled her card out of it. She looked up, and stopped dead.

“Oh… oh Lord!” she cried. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no!”

It was the wrong station!

The cab driver had taken Dani to a different station than she had gotten off at, and the worst part was, she knew that it was her fault for not being specific.

Her breathing began to spiral out of control. She tried to reign it in.

“It’s okay… it’s okay…” she repeated, talking to herself to try and bring herself back down. “Everything’s got to go back to Chicago, right?”

She would later understand that this was correct, but at the moment, she didn’t even have time to confirm this on her phone. The sounds of boots scraping along the ground drew her attention, and she whipped around to be faced with three shadows stepping through the blinking amber lightning.

“Hey guuuurrll,” one called, closing in. Twisted teeth caught the light first, before a misshapen face followed. The whites of his eyes were stained a putrid yellow and framed by creeping red lines. “What’s a purrdy lady like you doin’ all tha way out hur’?”

Dani’s eyes flicked around, looking for any other form of life. Even the rat would do.

But there was nothing.

She stared down the lens of a hanging camera, but the state of the rest of the station became apparent to her at this moment, and it didn’t fill her with much hope that the camera was operational.

“Take it easy,” said another, stepping from the darkness himself. Dried blood from freshly picked scabs stained his chin, and a fly found its way to the wound, landing without being batted away. “You’re scarin’ her.”

“Don’tchu worry ‘bout nuttin’,” the third added, slipping beside Dani and cutting off the last easy exit. The only way to go now was backwards, towards the turnstile and tracks.

Switching her attention back to the third man, she saw that his face was unkempt and a little rounded in the cheeks. Other than that it seemed largely free from the grotesqueries that the others presented with. He walked with a slight limp, but that was about it.

“These fellas dunno how to treat a lay-dee,” the limping man said, putting extra emphasis on each syllable of that last word. “But I gotchu. You an’ me. Whaddya say?”

Dani’s heart was racing once more. She took an extra look around the station. And she bolted!

She turned for the turnstiles, and tried to rediscover that ancient part of her that won silver in both her high school long jump and high jump competitions. She didn’t get the chance to find it. The three men’s hands were on her, one latching onto her handbag, another to her other arm, and the third wrapping his sweaty palms around her neck. They pulled her backwards, and she splattered across the ground. Her purse spilled from the bag and one of the men instantly scooped it up. The same happened with her phone. The third man, straddled Dani.

She screamed.

Again and again she screamed! As loud as she could! As loud as she ever had before!

Boots scraped along the ground.

“Hey team…” A voice! From where?! Dani strained her neck backwards. A big toe wiggled at her from a hole in a pair of low-cut Chuck Taylors. “Anyone got a light?”

Hands left her body.

Her bag - purse, phone, and all - was placed delicately on the ground next to her.

And three men offered ALIAS a light.

He hovered a cigarette over one of the lighters, and drew in a short breath to get it going.

“Thanks guys,” He said with a smile.

The three thugs all mumbled ‘you’re welcome’, and went on their merry way. Space Jesus Himself stood still, puffing away, just under the roofing. Dani pulled herself to her feet.

“You’re…”

“...A bit cold,” He says, rubbing his own arms. “Looks like you ae too. Hey, do you need a hand with that?”

Approaching, He scoops Dani’s bag up from the ground and hands it to her.

“That…” She couldn’t find the words. “They… I… oh Lord. Oh Lord! Oh Lord!”

Her knees buckled, and she began to wobble. Just before she fell, she was saved by a fast-moving arm.

“Hey now!” She was helped back to stable footing. “It’s okay! You’re okay! Let me help you through here. Where are you heading off to?”

Dani didn’t see what He did to make the turnstiles open for the two of them, but she was positive it didn’t have anything to do with paying for the ride. With His arm under her shoulder, He helped escort her through and towards an uncomfortable steel bench by the tracks.

“Chi… Chicago,” she eventually managed.

“Oh! What a coincidence!” He gleefully cheered. “So am I! I’m pretty sure there’s a train coming through here in just a couple of minutes too. Why don’t I make sure you get home safely?”

“Umm… sure,” she agreed, not even knowing why and certainly not questioning how he knew that information of the cuff like that.. She knew who this was - the XWF Universal Champion at the time. But she didn’t know Him. Not really.

Even so, she still knew she could trust Him.

And here’s the thing that amazed her:

He got her right to her hotel. Easy peasy; safe and sound. What was even more astonishing for Dani, was that the entire journey back, all He did was listen. To absolutely every issue she had in her life! Can you believe that? He listened better than anybody she had ever met, and that’s a direct quote from Dani.

She said it was exactly what she needed, exactly when she needed it.

---

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2B: Story Time

“Speaking of listening…” Steve Sayors says, placing his notepad on his lap and clipping his fountain pen to the rings at the top of it. “I’ve been listening to this story you’re telling me, and wondering again what it has to do with Charlie Nickles?”

Seated across from Sayors on a matching egg-like armchair, Lance purses his lips. As washed-out as ever, his face appears almost translucent under the three-point lighting. Blue rivers of veins fork out across his forehead and cheeks and the area just around his collar looks red and itchy. This is him at his TV best and even then, it leaves a lot to be desired.

Several days ago, Lance had met with Steve unannounced. Intruding on a sit-down that Steve had arranged with the number one contender to the Universal Championship, Lance regaled the XWF’s long-standing interviewer with the story of how he met his BEST FRIEND ALIAS - twice. Eventually, the soon-to-be champ (again) would take over (after he returned from doing ALIAS things, no doubt), and Steve got what he wanted alongside a promise for another sit down. When the invite came for the second round, it was via Lance once more. Just like last time, they were to meet in a hotel room - this one noticeably shabbier than when on the XWF’s dime.


Steve had been hesitant when he first saw the building. The exterior of the building had a line of barbed wire running around a high chain-linked fence, with graffiti sprayed right there on the front door. Letting one of the production team members enter first, the whole group scrunched up their faces - especially their noses - when they went inside. Water stains ran down the peeling wallpaper from the ceiling, and a dank must hung in the air. They thought about leaving, but when Steve turned around, he almost soiled himself at the ghostly face of Lance being right there behind him. With a representative of their subject in attendance, there was no time to leave, so they had no choice but to settle in. When they did, Lance just started talking again, without even acknowledging that the man Steve actually wanted to speak to wasn’t there.

“It’s the same thing,” Lance replies, catching Steve’s attention again. “Dani’s story is just like mine. He was there, right when we needed Him. Don’t you see, Steve? It’s like I said… this is a movement.”

“Okay…” Steve still struggled to make the link. “But Charlie Nickles?”

“We went through this. Charlie Nickles is just an example,” Lance says. “He has a choice to make in how he responds in the face of the incoming tide. It’s not just myself and Dani, Steve. There are more of us. More and more every day. Charlie Nickles will either swim with the tide, or against it. Either way, it serves as an example for how my BEST FRIEND ALIAS will respond. Charlie’s fate will show everyone else what the correct course of action is.”

“This is all sounding quite…”

“Amazing?” Lance asks, not giving Steve a chance to finish his own thought. He keeps going, preventing Steve from offering any correction. “I agree. This is something special, and I am honoured to be a part of it.”

“You seem like you’re the public face of this… ‘movement’,” Steve says. “You’re handling Twitter, doing face-to-faces with me, et cetera. What’s Dani’s role in all of this?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” The voice isn’t Lance’s, though Lance’s face lights up at the sound.

He’s here.

##The sun sets. Rejoice!
And in the morn’ it rises.
Rejoice! Yes! Rejoice!##

ALIAS never opened the door. That had made Steve uneasy last time, and a second occurrence did nothing to change that. But there he was - holes in his shoes and all. And he had a woman with him.





“Steve Sayors, this is Dani,” Lance says as an introduction. The woman nervously waves, not expecting the attention. Ever the gentleman, Steve rises from his chair to greet her. Conscious of not getting stuck in an awkward half-squat like last time, he rushes through something as simple as standing up and almost knocks his chair over in the process. With a panicked stammer and a blundering attempt to save the chair, everything about his image that he had tried to prevent by standing so quick is just made worse. When he finally gets the situation under control, he turns back to Dani with blushing cheeks. As he had tried to do to begin with, he offers his hand, and though she isn’t forthcoming with it, she does eventually shake it.

“Lance just got done telling me how you met ALIAS,” he says, glancing to the force of nature standing casually next to her. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Oh, right… thanks,” she starts. “It’s kind of funny to look back on, in a bit of a twisted way. It could’ve been the worst night of my life, and instead it turned into one of the best.”

“Just as it was one of the best when I met you,” Lance adds, looking only at the woman. “I was going to tell that story next, Steve. It really paints a good picture of what we’re doing.”

“What a great idea!” A pat on Dani’s back is given to try to both encourage and reassure her. Everything about the enthusiasm behind it seems one hundred percent genuine.

“Umm…” Steve thinks. “I appreciate the offer, but if I’m being honest, perhaps it would be better just to speak to you?”

He directs the question at the only one of the three who actually competes in the XWF. Dani - clearly not comfortable in the public speaking space - feels her shoulders loosen as she relaxes. Lance and the target of Steve’s interest both look disappointed, but the former Universal Champion nods in understanding, and Lance follows his lead, standing up from the chair.

“It was a pleasure as always, Mr. Sayors,” Lance says to Steve. He gives a little courteous bow, and ALIAS rubs his back a little as the two pass across the floor, swapping places.

“I’ll catch up with you guys again afterwards.” Lance and Dani both acknowledge this, and give a short wave, as ALIAS settles down into the hot seat.

---

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2C: Bowel Movement

“You’re going to have to help explain this to me,” Steve Sayors began, finally breaking a silence that had extended much longer than anticipated after Lance and Dani had left the room. The interviewee had asked for a glass of water as soon as his backside hit the chair, but he seemed content to just sip away at it rather than offer any sort of conversation. to the point of the glass being nearly empty now. However, with this intrusion of speech into the stillness he had fabricated, courtesy of Steve, there seemed to be a shift in his eyes. A darker shade of blue retreated to the edges of his irises, allowing a more mellow tone to project forth and almost throw Steve off. But he’s a professional! And he had questions to ask, damnit! With the silence broken, he opted to dig his heels in. On his end, the subject just sat there. Smiling. “So, I asked to meet up with you in order to get a gauge of where your mindset was now that you’re back. You’ve already knocked off Unknown Soldier in a match that many of us thought we would never see; you’re set to take on Xavier Lux later today; have Charlie Nickles locked in for Warfare, and at March Madness you’re getting a rematch for the Universal Championship against Peter Vaughn, after being cashed in on about three months ago…”

This exposition is met with an extra flare of the sides of the subject’s mouth, making his smile even more smiley. He nods, raises his eyebrows, and makes other ‘normal’ physical signs of agreement that encourage Steve to keep going.

“Yet when we arranged a time, you sent your… ‘best friend’, Lance instead.” Steve thumbs towards the door that he assumed Lance was diligently standing guard outside of.

“He gets a bit carried away with all that ‘bestie’ stuff,” the responder says, finally breaking his own silence. It doesn’t help Steve’s understanding.

“Right, well…” Steve pushes for more. “This time you were the one who reached out, but again, I just get Lance telling me a story that you’re only peripherally involved in.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘peripherally’.” The denial causes Steve to scrunch up his face. “Each of those stories you’ve heard are a story about me, just as much as they were about my ‘friends’.”

“That actually answers part of what I’m wondering then,” Steve continues. “I wasn’t sure if that was Lance just being overly eager, or if it was something that you specifically asked him to do.”

The last drops of water in his glass are knocked back.

“Why not both?” The man opens his hands to the sky. “Ol’ Lance is definitely an eager beaver, that’s for sure. And as for the rest? Well…”

To Steve’s eye, a cigarette is conjured into the man’s hands. He looks expectantly at Steve, as if he was waiting for Steve to do something. Movement from the side of the room draws both men’s eyes as one of the cameramen scurries towards the man with a cigarette lighter drawn. He holds it in place long enough for the smoke to be lit, before retreating back to his workspace behind the camera.

“I don’t think you can smoke in here,” Steve objects.

“Oh they don’t mind!” A wave of the hand dismisses the complaint. “Trust me. I introduced the owner to her husband!”

“Is that… a joke?” Steve asks.

“I mean… it is a funny story if you’re wanting to hear it.”

“NO!” Steve shouts, responding before his mind even catches up.

“Suit yourself,” the man shrugs, puffing away in his chair. Steve’s eyes lock in on the glowing embers, and the man picks up on his unease. In a near Russian doll-like situation, Steve picks up on the man picking up on Steve’s unease.

“Even if the owners don’t mind, I kind of do,” he says. What a wet blanket.

The man chuckles.

“So let me get this straight,” he thinks aloud. “You’ve been trying to pin me down, and now that you finally have me, you’re what… wanting me to go outside? Knowing that it probably means I won’t come back?”

‘Probably’. Steve knows that the word ‘probably’ doesn’t mean what it usually means, so is forced to accept the situation for what it is.

“That’s what I thought,” the man says with confidence. “Look, I don’t mean to be an asshole here, Steve. I just want you - and everyone else - to remember what I do. Can you do that for me, bud? Can you cast your mind all the way back to when you and I first met. You came out to talk to me, in a fleabag hotel not unlike this one, somewhere in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Arizona. From that very first moment, I established the boundaries of how this would work. I sit, stand, pace, whatever… and I tell a story. You, and everyone else, listen. You, and everyone else, interpret. And then… then I win.”

He takes another hit off the cigarette.

“That wasn’t me though,” Steve says. His opposite cocks an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“When you first returned to the XWF, it was somebody posing as me who you met with. Somebody who was just trying to mess with you.” Concern creeps into Steve’s voice as he leans forward. “Have you forgotten?”

“What? No!” The accusation seems to shock him. “You have forgotten.”

He’s obviously taking the mature approach here.

“You’ve forgotten how all of this works. Damn near all of you have.” With every hit of the cancer stick, he seems to grow more arrogant. He inhales again. “Those names you listed: Soldy, Xavi’, my lil Char’ Char’ - they’re examples. Come on, Steve! I said this last time! They’re examples that I can still do what others might think impossible; examples that I will still put down anybody who stands in front of me; examples that no matter what you fucking say to me - I have you dead to fucking rights. And I need to make these examples of people, Steve! Need, need, need! It’s like getting cashed in on has made certain people forget who the fuck they’re talking to. Look at Bobby Bourbon for example! He’s back to making up excuses that don’t hold up under scrutiny…

Sure Bobby, call literally being rendered unconscious a ‘technicality’.

It’s not like that’s actually more convincing than just being put down for three seconds or anything

Oh wait… it is.

…Peter Vaughn thinks that beating Jim Caedus one-on-one puts him above the guy whom it took a werewolf, two factions, an army of zombies, Danny DeVito, and an actual white whale to put down; and Mark Flynn still dreams of his stupid, fucking, optimal path!” He glares, not at Steve, but down the barrel of the camera. “Newsflash: There is no optimal path for that cunt! All there fucking is, is ALIAS!”

His chest heaves under his heavy breathing. The cigarette burns in his fingers, just as the fire does in his eyes. Not blue, but red.


“I’m sorry, Steve,” he says, bringing his ire back under control. This is the second time Steve has seen this man need to re-assert himself over his emotions, and it worries him. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not even mad at all. Not really. It’s also not like everyone has forgotten, either. People like Corey Smith, and even Thaddeus Duke, have both point blank told Petey Vee what the fucking pecking order is. They know, you know? They know who I am. They know what it means when I say that ‘I AM ALIAS’. And I return the favour - even if I don’t like Thad, I know that the two of those fuckers are among some of the only arms that can even dream of climbing the mountain that I fucking AM! But that’s what all this is about. These stories, Steve… they’re reminders for the dipshits who have forgotten. Or even those who have chosen to wilfully ignore the truth!”

“By that you’re talking about…” Steve trails off. He’s finally gotten the ball rolling.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The God-Killer understands exactly what Steve is doing. “Charlie Nickles. Ugh!”

“Did you watch…”

“Sadly, yes.” The cigarette runs low, and he dabs it out on - wait, where did that ash tray come from? “You know how Charlie told that sweet joke about me?”

Steve nods.

“Well I’ve got one too!” the World-Eater boasts. “Knock, knock!”

Being the personification of the Urban Dictionary definition of ‘vanilla’, Steve Sayors loves himself a good ‘knock knock’ joke. Hell, he loves himself a bad one even! He’s keen as beans to jump in.

“Who’s there?”

“Charlie Nickles!”

“Charlie Nickles who?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Steve!” the man exclaims. “You messed it up, man! I already said the punchline! Charlie Nickles is the joke!”

He forces a laugh. Or maybe it’s legitimate. It’s hard to tell. Steve’s mimic, however, is clearly feigned.

“Don’t tell me you’re buying into that bullshit Bobby Bourbon was spinning when talking to Charlie,” the man says. “The point of comedy isn’t to tear down structures. It’s to be funny. Thunder Knuckles gets a pass for now on that front - see my previous comments about Robert Main - but Bobby and Charlie should maybe give that a go if they’re going to be trying to play comedians. Know what? I’ve got another one: Who from BOB pinned me in a match?”

“I…” Steve stutters. “I don’t know. Who?”

“FUCKING NOBODY!” the War-Winner shouts. Steve doesn’t even pretend to laugh. Neither does the jokestory-teller.“Yeah, okay, that one’s more sad than funny. But hey… that BOB structure of power sure as shit got ‘torn down’ didn’t it? And THAT is comedy, my friend!”

Steve is pretty sure the leg slapping that follows is an act. He contrives a smile, and tries to get the conversation going once more.

“Charlie said that…”

He gets interrupted.

“You know that there’s literally a list out there of the languages I speak, right?” the man asks. “And Portuguese ain’t on it. Jesus, haven’t they done their fucking research? I thought they were ‘around’?!

Merdas idiotas.

Oh wow! I better have Lance update that shit! Although the Spanish equivalent is actually kinda the same…”

Not getting anywhere, Steve tries a firmer approach.

“The conversation between The Bastards suggested that you left the moment that you got pinned,” he forces through. “What do you say to that accusation?”

The silence returns. Fingers drum on the arm of the chair - not out of offence, but of annoyance. He smacks his lips like a fucking coke fiend.


“TK should realise that in order for there to be a ‘pattern of me tucking my tail when I get pinned’, there actually needs to be more than one data point,” he says, full of confidence. “We’re talking at least three. But there haven't been three, have there? I don’t think any of those dumbasses even realise that, but I tell ya, buddy, they need to learn quick-smart! The facts are that there are a grand total of zero other times that I’ve eaten pins in that ring outside of when Jim Caedus cashed in. Fuck, let’s expand it out further since Those Bastards’ brains are clearly plugged into a different Matrix than the rest of us. How many times have I even been handed an L of any kind? I kind of advertised all of them in the build-up to my dance with Lycana, so it’s not like it’s a dirty secret.

If they ‘did their research’.

Fucking HA! Got ‘em with a motif. Classic me.

I know that you know it Steve, but for the benefit of Those Not Good Bastards, here’s the answer…” The former Universal Champion breathes deeply. “Four. Just four. EVER. As in, I’ve had to swallow my pride as many times as Charlie lost in like April alone last year.

I admit that I am definitely making that statistic up…

‘Research’! LOL!

…but it sounds correct, doesn’t it? And every time I faltered, what happened? I came back for more, that’s fucking what. Forever, and ever.” The Legend-Breaker has well and truly settled into a tirade by this stage. “Bailing when I lose? Shit, before Bad Medicine, the last time that I lost was fucking six months prior and I TOOK THE UNIVERSE BY FORCE THE SAME DAMN NIGHT. What a pattern that shows! Hey, Steve… how long was TK gone for after losing the Tag Team titles?”

There is no time for a pause or recollection. The show surges onwards.

Awkward, am I right? And Bobby?” Space Jesus asks to the aether. Shit, I’ll leave his absence to be surgically scrutinised by the professionals, but instead, I want to switch tact a bit and draw attention to what Charlie’s doing here. He’s fucking seeking affirmation from one of the guys who literally tried to step up to me, made himself look like a goddamn fool, and is now trying to white it fucking out.

What was that again about never setting sights on The Bastards?

Oh, and if he’s counting himself amongst BOB’s ranks now, then the little bitch should refer back to The Great Dodging of March 2021 that I pointed out last time for the same damn effect.

Point is…” He’s barely even breathing at this point. It doesn’t seem like he needs to. He just keeps going. “If Charlie’s taking lessons from people who had a chance to put me down but couldn’t fucking cut it, that kind of tells you all you need to know about how this is going to go, doesn’t it?”

“He did spend a lot of time pointing out how he ran off the people that you were seeking to fight on Warfare…” A moment of quiet gives Steve an opportunity to try and steer the conversation once more. “Last time you tried to lay out your own views on this topic. In light of what Charlie said, has that forced you to reconsider your perspective?”

“Steve, Steve, Steve…” the D’Ville’s Bane repeats, shaking his head. “Was I wrong about anything he would try? Should we run through the checklist?

Number One: Did he try to rip on my motifs and metaphors? Yup! He sure did. Minotaur, thisl Minotaur, that! Can’t understand this! Can’t understand that! That’s clear as fucking day there, and it’s especially depressing for them to know that even if I fucking spell things out for these motherfuckers, they still miss the mark entirely. A single fucking brain cell between the lot of them, I swear. And what else? How uninspiring I am? What a fucking doozy! ! I know, I know, I’m casting the net beyond just Charlie here, but it’s not like he was disagreeing with his BEST FRIENDS’ opinions, was he? Oh, and look! When /sSomeone literally said I was mediocre and uninspiring, lo-and-behold, the balance of power remains the same! It’s fucking ME! Way to shit on your own point and boost my own rep, fellas. Thanks!

Number Two: Did he try to yank my own shit and use it against me? That’s a big check, right there! Ash it all, baby! Speaking of, can I get another light?”

The same production team member from before scampers back towards the Master of the Universe, and another cigarette gets lit in his mouth. Not understanding why this happened Steve tosses his pad in the air in frustration and it lands a few feet away from him. He feels a bit naked without it though, and snatches it back up before the ranting and raving resumes.

“Number Three…” The list picks back up from where it was left off. “Was some sort of alternate reality constructed? That’s a big ten-four! Aparentemente eu sei português!

We’re on to Number Four: Were there comments on how I look? Let’s see what we got, eh? Blonde? Goth? Emo? What the fuck ever. TK said it, Charlie aired it, and I’mma score it! Also… a bit rich coming from Trailer Park John Goodman. Or Fat Tom Green. Par for the course, really. The sumbitch tried it one year ago and had the exact same amount of success. That is, none.

All that’s left is Number Five: Touching on how everyone falls apart soon after getting that ALIAS touch. At first, I thought that he managed to avoid that one. I was gonna say ‘not for long!’ and then pat myself on the back for another joke funnier than any that Charlie could ever tell…

We’re not counting him looking in a mirror here.

But…!” he pauses for effect. “You’ve got me a-thinking, Sayors-San!”

“How so?” Steve asks.

“Charlie’s out here taking credit for running off the Exiles and Apex, right?” Steve nods. “That totally tracks given how Jim Caedus was still there fighting Vaughn at Fire and Ice, eh? Must’ve also been why Bam Miller was out there celebrating with Vaughn after he won! Definitely the work of Charlie Nickles there!

As in… FUCKING NOTHING!

Hey, do we even know if Bam Bam’s even still alive, or is there an Andre Dixon situation going on here? Maybe Lance needs to hit him up on the Twitter Machine…” He glances towards the door, until an idea strikes him. “Shit! Speaking of…! Charlie’s been a-wondering if I didn’t keep up with the comings and goings while I was gone as if the internet doesn’t fucking exist! Like… really, dude? We know that they have some high speed shit out at the BOB compound or wherever the fuck he and TK are having fucking slap fights…

Just bang already, guys. We all see it going that way. Bring the ex-wife in to if it helps you feel more comfortable!

…Barney needs his PornHub, after all! Yet Charlie, the guy who was ‘around’, still somehow missed that Theo gave Vaughn the shot rather than Lane, AND that just like Caedus and Miller, the Mains sure as shit ‘showed up’ against Flynn and NK!

Get it?

‘Showed up’?

I’m on a fucking roll with the Ha-Has today, and fuck you if you disagree!

Again though, that sure shows that he ran them off, doesn’t it?” He rolls his eyes. “And look, I know that I acknowledged TK put Robbo on Ice, even though I just said that having another match afterwards kind of invalidates the whole thing. Just calm the fuck down okay? In terms of evidence against their claims, Charlie has one thing that TK doesn’t: A Betsy Granger. I submit to the jury, that Betsy - last seen on XWF telly on January the 12th - kept sticking her beak into shit long after Charlie shamed her!

Which he did by the way.

Honestly, take that as me giving you some credit, Char’ Char’.

As far as Archyle goes? I’m pretty sure he could be dug up if needed. And Lycana?” He recoils, completely stunned by even hearing the name. “Who the fuck even asked about her? Get the fuck outta here! Fuck her, and fuck Charlie too! That blue bitch, just like Betsy, is one of the only reasons that I’m not raking Charlie over the coals over the shit that he definitely spoke about BOB in the past, despite now singing those past incarnations' praises! I too, changed my mind about people I thought to be wastes of fucking time. The thing is… with those two? I was fucking right the first time. Maybe Charlie should think on that a hot minute…”

“So…”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Wait a goddamn minute!” The Wolf-Skinner interrupts before Steve Sayors can even formulate a thought. “I didn’t include this specifically in the checklist, but I sure as shit expanded on my rationale for all of this shit I just laid out last time, so I’m gonna go ahead and say that I ‘called it’, and slide it in as a reserve in place of the Fate of my Foes. Yeah, I may be cheating, but fuck it, it fits the narrative! That is: Story. Telling. And there we have it, folks! Full fucking cirlce, see how easy I make this shit?”

He looks to Steve as if he expects an answer. Steve just wanted to throw his papers once more. He knows. He’s lost control of this. This isn’t his story.

“The match stipulation…” Steve says, trying to add something to the conversation. “An Inferno match. It feels like the debate around whether Charlie can pin you is meaningless in light of that, doesn’t it?”

“In a way, yes,” the Soldier-Butcher agrees. “I’d argue that makes the task even more arduous for ol’ Char’-Bear though. Fire? Fuck, man. I am the fire. I don’t need to give you the line again, do I? I’ll just show off this instead…”

He holds his gloved right hand up.

“This tells the story of everything you need to know about my journey with fire,” he continues. “The objective here is to set the other person alight. How the fuck is Charlie going to do that, huh? Ever since this… I don’t burn in the flames. I fucking thrive. I step outta the goddamn fire and take back The Universe. I did it once already, remember? As far as I’m concerned, this match is fitting, ‘cause now I get to do it all again. There’s just one question I have about it all though, and this is one that I don’t want you to answer, Steve. I want Charlie to. When I set his ass on fire, and then go on to take The Universe back from Peter Vaughn… why the fuck should he get another shot at me when people like Mark Flynn exist - who beat the current champ?

An optimal path towards failure, sure.

Still better than already failing like Charlie.

Or someone like Thaddeus Duke, who hasn’t had a shot since he lost possession himself over a year ago?

A cunt by every measure (still), but I’ve never denied his capability.

Or better yet, Corey Smith, who has held a championship for a hell of a lot longer than The Nicklebitch?

And will still be a champion by then. Unlike Charlie.

Char’ Char’ himself surprisingly said it best: Two of the best to ever step into an XWF ring. Since when was his name in that fucking conversation?” The man cracks a half-smirk. “Spoiler: He’s not. Shit, Derrick Diamond still can’t even spell Charlie’s name right! Weak, insignificant, nothing to fear, and nothing of note. That’s how people talked about BOB, according to Charlie.

Oh boy, I’m doing the thing again!

That’s how they still talk about Charlie Nickles. And look, this is kind of a threat, but not quite. Food for thought more than anything. Still… you know how I get with Eating.”

Steve Sayors waits. What he expects doesn’t come.

“I, uh… I thought that was a set-up,” he says. “For… you know?”

“No need,” The Label-Gatherer says. “It’s already happening. I already said it! This is a movement, Steve. Remember that.”

“A movement…” Steve repeats. “That keeps coming up.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” -He- acknowledges. “Hey, instead of meeting like this next time, why don’t you come out to see for yourself? Lance can give you directions, and you can see first hand what we’re talking about.”

“Yes!” Steve quickly agrees. This sounds big! This sounds important! “I’d love that!”

“It’s a date then,” ALIAS says. Smiling. Winking. Leaving.


~~~