You gasp for air. Like a fish re-emerging into water, you heave… Your lungs struggling to reacclimate…

…Where were you?

And where are you now?

“...Mister… Um. You, there.”

You turn your head, taking in your surroundings.

A bleakly dim, yellow waiting room.

The chairs are angularly sharp, covered in a plastic film. Designed to appear sleek... and to provide zero comforts for the sitter.

“He’ll see you now.”

You try to breathe in fresh air… Trying to draw comfort from having freed yourself from… wherever you were.

…But here the air is heavy. Humid.

Something in the atmosphere. When you breathe, your lungs tighten and constrict.

It’s hot and muggy. Wholly unpleasant.

…

Is… something…

Behind you?

“Well, well, well!!”

You feel a shove to the back. In your state, it feels like a door lunges forward to you… You flop into an office.

From behind you… A man-shaped thing wearing a suit steps into view.

It sits down at a desk in front of you.

“If isn’t… um…You!”

The creature is faceless… But, despite his featureless visage, you can read a twinge of frustration in his tone.

“...You.”

From his back, the creature retrieves a folder… Which he lays down on his desk.

“It’s been a minute since you’ve been around. Almost as if the Optimal Path has no idea what to do with you.”

The creature flips open the folder…

“Not talented enough to climb… Not memorable enough to be stepped over. Insignificant.”

“POWERLESS.”

…The creature snorts.

“I mean, as far I can tell, you don’t even have a name. Not only do you not have a name, but your moniker is EQUALLY NON-BRAND-FRIENDLY. Y’all Know Who? That’s not a wrestler, that’s a Texan Voldemort.”

The creature leans over his desk.

“Real talk, I gotta level with you… How are we supposed to market a product with NO NAME? How are children supposed to beg their unhappy parents for an action figure of someone NO ONE KNOWS THE NAME OF? The holiday season is right around the corner, kid and the marketing department has ZERO IDEAS on how to monetize your FAILURE OF A BRAND.”

“Do you not understand that this is a BUSINESS? This is a GODDAMNED ENTERPRISE. We keep our lights on by selling 64 oz souvenir soda cups with iron-on semi-toxic pictures of our talent at the arena where we produce our shows.”

“They cost 74 cents to produce. We fill them with poisonous sugar water and sell them for $17.50. THAT’S FUCKING POWER, kid.”

“And I ask you again… WHAT DO YOU CONTRIBUTE TO THE ECONOMIC MACHINE?”

“Star power? As-FUCKING-if. Your record is humiliatingly weak. 2 wins, 1 loss.”

“Which, on paper, looks middle-of-the-road, right? Beats Marf in percentage. Hell, even better than Dick Powers. Maybe you should be getting a Uni shot, huh?”

“FAT FUCKING CHANCE. Because one of those victories, at the X-Kimo Battle Royal… Who did you beat?”

“No one. You weren’t the best. You just managed to be the only one who showed up to an open-call match.”

“That seems to be what this company rewards. What this INDUSTRY rewards.”

“Look at the big World Series of Wrestling. The magnificent shining idol of wrestling achievement. WHERE ONLY THE BEST-OF-THE-BEST ARE INVITED…”

“And what makes the first round survivors special? What do the top 35 who remain in contention all have in common?”

…

“Everyone else forgot to cut a promo.”

“THAT’S what counts for achievement in this sport. THAT’S what passes for excellence.”

“Perfect attendance. That and a four-move toolbelt will earn you a world championship in 80% of these garbage tier wrestling companies…”

…

“Well. Not any FUCKING more, kid.”

“Mark Flynn.”

“THE SUCCESS STORY™.”

“THE BRAND UPON WHICH THE XWF STANDS™.”

“TRADEMARK™.”

“I’m declaring myself fucking quality control of this industry.”

“The SHEARS, removing the CHAFF and the WASTE that is KILLING the wrestling industry.”

“My beloved sport is surrounded by festering parasites… Who got into wrestling as a springboard to the [i]Entertainment[/] industry… Desperately spinning this beautiful game into head coaching positions in women’s football leagues… Into shitty walk-on roles in trash-tier TV movies…”

…

“Speaking of which…”

Like a street magician, a card just seems to appear in the faceless figure’s hand.

“DON’T FORGET TO WATCH MY GOOD BUDDY, THEO PRYCE! THE STAND-IN PREMIERES ON THE SPLAT! NETWORK! APRIL 2023!”

…

Just as quick as it appeared, the card is gone.

You try to breathe again… The air is thin.

“And that brings us to you… Guy. People don’t remember you, huh? Nobody knows who you are?”

The faceless creature grins…

“How would you like to be remembered… FOREVER?”

You try to breathe through your mouth…

…But, it feels like the harder you work to breathe… The less air there is to intake.

“To be known the WORLD OVER…”

“Like the site of the first atomic bomb's detonation.”

“As a place where WAR WAS DECLARED.”

Your hands rush to your throat.

“As a man RAVAGED BY SOMEONE WITH A DIVINE FUCKING MISSION.”

You’re drowning above-ground.

“Do you understand what I’m offering you? Do you appreciate the importance of your role?”

You fall to the earth.

…The edges of your vision blacken.

…

…And yet… Even as you lay unconscious…

The creature remains in your vision…

“You will PERMANENTLY be remembered as a bloodstain. As a skidmark. As the PREMIERE of my divine goal to CLEANSE THIS SPORT of its pretenders. Of its FRAUDS.”

…

“And once your body has been broken… Once your blood has been spilled… Once your name has been etched into the memory of wrestling audiences across the planet…”

“You’ll be in perfect shape. In just right composition.”

“As you lay unconscious, limbs snapped in twain…”

“You’ll find yourself at the bottom of the mountain pass to legend itself…”

"THE GATEWAY TO IMMORTALITY."

“Laying before you…”

“Will be The Optimal Path.”

…

“Or you’ll die.”