We fade into a dimly lit shot of The Nickleman sitting at a table in an otherwise nondescript room. The Nickleman is dressed head-to-toe in festive Thanksgiving garb, looking something like a Washington Redskins fan from the 1980s- or perhaps just a modern day Kansas City Chiefs fan. His face is painted with offensive red lines and he’s wearing an antique headdress he probably found at a flea market. The camera is set up so as to only reveal Charlie’s half of the table, leaving whatever is sitting at the other end of the table to your imagination. What are you imagining to be at the other end of the table?

Well well well…..now that we’re alone, can you talk to me again?

Chief Nickleman leaned forward curiously, his optimistic expression lingering for a few seconds before being replaced by a scold and a sneer. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, Indian style!

Really? You’re going to keep pleading the fifth? How fucking typical.

Chief Nickleman shook his head from side to side with disdain.

You want to act up and ruin my family's first day of Hanukkah celebrations, but now that you’re being held accountable for your actions you go quiet? Who are you: me?!

The Nickleman chuckles to himself before bringing his arms down onto the table and clasping his hands together. He lets out a soft sigh before lifting his gaze back up to whatever is sitting directly across the table from him.

See motherfucker, I can get away with acting out and then hushing up because I’m the CHIEF round’ these parts, ya hear? I can cause a fucking ruckus, spill some body fluids, and then lift my hands up innocently because I’m the one and only Nickleman, and I run this fucking territory. Who’s going to stop me? YOU?! Pfffft.

The Nickleman rolled his eyes exaggeratedly to demonstrate the absurdity of the claim.

You? You could never stop me. You could never do anything of the sort. At best, you’re a perpetual annoyance. You’re a little flea just nipping on my ballsack, hoping to drain an ounce of greatness from me. It will never happen!

You hearing me, boy?

NEVER!

The Nickleman stared down whatever was across the table from him. The most decorated fighter in contemporary wrestling clenched his fists into balls as he gritted his teeth.

So just who the fuck do you think you are? Fucking with The Nickleman is a DEATH SENTENCE for anyone, man or machine!

Chief Nickleman let his threat linger in the air for a few moments before he shifted around in his chair.

I’ve been on every stage in this world, from Backyard Roller Rinks all the way to Madison Square Garden and back. I headline the greatest shows because my name on a poster alone is worth my weight in gold. Shit, I’ve won so much championship gold from so many federations this year that I’m starting to lose count! I’m kicking up dust and drawing out enemies from every fucking inch of this business….but just exactly where the fuck did you come from, eh?

What’s your beef with The Chief?

The Nickleman squinted across the table before finally throwing his hands up in frustration and standing from his seat.

Fine….you don’t want to talk? I have other ways to find out about you, don’t you fucking worry for one minute.

Before The Nickleman walks over to the only door in the room, the camera zooms out just enough to show both ends of the table. Finally, after all this teasing and foreplay, we see the pseudo-sentient creature resting on the table across from The Nickleman. But before I just TELL you what’s on the other side of the table....what did you THINK was there? Do you pay enough attention to simply know?

You’re the worst fucking radio ever!

As The Nickleman slams the door shut we see a vintage radio resting on the table quietly.

God damn piece of junk…

Chief Nickleman shakes his head from side to side, clearly disgruntled with the state of things, as he walks away from what appears to be a closet door. As The Nickleman leaves the closet the camera switches perspectives, and now we are treated to a point-of-view just behind Charlie’s shoulders.

The Nickleman walks away from the closet and towards a row of chairs situated in a semi-circle in front of an antique television set. We see a slew of OCW, IIW, and XWF championship belts all resting in their own chairs quite cozily, with blankets and throw pillows and everything! Directly in the middle of the championship circle rests Charlie’s most prestigious prize, the XWF Supercontinental championship. A princess tiara has been placed atop the belt’s chair and a small gift wrapped box has been placed between it’s leather straps. The camera switches to a neutral perspective as The Nickleman kneels down in front of his precious Connie. He lets out a long sigh as he caresses her championship plates.

So baby….what’s up with that radio you got me for Kwanzaa? It was all about interrupting us while we set up the tree, but now it’s all radio silence. Is there a remote or something for it? Does it need new batteries?

Chief Nickleman cocks a curious eyebrow when his ‘Connie’ responds.

Wait….what do you mean you didn’t get me that radio to celebrate the Winter Solstice? Are you saying one of these floozies actually bought me a gift?

Charlie gestured mindlessly towards his collection of OCW & IIW championship belts. The Nickleman squinted in confusion after ‘Connie’ responded to him again with even more sounds of silence.

Some strange man brought it into our home in the middle of the night? What the hell…why didn’t you tell me?! That sounds like a total security risk! You should have screamed as soon as you saw the intruder! What if he was going to molest you, or even kidnap you!

The Chief continued to plead with his championship belt as she justified her silence to him.

He smelled like……cheddar? And he looked like Jesus? What does that even mean, baby?

The Nickleman looked at his belt in confusion before shaking his head from side to side.

You know what….this isn’t making any sense. None of this is making any sense! We’d better watch that footage back again, maybe we’ll uncover some more clues if we watch it again and pay close attention. Maybe it wasn’t ever talking to us at all, maybe I just smoked too much fentanyl last week or something. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

The Nickleman stood up and walked over to the antique TV set against the wall, facing the semi-circle of championships. Beneath the TV you can see the old XWF video drone from the last promo, laying on the ground completely dismantled. Inside of the TV set you can see a VHS cartridge, and Charlie presses ‘play’ on the TV before walking back to stand next to Connie.

Chief Nickles crosses his arms and watches curiously as the videotape begins to play back all the action from last week’s promotional material. The only problem? There’s no audio on the tape! The Nickleman throws his hands up in frustration as the footage plays back without any sound.

I swear to God we have the worst audio/video team in all of professional wrestling! First someone fucked up all the footage of Finn Kuhn aborting Buster Gloves, and now someone’s fucking up all my personal footage, too! This is getting ridiculous!

The Nickleman walks over to the TV in a huff before clicking the power button, turning it off. The Nickleman reaches into his loincloth and pulls out a cellphone covered in pubes and suspicious fluids. He presses the numbers ‘6-6-6’ on his speed dial before holding the phone up to his mangled earhole. The Nickleman covers up the mic on the phone before speaking softly to Connie.

I’m calling management right now, and we’re going to get to the bottom of this! This is the night before the big pay per view event, and there’s no way these idiots have anything better to do than answer my phone calls!

The Nickleman takes his hand off the mic as he turns his focus back to the phone call at hand. After nearly a minute of ringing, The Nickleman hears a sudden ‘click’ as the call goes to voicemail.

FUCK!

“Hello! You've reached the voice mailbox of Liam Desmond, Head of the XWF's Department of Video Archives and Savage General Manager! I'm either on an important business meeting, or I'm trying my hand on my brand new Plenty of Fish account! Please leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you!”

YOU LAZY CUNT! YOU NEVER ANSWER MY FUCKING PHONECALLS, YOU BITCH! I’M STILL WAITING FOR YOU TO SEND ME ALL THE SECRET FOOTAGE FROM THE WOMEN’S RESTROOM, YOU ASSHOLE! AND NOW I NEED EVEN MORE FOOTAGE!

FUCKING CALL ME BACK YOU PRICK!

The Nickleman slams his phone shut and shakes his head angrily. He looks back towards his arsenal of athletic achievement with a sour tone to his voice.

Can you believe this shit? I’m the XWF’s biggest home-grown star since Doc-d’fucking-Ville, and I can’t even get the the god damned video archivist to call me back! That’s crazy. What’s he even doing all day- just assembling all my highlights into viral clips? Fucking lazy sack of shit! He should be servicing ME! Directly and on demand!

Ugh. It’s like you girls are the only ones who have any gratitude for what I bring to this business.

The Nickleman’s rageful frown turned upside down as he stared at his life’s greatest joys. A soft smile spread across this crackhead’s cracked lips.

Oh you girls…you crazy girls are the only thing keeping me sane any more.

The Nickleman calmed himself down by going in a row and touching every one of his championship belts. The feeling of their cold metal upon his warm palm always soothed him, like extra-strength vicodin for his broken soul. Charlie had given up everything in his life to get to this precipice, and now that he was here, he would never go back. His children, his lovers, and his friends always came at him with their expectations, desires, and dreams, as if they should somehow matter to The Nickleman.

But championship gold? Championship gold expected nothing from The Nickleman except his inherent greatness. Championship gold could never betray The Nickleman the way that lovers have, the way that friends have, the way that his children surely would. To The Nickleman, love with a championship belt was worth far more than any love another human could provide. Championship gold won’t ruin your night crying about all the money you blew on hookers and drugs. Championship gold won’t try to stab you for fucking it’s sister, and it won’t give you the cold shoulder for forgetting it’s birthday. To Charlie, this type of one-sided love was a dream come true.

After touching each and every championship belt in his possession, The Nickleman began lingering next to his favorite championship: the XWF Supercontinental belt. The most virgin of all the aforementioned titles, there was something about the Supercon’s innocence that attracted The Nickleman to it in particular. Charlie licked his lips as he ran his fingers across the leather straps of his favorite title. These straps had barely been touched, barely been held by any other wrestlers: they were practically brand new in the eyes of The Nickleman.

And to him that meant this belt was his, in particular, to defile and to define.

You’re my most precious….my one true love….

The XWF Supercontinental Championship belt rested peacefully on it’s chair beneath the princess tiara, still gripping that small gift wrapped box inside of its leathery clutches. The Nickleman dropped down to one knee before reaching up for the box and slowly unwrapping it with a gentle twinkle in his eye.

So, Connie…..you know what this is, don’t you?

Chief Nickleman cracks a big ol’ smile as he finally unwraps the small box. The camera zooms in on the branded packaging, showing that this small box originally came from Helzberg Diamonds. The Nickleman flips the top of the box open to reveal an incredibly extravagant ring with a huge diamond stone setting and 6 emeralds embedded into it’s golden band. The shit looks like it must have cost a fucking fortune!

Connie, will you make me the happiest man in the world by saying yes?

The Nickleman waits on his knee in silence, staring up at the XWF championship with unusual tenderness in his eyes and unlimited love in his heart. A long period of silence goes by before The Nickleman suddenly starts jumping up and down with joy, doing his best Daniel Bryan impression.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

The Nickleman eagerly slides the expensive ring into the small, moist space between Connie’s championship plate and her leather strap.

I’ll stick this in your gash for safekeeping!

The Nickleman slid the ring into the championship belt with a perverted smirk stretched across his face.

You like the way that feels, babygirl?

The Nickleman winks at his belt before picking her up, placing her around his chest, and then sitting back down in the chair with her. The other championship belts probably look on with jealousy, because why wouldn’t they be envious of Connie’s top-bitch treatment? Still, The Nickleman pays the other championship belts no mind at all: he’s far too engrossed by his precious Connie.

So babygirl, are you excited to watch me in action tomorrow night? I know how you love watching me defend your honor.

The Nickleman stares down at his Connie with a sicko’s smile, but that tender smile soon shifts back to a patented Nickleman frown.

What do you mean you’re worried? What are you worried about, baby? You know I’ll always be here for you, my devotion is my guarantee!

The Nickleman listened to Connie’s deepest, darkest fears without judgment. Ha, just kidding! Of course he’s judging this stupid bitch- but he’s also trying to be polite to her!

Oh baby, no! There’s absolutely no way I’d ever let Ned Kaye take you away from me. Who do you think he is, sweetheart? He’s not even a bad joke, he’s so bland that he’s just another vanilla cakewalk!

I mean seriously, sweetheart, why do you think Ned Kaye even has a chance tomorrow night?

The not-so-Indian Chief cocked his head to the side as he listened to her tranquil reply.

Because you listened to his promos and he said he hates me, and because he said he’s a ‘better person’ than me?

………

So what? What’s that got to do with wrestling, babe?

The Nickleman rolled his eyes as he dismissed Connie’s silly notion with a simple click of his tongue.

Wrestling ain’t about ethics or morals, alright? Shit’s barely even about athletics, nowadays pro wrestling has devolved into sideshow bloodsports- just the way I like it! If wrestling was about integrity and decency, well then fuck, why would Mark Flynn be the universal champion? That man literally killed his tag team partner and used his rotting corpse as a fucking stepping stone: and he holds the 2nd best prize in this whole industry!

Behind you, of course, babydoll…

The Nickleman blows a playful kiss at his championship belt before carrying on with his anti-Ned diatribe.

Jenny Myst even holds the X-treme title, and that bitch has more hair than honor!

I don’t know what fantasy world Ned Kaye thinks he’s living in, but it isn’t the fucking X-W-F.

I mean come on, baby- where’s the honor and integrity in a fucking strap match?

Chief Nickles lets the audience sit with the question for a moment before he divulges his own twisted answer.

In a strap match, the only thing honor and integrity are gonna do’ for ya is get ya killed. This stipulation is just fucking barbaric, you know? They’re tying Kitty-Kat Kaye up next to this sick puppy, everyone already knows I’m going to maul this motherfucker with no remorse. Where’s the fucking decency in a dogfighting ring, Ned? The only decent thing about this match are the fucking ODDS! You can bet the house on The Nickleman and walk away with a whole nother’ fucking house right now!

Ned Kaye can come at me with all the morality and integrity he wants, but the fact of the matter is that guy needs to wear three cups and a couple of eyepatches down to the ring- because I’m going to be kicking him in the balls and raking his eyes out all night long! How the fuck is he going to get away from me? How the fuck will his honor handle that?!

How many kicks to the nuts will it take before Ned’s honorable manhood shrivels up from the torsion?

The Nickleman grins to himself at the thought of causing Ned’s ballsack to literally explode from repeated force.

Ned Kaye’s head is so far up his own ass he can’t even see past his own BULLSHIT any more! Ned Kaye thinks I’m dissatisfied with my position in this business? Ned Kaye is telling people that I ‘blame my failures on others’......

The Nickleman looks around the room full of his championship gold collection.

Well, I gotta ask….WHAT FUCKING FAILURES IS HE TALKING ABOUT?!?! Because I sure as fuck haven’t noticed any! Ever since August I’ve been on a FUCKING ROLL in the XWF, and by that I mean I’ve been FUCKING ROLLING THROUGH the competition! Peter Vaughn? Nah, he’s Peter GONE now, bitch! I’m still riding high after my marquee wins against Mark Flynn, Dolly Waters, Jenny Myst- and I did that shit all on the same fucking night. Then, I beat Peter Vaughn and won another OCW championship belt in his dishonor, too, just for the fuck of it!

Ned said I have a million excuses…but what the fuck do I need to excuse? I don’t need a SOLUTION to jackshit, because the very OXYGEN I BREATH IS ACIDIC! My words alone corrode and corrupt….so just imagine what my fists can do.

You know firsthand how big my fists feel, doncha’ Connie?

Chief Nickles flashed a sick wink to his belt, reminding her of all their bouts of voracious lovemaking.

Connie, I promise you can rest assured that you will be coming back home with me tomorrow night. Ned Kaye can throw as many punches my way as he wants, the truth is not a single one of his jabs is going to land. He just can’t do any damage to me, baby, and that’s why he’s never going to beat me.

Ever.

Ned Kaye is walking into this match with the weight of the whole world on his shoulders, and the funny part is, he’s the one that put it there! Ned can’t help but make things hard- nay, impossible for himself. I guess he’s always had this habit, though, so nobody can say this comes as a surprise. Ned chose to take the hard way with his briefcase, because Ned cares more about looking classy than being a champion.

And guess what? It’s the same fucking story this time around!

Ned couldn’t just go into this match looking to win: no, he needed to prove a point. For Ned Kaye, beating Charlie Nickles simply isn’t good enough: and that’s why he’ll never be able to do it. Ned wants to humiliate me, he wants to teach me a couple dozen lessons, he wants to whoop me so bad that my black and blue flesh serves as a warning to the whole world: he wants to prove to the world that the bad guys don’t win. So he can’t win like a bad guy…he has to win like a knight in shining armor, finally slaying that big bad dragon for good.

It’s honorable, it’s noble, sure: but ultimately? It’s fundamentally facile and inept. Ned won’t just roll me up, he won’t just hit me with a foreign object and score a cheap win…he won’t even let himself try! And that, my dear Connie, is why Ned Kaye is completely and totally FUCKED! His mind is up in the clouds, so we already know he’s taken his eye off the ball. This match isn’t about ethics or philosophy…this match is just about you, Connie.

The Nickleman looked down at this loving championship with a sparkling twinkle in his eye.

Ned’s going to war with far too much to prove. He loaded up his plate with that all-you-can-eat heroism, and tomorrow night he’s going to shit his pants trying to deliver it. It’s a crying shame, ain’t it? Ned Kaye had the whole world placed in front of him, but instead of reaching out and grabbing it he’s reaching up to the skies and trying to grab himself a piece of the holy heavens. He’s focusing on my honor, he’s focusing on my integrity, he’s focusing all his might on ME….but he’s not focusing on you at all, sweetheart, and that’s why I know he won’t be able to end our love. He doesn’t have his sights set at the right target, so when he goes to shoot all it’ll do is backfire.

What a shame: for Ned, of course. For us it’s just relief!

Chief Nickleman laughs at the absurdity of the situation.

Ned Kaye is trying to steal my wife, and he really thinks he’s somehow the good guy in all of this? He knows he can’t love Connie as much as I do, I mean he’s already said as much. He knows he can’t cherish you like I do, and he won’t dedicate his entire life to you the way I have.

So what exactly makes Ned the better man to hold you?

The Nickleman shook his head from side to side in derision of the very question itself.

The webs he weaves are so immaculate, so incredible….it’s just a damn shame they’ve no weight to them. All it’ll take is one flick of the finger and Ned’s entire cocoon will collapse like a cheap house of cards.

Just watch.

The big Chief of the XWF grinned from ear-to-ear like the deranged dog that he is.

Ned Kaye said I give myself crutches and consider it a strength…….but that’s funny, cause Ned Kaye took the ‘high road’ with his briefcase, fell flat on his face, and is now telling everyone that walking on them crutches is the ‘honorable’ thing to do! You couldn’t even make this type of hypocrisy up if you tried!


Ned Kaye said he’ll beat me without ever stooping down to my level….but did this idiot forget that we’re fighing in a fucking strap match? I’m stronger, bigger, and tougher than Ned: as long as he’s strapped to me I can drag him to whatever fucking level I want! Do you want to see the depths of my darkness, Ned? Of course you don’t! You already said as much, you fucking pussy! But that doesn’t change the facts, and the fact of the matter is this: as long as Ned has to be strapped to me, he’s going wherever the fuck I choose to take him! Do you want to find out how many levels to hell really exist?

The Nickleman sneered at the camera as he held his championship belt against his chest.

You want to hear a tragedy in two words?

Charlie Nickles.

The Chief smiled to himself as he tilted his head forward ala Stanley Kubrick.

I turn mothers to widows, children to orphans, and careers to ashes! Every tragic XWF storybook has my fingerprints all up and down its spine. Pick a sad story, then trace the path of The Nickleman…more times than not, you’ll see that all the chaos was mine alone to make. Caedus. Lycana. Granger. Alia-










What the fuck was that? It sounds like it came from the closet….

The Nickleman abruptly stood up, placing his championship belt back on its assigned seat as he turned his gaze back to the closet. It sounded like there was a knock-em-out, drag-em-down brawl happening behind the closet door.

You girls just wait here…maybe our friend on the radio has finally decided to join us again.

The Nickleman slowly walks past the semi-circle of championships as he approaches the door to the closet. The Nickleman cautiously places his hand on the doorknob before he pushes on it, entering the dark and dusty closet once more. 

Are you ready to talk now, bi-WAIT, what the fuck?!?!

The Nickleman flings the door open and bursts into the closet, only to find a completely empty room! Even the table is gone! As The Nickleman takes another step into the room he runs smackdab into the far wall, which is now way closer to the door than it used to be!

Where’d everything go?!?!

The Nickleman looked around the empty closet in confusion until he stepped on a small piece of paper laying on the floor.

What the…

The Nickleman lifted his foot off the floor and grabbed the piece of paper off of it. He squinted at it through the darkness of the closet, barely making out the words etched in ink.

What I giveth, I can also taketh.

Loveth,
Albert Provolone

P.S. I’ll see you in the doctor’s office next week.

P.P.S. I have a secret to tell you about him.

The Nickleman stormed out of the closet while waving the small piece of paper around furiously in front of his championship belts.

WE’VE BEEN FUCKING ROBBED, GIRLS!

The scene fades to black as Chief Nickles shows the mysterious piece of paper to his pride and joy, the XWF Supercontinental championship.

Wait, what do you mean there’s nothing on this paper?

Before we cut to complete darkness we see the ink on the paper mysteriously vanish as the ethereal laughter of a Space God blares through your speakers.