Life fucking sucks. I can't even die right. Other, basic angst fueled overdone teenage drama bullshittery in an attempt to get anyone who manages to stumble upon these journal entries I'm writing to sympathize with me. Because you know, I'm totally spilling my life story to a piece of paper to make some douchebag with a shitty faux hawk feel better about his measly existence pushing papers for a company that matches the criteria for what he complains about on the internet. Yeah asshole, you and your three readers can go fuck themselves with the $30 biodegradable shopping bags you lug around every-fucking-where. I don't even know why they want me writing shit down anyway. It sure won't be my fucking feelings. More like random insults towards generalized groups of people. Am I fucking artsy yet?


Tuesday, January 14th, 2014 - 3:32 PM PST - Secret Underground Bunker Thing - Secret Town, Mexico

"'Ey yo, gringo! Move ya lazy ass, will ya?" commands the remarkably Mexican guard driving the butt of his rifle into my stomach. His demanding tone is no doubt a result of the fact that he's standing up and I'm lying on my cot in the small, 6 by 8 cell that's been my home since I regained consciousness. The mask on my head has been here since I decided to open my eyes underneath the fabric; and I've been ordered to keep it on at all costs. If I don't, I'll face reprimandataion or something equally as insulting/intimidating.

"C'mon gringo, we ain't got all day!" demands the guard as he drives the rifle butt into my body again; this time striking me in the ribs. Rolling over onto my side, I shove the gun right back into the guard's body and stumble out of bed, I stand at attention, much to the unamusement of the man who looks like he wants to jam the butt of the gun up my ass. "Andale!"

Chuckling, I start walking out the open door, followed closely by Brigadier Buzz Cut who keeps his gun pressed against my back. As if I would run if he wasn't here. Where would I go? As far as I know, this fucking bunker leads to Hell. This is like Purgatory or some shit. With the muzzle of the rifle pressed into my back as hard as it is, the slightest motion forces the material of this body suit I've been forced into and irritates the fuck out of my skin.

"Hey, do you mind easing up a bit?" I ask, to which the guard answers by jamming the gun further into my back. "Okay, that's the fuckin' opposite of what I asked!"

"Keep movin' gringo."

"Fucking douche..." I mutter under my breath as I navigate my way through this painfully maze like set of hallways on the way to exact same destination I always go to whenever summoned: His Office. I don't know who he is, or who he's supposed to be. He just wants to see me. A lot. Like, every day.

Severe homoerotic feelings is my prediction. What can I say? Even in this fucking full body suit, I am a sexy ass motherfucker.

"Go on in-"

"Gringo?" I interject before he has time to finish.

"No. Idiot. Thought I needed to change things up a bit."

Ouch! That was hurtful! I clutch the little pieces of my now totally shattered heart and stand in the doorway of the room, waiting for the DNA scanning laser thing to allow me to walk through the door. Its bright LEDs, blue and red, scan every inch of my body before that familiar whistle sound rings through my ears.

"Access granted, Mister Lazarus. Have a wonderful day!"

"You too, disembodied voice!"

"Don't get snippy with me I'll tell you wot m8-"

Okay then! I scuttle into the office before the computerized voice has any more time to threaten my life or shoot me to death with its crazy ass lasers. The automatic door closes behind me, almost crushing my fingers. He sits there, in his fucking chair facing away from me. Just like always. I clear my throat to make my presence clear, which he scoffs at.

"I know you're here," he says in his loud, boisterous baritone. "Now, do you know why I've called you here?"

"To keep the pattern going?" I shoot back without thinking. Instinctual snark seems to be a strong suit of mine, I've noticed.

"No. How are you feeling?"

"Good, I guess..."

"You guess?"

"Well, it's getting pretty fucking boring just rotting in that fucking cell. There's only so many times you can fucking stare at a wall and have it be interesting. I could switch it up and look at the other wall, but fuck that. It's the same fucking thing. Holy shit, a crack! That's interesting! Seriously, this is the most fun I've had all day, and it's only because this room is bigger than a fucking closet."

"I see," he says with an oh so dramatic hold on the last syllable - ee. "Have you been writing in the journal?"

"Yes," I say, shaking my (damn fuckin') head.

"Do you feel like you're capable of physically exerting yourself?"

"Easily."

"That's what I like to hear, Lazarus. As a matter of fact, I think I can pull some strings and get you into something that can get you out of this Bunker."

"Is that so? Go on, I'm interested."

"It's a company that might ring a bell..."

"And it is...?"

"The XWF."

As a matter of fact, that name did sound familiar to me, for some odd reason...

Episode 1: Greetings, XWF!

"Is, is this thing recording?" I say directly to the flashing red light of the video camera. While things are flooding back to me, and none of it helping me come closer to discovering my own identity, the one thing that continues to slip my mind is the qualifiers for whether or not a video camera is actually liable to record the words that are to be coming from my mouth. The small text right above the light reads - record. Well, that solves that.

"Greetings, XWF. I stand before you, one of you, should that make any sense. I can't help but feel an odd sense of deja vu sitting here, talking into a video camera. However, I highly doubt you're watching this promo to hear me talk about myself. No no, you want to hear me scream and rant and rave about my opponents, right? Right.

Now, who to talk about first? That is the dilemma in matches that consist of three plus participants, is it not? Especially when both of these people placed before me..."

I feel my friendly, if a bit condescending tone slipping.

"Are talentless cannon fodder, thrown before me like some frat boy's battered sloppy seconds. I don't fucking want this, but I guess it's my fucking duty to fuck it harder before I shove it down the assembly line of debuting talent that will come after me so they can do their fucking number on the already bloodied faces and bruised pitch black egos of these two fuckwits."

And, it's gone! Good, I could hardly stand that earlier shit as it was.

"Let's start with Levi Storm. Levi fucking negative five mph wind Storm over here with the colossal failures despite claiming himself to be god damned perfection personified. Get this: the motherfucker who lost to The Linguist, the epitome of being an overtly sensitive pansy is claiming himself to be the epitome of perfection!

I, I may need a minute to come to grips with how fucking stupid this guy really is.

This Levi Storm who falls on the supposed impressiveness of his physique like it will save him from the wannabe crazies that flood the locker rooms and look like the genetic crossbreed of a Jamaican goat herder and Billy Mays.

Rest in pieces, you screaming fucknugget, by the way.

You're really flaunting off that useless body of yours? Your 'epitiome of perfection,' ladies and gentlemen. Because obviously, he doesn't realize that he can't really get off with the Perfect shit when his record is far from it. Come on you fucking fuck, you get your first actually booked match and you shit the bed faster than it takes for half of the roster to get into their 'dark' attitudes that reek of Michael Bay caricature? You're perfectly terrible, Levi.

Perfectly fucking awful.

Which leads me to the second piece of sloppy seconds: Christine Nash.

Hey Christine. I'm Lazarus. I would be hitting on you, but unlike most people I have a fucking idea where that cunt of yours has been. But I'm sure you don't give a shit what I think because I'm a hater. Not because I've made a valid point and you're too scared to come to grips with that, no! It's because I have nothing better to do than rag on my opponent. You know, that thing that builds intrigue for the inevitable beatdown that I'm going to hand down before throwing your fucking corpse all the way to your next loss?

Isn't that the way you deal with this little trash talk thing? Every fucking time? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Go on, start crying.

And as for the rest of the XWF, I'm sure I'll have more words for you later."

Definitely came naturally. This is the point where I turn off the recording.