X-treme Wrestling Federation - Neonero in: State of Play

State of Play
Or: Trashing all and sundry

Wouldn’t you just love it if Neonero came out trash talking this week? It’s been so long since we’ve had a good, inane-free promo around here. Fortunately for us, our protagonist, Neonero, is most affable to this idea. During his absence he has had time to analyse and assess the state of play in the modern XWF era, and it’s fair to say he has a few opinions, which are totally important and should totally be heard. So without further ado, let’s stop fluffing this limp shit and kick this motherfucker in.

- A equilateral triangular room, perfect in form. At each point, a sole candle burns. Not some gothic scene, however, rather a chilled scene. In the center of the triangle rests a granite coffer, large enough to house a human body. We pan in and notice sticks of lavender incense burning at each corner of the coffer (coffers being rectangular, for those with shape recognition issues). Tiny plumes of pleasant-smelling smoky aroma snake to the ceiling, though owing to the camera angle we have no idea how high the ceiling in this room might be. The walls are plain, pink granite this time, which isn’t actually especially pink, but whatever, your narrator didn’t come up with the name.

As we approach the coffer nearer, we realise that Neonero is lying, quite still, in quiet meditation inside. We take a moment to remind ourselves that this isn’t a dark and gothic scene, but rather one of meditation. As if sensing our presence, Nero opens his eyes, a small smile creasing the right corner of his mouth, the rest of his features remaining set in place. His cyan irises rest upon us, narrow black pupils centred on the camera, as if he were staring right at the viewer through the set. –

Namaste – no, I’m shitting you. I’ve not joined the New Age movement. What a joke that’d be, considering it was just created out of bastardised Golden Dawn material, turned into Wicca by a hippy, and now lived out as if it’s some ancient religion on par with paganism.

- Nero closes his eyes. Inhaling deeply, such that his chest rises and sets visibly, he then exhales, as if he’s expelling the verbal effluvia he just treated us to.

Where is my mind. It’s not my intention to bombard you with useless facts at this juncture, nor is this time to be inane. I have focused my mind in the last hour, and it is in fact the XWF which I wish to address.

Now, I’d be remiss not to start with Paul Heyman. You’d be hard pressed to find someone not holding the opinion that I was what drove Paul out of the Madness hot seat. However, this is not especially true. Myself and Paul have a history, and he may fear me more than his yearly prostate checkup with Lesnar. But frankly, Paul has never been anything to me, more than a plaything.

- Nero rolls his eyes back, as if recollecting some orgasmic moment in history, but again, the rest of his features remain entirely stoic, leading us to wonder exactly what is going on in his mind – as if even he knows.

Yes, there is a reason why I offer Paul Malteasers, and why I had the Harlem Globetrotters come to the ring wearing Heyman masks. It’s not that I hate the man, it’s just that he’s such a soft target. It doesn’t take much to make him flip his shit. Whether that was covering his bed in Malteasers or pissing on his toothbrush, it really wasn’t important. My favourite escapade was wearing his gold, being a two time European champion much to his chagrin. But even that grew old after a fashion. For Paul, I was like a splinter that wouldn’t go away. But for me, Paul was just a toy, and everyone grows out of their old toys.

- A slow, deliberate blink.

So the fact that Paul has disappeared is, to me, frankly incidental. Though, I draw immense pleasure from the fact that I will forever be the stick in his craw, to me playing with him was nothing more than chewing chaw.

- A smirk escapes Nero’s placidity, but is soon put back in its drawer.

What else is new? John Madison lost his crown and had a downstairs mix-up, and the two supposedly not related, but I wouldn’t be so sure. When you go around as he did, waving his crown as if he literally deserved or actually defended it, trying to be the alpha male while dodging all but his tribe of nepotism, and then actually manage to lose it to one of them, well, when you’ve been all talk for the better part of a year and get shown up at the second time of asking, it probably is like having your balls cut off. So I wasn’t really surprised when he started donning a wig and attending Barney Green’s behind closed doors events, however I was surprised when he literally had a surgeon lop his pecker off. I’m even more surprised that they sewed it back on. Christ on a pogo stick, can you imagine what it looks like down there? That area must be on par with Sylvester Stallone’s mother when it comes to prosthetic messiness.

[Image: gty_jackie_stallone_jef_ss_120816_ssv.jpg]

[Image: gty_jackie_stallone_jef_ss_120816_ssv.jpg]

I bet he still would though.

- The light sound of air escaping a narrow hole. We can only imagine.

As for my old titles, I’m pleased to see they rest in the hands of men who have done nothing to raise their profiles since I held them. I have no idea why there was a paedophile pretending to be Sid Feder, but the fact he was hand picked by Paul Heyman pretty much rules out the need to ask any more questions there. The fact that he laid down to Eli James, and then Eli gave the title to Amos, whoever the fuck Amos is, and no one has particularly blinked at it, is frankly hilarious.

But the fate of my last title, the US title, which I won from old Satty – more on him later – has at least been a little less of a joke, thought a lot more stomach churning. Eli actually won that title, and lost it to Mystica, or as I’d refer to him ‘that dirty fucking scouser’. I haven’t been this disgusted with the XWF product since that time Steve Sayors phoned me and asked whether I am likely to side with the Black Circle or The Congregation if I ever return. I had to politely tell Mr. Sayors that gargling vomit isn’t my style, so the likelihood of me choosing one flavour of vomit over another was slim to nil.

- Nero stretches out his arms, rather like a mummy in a cheesy old horror film, though he’s just stretching, honest. He rests his arms over his chest, and continues on his merry rant.

So we have John Madison emasculated, Scousers holding titles, titles being given away like wins over emo era Mark Flynn, a period where some Egyptian chick tried to be Neonero with tits, Satty still sitting on the TV title...I have to say, what a load of dross so far in this rundown. Let’s move on to Satty while I have him in mind.

Fucking really?

He’s gone from being a time travelling yet mysteriously historically inaccurate alien, to birthing ‘half alien offspring’, to becoming a vampire?

- Nero splutters, breaking out in a coughing fit.

No, actually, I don’t need to say anything. That speaks for itself, it’d be cruel if I said more.

- Nero strokes his chest, as if that coughing fit had caused him discomfort, which it clearly hadn’t, as it was completely put on.

What else have we got? MORBID ANGEL? Really? The guy who managed to lose a world title to Bryan Stinberg? That’s like the King’s crown here going to JTC’s vagina, for reference. It’s at least interesting watching Morbid Angel though, along with that mother trucker Frodo Smackins. There’s nothing more entertaining for me, than watching people who are funny as fuck beat guys who are totally deadpan. Like that one Irish guy who already laid down for Morbid Angel twice...

Amazing.

Almost amazing as the fact that the XWF’s ‘Home of dross’ Shove it Shiturday has gone from being a shower of shite to being, get this, literally the exact same concept The Bouse gave Madness in 2013. Have to love that irony.

- Nero smirks knowingly.

But what of my opponent this week...Tony Santos? In a steel cage?

- Nero sits up now, pulling himself up gripping either side of the coffer. He wafts his right hand in the remaining incense smoke, seeming to phase out of reality for a moment, then he snaps back into things, looking at the camera once more.

I seem to recall defending the European title against Santos last year, and being less than enamoured with his efforts. However, I have, as mentioned, been observing this place since I left. To that end, I have noticed a marked improvement in Senor Santos, and I am actually rather looking forwards to our little match to be. However, I have overestimated the talents of others in the past, and generally left myself feeling disappointed afterwards. For that reason, I would simply like to extend, to Tony, a simple request: Show me what you got little mama.

That is to say, show me something. Tell me how pointless it is talking about Ariel Sharon, or how inane my words are.

Tell me all the men you have defeated since your acorns fell to ground and grew into a small tree?

Or maybe how this trash talking was tame by my standards? You’d be right of course, but why get out of neutral for you at this stage?

Maybe you could even tell me what a bad, bad man you are, and how I should fear you? Hit me with all that alpha male shit?

- Nero sighs audibly, shaking his head.

Or, failing that, show me something original? I suspect that may be out of your remit, but I will live in hope. And until the time comes, I bid you good day.

I said good day.

Still toiling in Malkuth