Cut that shit you're doing right now. Turn your attention to your television screens because someone infinitely times your greater has just appeared to save you from the trite and overly complicated soap opera bullfuckery that is the plurality of the XWF's promos. He's also come like a beacon of hope in the night to rescue you from the shitty trash talk that tends to thrive in the remaining percentage of the XWF's promos, which does seem to cross over into most of the prior plurality's as well. If you guessed this week's incarnation of Peter Gilmour, you're probably Peter Gilmour in which case you're too busy looking up the word plurality. Oh wait, it's Gilmour; he doesn't even know how to read so he'd be staring blankly at a dictionary trying to sound it out. Use phonics, motherfucker! Unless you're reading one of those Spanish dictionaries where they pronounce things all Spanishy.

"Um... ?"

Oh shit yeah right. Allow me to reintroduce you to your salvation in the form of a scrawny, drug abusing conman that everyone seems to love, Luca Arzegotti!


The, whatever you call this shit of Chrispy's "Lux Aeterna" remix "Cockney Dream" blares out the speakers of his run down 198-Something Buick LeSabre, and by association out the rolled down windows into the night as blatantly runs a red light at an empty intersection.

"You had to include that shit didn't ya?"

Well, it's important to give an accurate picture of what's going on, isn't it? Meanwhile, the still unnamed camerawoman shoots me a dirty look, which provokes a sense of sadness in me.

"Nobody cares.

"Yeah, you prick. We coulda gotten away with that shit too if you didn't shout it loud. Next time I kill someone, why don't you just call 911 and make it easier for them too ya fuckin' asshole?"

Sheesh. You two are so ungrateful. All the shit I do for you and still you berate me? Remember when you had to cover your tracks and talk about the shit you were doing by yourself? That shit was fuckin' terrible but you didn't hear me critiquing you every step of the way.

"That's because you were off shooting Jessie Diaz's porn debut or whatever the fuck that was."

That's beside the-- hey Luca?

"Fuck off asshole, narrate this shit before I fire your ass outta cannon. That's right motherfucker, I will go all the way to a cannon store to buy a fuckin' cannon just to shoot you out of it. Don't even try me."

Well, okay then. After saying something remarkably stupid, even for his own standards, Luca veers over the median and into the wrong lane, opening himself up for a head on collision with a minivan whose driver is also not paying too much attention to the road ahead of her (yeah, her. Even if it's a dude, she's driving a minivan. You gotta trade your fuckin' dick in to drive one of those.). Frantically, he tries to steer right, back onto his side of the road before he became another piece of advertisement for those "Don't drink and drive" campaigns. However, that doesn't work, and the minivan plows right into the front of his car, killing all three of us on impact.

Now, wake your ass up Luca. It's ten in the fuckin' morning and the light's shining into your eyes so hard, it's raping your pupils through your eyelids.

[Flip the record to side B]

"Oh holy fuck!" exclaims Luca as he rolls out of his bed and falls down to the ground, sending the bottles that had piled up beside it scattering every which way and shattering one against his stomach, shards of which cut through the tattered tank top he fell asleep in the night prior and insert themselves into his skin.

"Son of a..." he says before looking over at his cell phone to say a new text message notification. Now, here's where his first major decision of the day happens: treat his now bleeding abdomen or see whoever the fuck texted him while he was busy on a multi day bender? Odds were in favor of the text being from his camerawoman, whose name he still didn't know, asking him to buzz her up into his building to see if he was in any shape to record a promo against his newest opponent, Tommy Gunn. However, in typical Luca fashion, he reaches his arm out and drops his hand atop the phone, picking it up and bringing it back to him as he sits up and rests his back against the bed frame.

Uncovering the front screen of the phone, he sees the typical one new message prompt but once he opens the message itself, he's greeted by something he thought he deaded a while ago.

Sophia, the younger sister of his gang's boss back when he was masquerading as Lazarus, was the sender.

Hey. Remember our thing? Hell, I don't even know if you're still alive but if you are, it was probably for the best that you vanished afterwards. He, I'm guessing you know who he is, was pretty mad. Pissed, really. You should've heard him ranting and raving about how he was gonna kill you. He's cooled off now, though.

Yes, for some reason she was the type of person who used proper grammar in text messages. Fuckin' cunt.

"Hey, fuck off."

You're defending one of your one night stands?

"I did get to actually know her name, didn't I?"

BZZT! BZZT!

That was the apartment's buzzer.

"Thanks asshole, I got that part."

Dressed in his now even more tattered tank top, which was already stained with drops of red, and only that Luca pushes himself up off the ground and drags himself through the apartment, one hand on his wounded gut and the other dangling almost limply from his side. Over a pile of dried vomit that he never bothered to clean the first time this place was his home he walked, on his way to the apartment's buzzer. Pushing the button, he calls out to the whoever was on the other side: "What's the password?"

"I'd say, open the door or I'll fucking kill you. Sound right?"

Wow look, another woman from Luca's past who he fucked. It's a ritual conga line of life threatening humiliation.

"Shut the fuck up, you asshole. Access granted."

Looking over to the panel on the wall, his hand drags along it until his index finger hits the button that unlocks the front door from his residence. He unlocks the door and backs away from it, heading back to the "living" room of the small apartment, collapsing backwards onto the couch. It only takes about a minute for her to make her way through the building before pushing the door that led into his residence open and stepping in armed and ready to attack.


"What the actual fuck did I just walk into?" The first words out of her mouth as she looks over to where a naked from the waist down Luca lay, bleeding from his stomach and looking as if he was going to pass out already.

"A typical Tuesday morning."

"It's Monday."

"Oh shit, seriously? Doesn't matter, this is still a typical Tuesday morning for me."

"How you ever manage to get things done is a shock to me."

"That's the thing. I don't get anything done ever. I sit here, I do drugs, and sometimes I complain about the things that led to me sitting here and doing drugs. It's sort of my thing. Oh, and eyes up here."

"I could say the same to you," she retorts, but shifting her eyes up to his face nonetheless. "Besides, you did manage to do something last time we were together."

"You see, I would, but I'm not even looking there. I'm too focused on the fuckin' gun in your hand. Also, did you bust in with a gun just to hit on me? Not complaining or anything but that's a little extreme."

"No, of course not. Who do you think I am, one of your psycho groupies?"

"Nah, wait did I tell you about the one-"

"Yes."

"Shit. So, what brings you here?"

"A certain underground organization with the capabilities of overthrowing a democratic government in Central America. You know the type?"

"Oh shit," he says, his jaw dropping ajar for a moment before he finds the words to continue on with what he wanted to say. "Yeah, I think I know exactly who you're talking about."

"You uh, wanna make up for your complete and utter lack of help with our Heiman problem?"

"I think I more than made up for that."

"No, you didn't. I still have a problem mixing business and pleasure, and Heiman's pretty much gotten away with fucking us over."

"Let's handle the bigger problem first," Luca says as he gets up off the couch and walks over to the bedroom of his apartment, leaving Maria with the uncleaned, dried vomit on the floor as he fucks around, trying to get his clothes on. After a few minutes he steps out into the main rooms once more, dressed in his usual slacker chic attire.

"What about your-"

"Don't even worry about it."