The scene opens up to where we had last saw Buronan and his cellmate Dimas having killed Tyson, the asshole prison guard of the drug cartel that controls Dimas’ country. Buronan takes Dimas by the hand and leads him out of the prison cell, into a long hallway filled with adjacent doors every five feet leading to a big staircase at the end of the hall.

”Come on, Dimas, we’ve gotta’ get you out of here.”

Dimas spins Buronan back around, his white eyes shining brilliantly in the dark of the make-shift prison, blood leaking from the gash on his face he received compliments of Tyson’s boot.

”No little one… we must free dem all.”

Buronan exhaustively studies the contents and the number of rooms up and down the hallway,

”Dude, we don’t have time for that! We could have been killed back there, and I’m trying to make it out of here alive.”

”COULD HAVE! But we’s not… now you pay it fho-ward.”

Buronan, knowing Dimas is right, let’s out a long sigh,

”Alright, but you stand right here. We’ve got to do this quickly.”

The scene fades...




































And reopens elsewhere…

We see the inside of lavish penthouse, complete with all of the fixings of some pomp prick with more money then he knows what to do with. The camera begins to move in, very rapidly, to a set of wooden double doors with gold handles in middle of the penthouse.

From the other side of the doors we can hear some awkward, kind of nauseating sexual sounds. Like someone in the room behind the doors is stirring an industrial sized container of potato salad with a broom handle. We see a hand hesitate near the door handel, but then quickly grabbing it and jerking the door open.

"AAAARRRAGGGHHHHHHH I'M THERE! I'M THERE!"

There's an overweight man being bent over his desk in an office that look's like Scarface's. He's being repedtly rammed in the bo'lo by what appears to be either a post or per genital op tranny.

"OH GOD! MR. MCMANUS I'M SO SORRY!"

Shouts out the tall neo-nazi looking militant who barged into the office as he turns and covers his face.

"DAMNIT BUZNIK! HOW MANY TIMES MUST I TELL YOU TO KNO-OOOOO-OOOOOCK-COCK!!!!!!!!!"

Mr. McManus' disgusting, piggy looking face turns red, his eyes roll and eyelids flutter around with pleasure as his tongue sags out of his mouth. We can only imagine what just happened underneath of his desk. McManus pants heavily and wipes away some sweat from his forehead as the transgender something or another makes it's way out from behind him, rubbing it's thumb and index finger together as it awaits it's payment.

McManus stands from being hunched over the desk and pulls his khaki britches up around his fat waist, tightening his black leather belt to the first knot just before directing the transvestite prostitute to a stack of hundred dollar bills on the edge of the desk with his finger. The transvestite takes the money and tries giving McManus a mere kiss on the cheek, but he tilts his head away and blocks the kiss with his hand while furrowing his brow as his closes his eyes and snarls his lip; then with a limp wristed gesture, McManus shoos the prostitute away.

The tall, bald militant in the office keeps his head turned away from the prostitute as it exits the room, and sickeningly shudders as the disgusting creature blows him a kiss on it's way out.

"Okay, Buznik. What was so fucking important that you had to barge into my office in the middle of my therapy session?"

"Well sir... I don't really know how to- I- tell you-I..."

"QUIT BLATHERING BUZNIK AND OUT WITH IT!"

"It's Tyson, sir. He's dead."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'He's dead'?"

"Like... he's no longer with us sir, he's expired. Pushing up daisy's. Deader than a-"

"YOU TELL ME WHAT IN THE FUCK HAPPENED! TYSON WAS AS HEALTHY AS A HORSE!"

"Well... we found his body in the prison cell belonging to Dimas and our newest prisoner."

"The young prisoner?"

Buznik nods,

"It appears as if someone stabbed him multiple times in the kidney and then went on to rip his eyes out of his head."

McManus blinks his eyes several times and cracks his neck, his mouth open as he bites down onto his tongue very slightly. He then sags his head and begins to rub his temples and eyelids with the thumb and index finger of his right hand as he says:

"So I'm guessing the prisoners have escaped."

"They have."

"Is the prison secure?"

"It is now. I have three of our men down there."

McManus stands from his desk and turns away from Buznik to look outside of the large window behind him, holding his hands behind his back. The sun light radiantly bursting through the window, shining on his disgusting pig-like features. He again sags his head.

"Tyson... he was a good man. A man who would do anything I asked. He was like family."

Crossing his arms in front of him, Buznik looks down toward the floor and closes his eyes.

"Well. If that blind feeble fuck Dimas and, and that little shit stain who's running with him have ventured out into the jungle, then it's only a matter of time before they get what's coming to them. Fuck em. They'll be killed by wild boars before they ever make it out of the Gunung. Dimas can't see and that other little piece of shit has no clue where he is."

Buznik opens his eyes and lifts his head back up, biting his teeth together as his lips twist back.

"Well sir... that's not all."

McManus turns back to Buznik with, impaling his spirit with a pair of piercing eyes.

".......Out. With. It."

"They've also freed all of the other prisoners."

If looks could kill, McManus would be waterboarding Buznik with a bucket of lava. I guess that would be lava-boarding?

"Buznik... you round up ten of our best, you find those fucking savages and you kill every one of them. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!?"

Buznik nods and exits the room as McManus turns back toward his window, looking off at jungle covered hills in the distance.

"Come out, come out where ever you are."

The scene fades again...

---

---

We're getting closer folks...

Closer to what you've all been waiting for.

Closer to having the final four set for Lethal Lottery Four.

Closer to seeing Buronan and Cadryn's arms raised in victory once again.

Closer to never having to hear Michael Graves moaning like the doped-up prom date with a pussy throb during this tournament again.

Closer to never having to see Peter Gilmour fumble around the ring like the dead weight he's been during this entire tournament... again.

Closer to The Buronan's inevitably dominate dance with destiny as he leads he and Cadryn Tiberius one step closer (TO DA EDGE AN IMMABOUTA BWRAKE!!!) to glory and Pay-Per-View Main Event status.

For the last four weeks The Buronan has been overlooked, he's been an afterthought, and that was obviously by design wasn't it? Because now we see his opponent, Michael Graves scrambling around spam the internet with a bunch of somber ass promos trying to make us all feel bad for the fact that he's a loser. He's trying to overcompensate for his deficiencies by throwing so much of it in your face that one would have little time trying to comb through that shit infested garbage to find anything clean and worthy of salvaging.

Spoiler alert: there's nothing there.

Nothing but a grown ass man weeping over the fact that he's got to face his "best friend" on Warfare. A "best friend" who he's treated so badly and kept locked away in a closet. A "best friend" who he screamed at during their trip Disney Land and constantly made him feel inferior. A "best friend" who he let the demon inside of his head infect, and rather than showing remorse about that, Grave's doubled down and made disparaging remarks about his "best friend", because of it.

It's so obvious that Graves cares so little for his friendship with Cadryn, and is much more concerned with the fact that his "best friend" might actually defeat him... jeez, Graves. What would that do to the career revival you claim to be in the midst of?

The career revival that's shown you blowing big opportunity, after big opportunity, unable to ever get the job done. Coming up short against Thaddeus Duke, Chris Chaos and Robbie Bourbon is certainly nothing balk at, but when coming up short is all you're able to do, then one must realize they're more in the midst of a failing career, rather than a reviving one. Hence the identity crisis we've seen as of late. But I needn't dabble into the pointless obscurities of your life. You've bored us all to death with enough of that crap in your last three vignettes.

So yes, Graves is afraid of the fact, the unfailing fact that Cadryn isn't just the hopeless sidekick in his story. He's the main attraction of the Cadryn-Graves Connection, and in just about a week from now he's going to prove to the entire world that you've took him for granted all this time.

But now things get even trickier don't they, Graves? Because Cadryn is only one fourth of your problem here, isn't he? Another portion of your sweet skeet pie is your own partner, Peter Gilmour. A man who for all intensive purposes should be enough of a juggernaut to make you two the favorite in this match to begin with- but something is missing isn't it?

Oh, right! It's Peter's effort. Two years ago Peter made it to the finals of Lethal Lottery 3, where he lost as he typically does, but nonetheless he was impressive. Does it make you wonder why you're not getting that level of effort out of our former placeholder Universal Champion? It's because he's obviously embarrassed to be working with you. Even after you two managed to scrape by and pick up a win over Robert Main and Justin Sayn, he still doesn't trust you.

Haha! For fuck sakes! Peter 'the Poppa Feder suckin ' Gilmour, who's betrayed more people than a soap opera villain doesn't trust you! Maybe that's because he knows that Gravy gunna' Gravy and just let him down anyway. Hell, you do it so well man. Let's be real for a second, you and I, and Peter and the whole world knows damn well had Robert Main had a decent partner last week, you two would already be at home licking your wounds, trying to figure out your next steps in your revival toward heterosexuality.

Anyone who's studied and knows this industry and this business in particular well enough knows that the Peter Gilmour who partnered with you last week is a far cry from the Gilly of 2015. And the Gilly who steps in the ring with you on March 15th wont be up to par either.

He's an uninspired shell of his former self and frankly it's because you're quite the uninspiring partner. Peter knows just how lucky the two of you are to even be in the semi-finals, and the more he listens to The Buronan speak the truth right now he knows damn well that you two wont be making it any further. I DIGRESS ! This is it buddy, your roadblock. The line in the sand, the pat on the back, the participation trophy black eye you're going to receive from The Buronan and the memory of an ass beating of a lifetime. That's all you'll be leaving the Lethal Lottery with, because that briefcase, that automatic ticket to XWF lore is mine for the taking.

This brings me now to the third portion of this problematic pie you're munching on: me, The Buronan. The funny thing about cliches is that they're tried and tested, true and everlasting; so when I say "I'm the greatest challenge you've ever faced", as cliche as it may be, I mean it. From the bottom of my heart I mean it. Sure you can steak your dumbfounded little claims that the fact that you lost to Chaos, Duke and Bourbon will negate what I just said- but trust me when I tell you this... I'm better than each of them in their best showings. And their best showings isn't anywhere near what you received.

In my first ever vignette I made the statement that: "Things are ALWAYS as they appear." and then went on to beg the question: what is it that The Buronan appears to be? What is it Graves? Now that you're watching this promo, sweating harder than Casey Anthony with her hand on The Bible, what do you REALLY think of The Buronan now? Just a dumb rookie as Hero XTreme would have you believe? Or do I sound like a seasoned veteran of this industry who's ready to tare you down, not only physically, but mentally as well?

I've already got you beat mentally, haven't I? Becasue what is it you're doing right now? After you spammed the airwaves with your three Bobby-Brown shit promos and I hit you back to back with some of that Grade-A fiend-worthy hypnotic shit, now you've put on a gag order? Trying to hold out and use the Anti-Flood to your advantage so once the time limit is over you can upload some more of that pre-recorded, narcolepsy educing bullshit? It's obvious, you're scared, and I'm already in your head.

It's just like a told you before. This match has already been decided and your little fun run in the sun is over. OVER! And I wish I could say it was a valiant one, but it really wasn't man. You got a pass the first round with that dumb hick Nate Higgers taking a shit, and then you got a pass by default in round two by having to go against a team featuring Justin Sayn. See I'll be the first to clue you in on the fact that all I had to do was battle against and crush Hero Xtreme for four weeks straight, but you? You won't even acknowledge that you're truly just lucky to be here. As if all that jabbering you've done up to this point is going to amount to anything more then a handful of monkey spooge.

I'm determined to win. I'm hungrier then you are. Like literally. I haven't had lunch yet. You? You're just determined to be anything but you... a worthless 'has-been-something-that-was-never-really-that-good'.

And all of that brings you to the final portion of this problem of your, Graves. It's you! In fact, you're your own worst enemy. It's because you without a shout of a doubt suck. You don't hone in on anything. You don't focus. You'd rather spend more time parading around and jerking off Cadryn then studying your opponents and actually learning something for once. I've watched you Graves. I'm not impressed. The fact that you made it this far WOULD be surprisingly impressive if not for the reasons I've already mentioned.

Let's face it Mike. No one ever beats you. You beat yourself, and your meat, everyday when you wake up and continue your miserable existence. That's the reason that the second this Warfare card was thrown together you were already whipped. Not just because Cadryn is better then you, and he is. Not just because Peter Gilmour is a shitty partner who'll forget you ever existed after this match, and he is and he will. And not just because I am superior to you in every single aspect, and I am. It's because you are you...

A gigantic, worthless piece of dog shit.

Good Day Sir.