Your heart races.

The harder your airways struggle to fill, the more empty they get.

You’ve been running.

It feels like you’ve been running your whole life.

You dove into an alleyway, giving your pursuer the slip.

You were just running from…

…

Wait.

What were you just running from?

Sweat streams down your skull The drops sting as the salt buries itself into your eyes.

…Your vision is blurry. It’s hard to focus beyond the stinging ache of your heart, pumping so hard, it’s actually adding to your breathing problem.

…

After a few blinks, you finally can take your surroundings.

…A dingy yellow office.

A desk. A nameplate.

It reads…

…

…You blink. And blink again. At first, you think your exhaustion must be giving you double-vision.

But the nameplate is gibberish.

Letters backward and upside-down. When you try to focus on one letter, the others almost seem to jiggle and wiggle around it…

You try to take a deep breath, to bring your heart-rate down…

But the air in the room is stale. Stagnant.

It almost feels like you might imagine it would feel attempting to breathe in the vacuum of space. The more space you make for the air to enter your respiratory system only further pressurizes the room to your presence…

The room is… odorless. But somehow it bears a stench. Overpowering and…

…

Unnatural.

Bzzzzzzt.

“Your next appointment is ready, sir.”

Before you can look around to determine the source of the voice around you, you feel something shift.

A muggy, sweltering heat. A burning sensation. The heat fills your lungs… And the pain as you attempt to breathe becomes even worse.

“WELL! I’LL BE! If it isn’t Latina Submissión Machina! The Luchadora del XWF, the pride of Mexico… And the newest addition to every CCPE member’s block list on Twitter!”

FWICK!

AhhhhhhHHH…

You feel a slap across your back. Like a hot iron cutting through your shouderblade.

Like an animal being branded. 

Your exhausted knees take this assault as the excuse to give out on you… You collapse into… A chair?

It’s cushioned like a chair. But… It’s hot like a stovetop. You feel the sweat on your shirt searing, cooking the flesh off your back. You heave yourself to spring off the chair… But, under a dense weighty presence… Your legs don’t find the strength to lift you…

“No no no! I insist! SIT! ENJOY IT! After all, you’ve earned this meeting, haven’t you?”

…

“I mean, you must THINK you’ve earned this, right, Robyn?”

“A Universal Title Match.”

“A match against Mark Fucking Flynn.”

“That’s what you asked for, isn’t it, Robyn?”


Pictured above: A deathwish

“Now, you *wanted* a match on Madness. Clearly a little jealous of how much XWF Twitter was promoting Kieran King - vs - Mark Flynn.”

“A match where I defeated one of the most dominant Universal Champions in THE TWENTY-FOUR YEAR HISTORY OF THIS COMPANY.”

…

“But, Robyn. I am a SALESMAN. I sell PRODUCT. And when I sell, I OVER-DELIVER. Because I'm creating a CUSTOMER FOR LIFE.”

“I hear you, Robyn. You want a showcase match on XWF’s D-show? You wanna be the star of the Vinnie Lane’s red-headed stepchild program? Where Lane kinda gives Mieky Graves a thirty-minute slot and a five-thousand dollar demolitions budget to go nuts? Where my extemporaneous, barely-edited musings about Darren Dangerous BREAK VIEWERSHIP RECORDS.”

“Let’s go BIGGER, Machina. Let’s take this baby and ride it straight to the FUCKING HISTORY BOOKS.”

“That’s why we’re here, Robyn. I took your measly, little request and UPGRADED IT TO THE MAIN EVENT OF THE FIRST EVER WEEKEND WARFARE.”

…

“Because YOU deserve it.”

“You submitted a promotion request. You want MY JOB™.”

“You MUST deserve this spot, right?”

“After all, you’re THE Latina Submission Machina.”

“TWO-TIME ANARCHY CHAMPION.”

“The lady who took Oswald’s Billion Dollar Belt!”

“The woman who pinned Thunder Knuckles, stole his X-Treme Title, and FOILED the Bastards’ plot to nab a 24/7 briefcase by Relentless!”

“FINALIST OF THE 2022 WARGAMES. CAPTAIN OF THE SECOND-PLACE TEAM.”

…

“I mean, sure, you were eliminated second in the finals. Two spots before fucking Calypso. But, STILL, ROBYN. You’re HERE. In the MAIN EVENT. Theo and Vinnie must see something in you…”

“After all, Vinnie’s the one that told you to get on Twitter and irritate the masses with your ridiculous challenges, right?”

A low chuckle fills the air around your ears…

“I guess that’s why how you earned the ‘submission’ in your name. It took… what… two weeks? For you to get the entirety of CCPE to SUBMIT your account to Twitter’s harassment teams?”

WHAM! The entire desk jolts, up and down! A corner leaps off and clatters back to the Earth.

“I’m excited, Robyn. I really am. I’m so fucking giddy, I can’t think straight.”

“I’ve wallowed through the mediocre, the tepid, and the fucking SUB-PAR. I’ve won FOUR different singles matches since winning the Universal Title. And every one of them? Had a winning record in the .400 range. More losses than wins. Four fucking JOKES.”

“Do you hear the critics, Robyn? I do. In the crevices of my mind, I hear them scurrying like rats in the wall, tearing open each other’s bellies to consume each other shit takes.”

”Oooh, Mark Flynn isn’t a real Universal champion.”

“Waaaaah, Mark Flynn hasn’t had a real challenge since winning the belt….”

“But, now? It’s a new year. It’s a new leaf we’re turning over together. And I’m about to face LA LUCHADORA FANTASTICA! LATINA SUBMISSION MACHINA!”

“A loudmouth like this MUST have the goods to back it up, right?!?”

BAM! The desk jumps again. A visible indent on the tabletop…

“Are you ready? Are you FUCKING READY TO START THIS PROMOTION REQUEST?”

“Because if you really want to steal my job as Universal Champion, we’re going to have to conduct UNA EVALUACIÓN DE SU BRAND!”

THWACK! A massive folder slams onto the desk’s surface. The force of the toss flips the folder open…

“Let’s see here… Latina Submissión Machina… Debuted on Wednesday Night Warfare… August 18th, 2021! Almost a year-and-a-half in the company! Fantastic! We appreciate longevity and loyalty here at XWF, LSM.”

The page flit and dance across the manilla folder…

“Now, let’s see… AHA! Here it is! Your performance record. Given all the shit you talk, you’ve just GOTTA have Hall of Fame caliber stats, right?”

A throat clears.

“Latina Submission Machina’s XWF Record is…”

You hear a rapping on the desk like a drum roll.

…

…The rapping slows… Then, silence.

…

“...”

“Latina Submission Machina’s XWF Record is…”

“11-21-2.”

…

The press of a few keys.

“That comes out to a career-winning percentage of…”

“.323.”

A slow exhale.

…

“FfffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCK.”

SMACK! The record is smacked across the room. It flaps, its paper contents scattering about the floor… It wavers like a bird that just broke its neck, flying into a glass window.

“IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE TO YOU, ROBYN? DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUCKING FUNNY?!?”

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M TRYING TO DO HERE?”

…

“I AM THE XWF UNIVERSAL CHAMPION™.”

“I AM THE MASTER OF ALL FUCKING REALITY™”

“I AM THE BRAND ON WHICH THE XWF STANDS™.”

“EVERY SECOND I’M ONSCREEN IS MUST-WATCH TELEVISION.”

“I can’t AFFORD to WASTE MY VALUABLE SCREEN TIME with fucking TALENTLESS RINGRAT PONDSLUDGE LIKE YOU…”

…


“...Robyn, let me explain something to you.”

“Wrestling is a BUSINESS.”

“As a business, we sell a PRODUCT.”

“And what is the product we sell?”

“Low-quality t-shirts and souvenir cups made by labor outsourced from countries with courts willing to look the other way for pocket change.”

“But, what do we advertise? What do we blast on social media? To get the customer in the door to BUY the product?”

“HIGH. QUALITY. ENTERTAINMENT.”

“And what is the core of quality entertainment? Suspense. Intrigue. Anticipation. People WANT to be in the room where wrestling history is made. They WANT to buy the ticket to see the fucking show they’ll tell their grandchildren about because THEY WERE THERE.”

…

“Or, knowing our mouth-breathing audience, they’ll tell the future pre-owned sex robot they’ll order off the Internet. The machine that, even though it’s programmed not to, will STILL feel shame touching our fans on their gross, misshapen penii.”

“A machine designed to submit to their weird fetish-y desires. Probably made in a factory in Mexico.”

“A Latina Submission Machina, if you will.”

…

“My point, Robyn? Our audience tunes in to our regularly-scheduled, award-winning programming to watch the EXCITING. They want to see matches that they don’t know how it’ll end. That’s the beauty of live sports. The back-and-forth rollercoaster of competition.”

…

“And here we are. The dawn of a new age. The precipice of the next chapter in XWF’s story. The ERA OF THE OPTIMAL PATH.”

“And how do we usher in a new age of dominance for the XWF brand? The BIG-TICKET MAIN EVENT OF THE FIRST-EVER WEEKEND WARFARE!?!”

“Mark Flynn.”

“THE.”

“GREATEST.”

“WRESTLER.”

“OF.”

“ALL.”

“TIME.”

“Is going to take on.”

…

Sigh.

“Latina Submission Machina.”

“A woman who has lost TWO-THIRDS OF HER MATCHES.”

“A woman with an all-time record on Wednesday Night Warfare of One Win… EIGHT LOSSES.”

“Seriously.”

“CHECK.”

“MY.”

“FUCKING.”

“MATH.”

…

“Trademark.”

…

“I’ve examined your stats from every conceivable angle, Robyn.”

“I’ve worked my ass off to figure out how to sell this match as a once-in-a-lifetime spectacular.”

“That’s what Theo wants, isn’t it? He wants HONOR on the XWF Universal championship.”

“WHAT BETTER HONOR IS THERE THAN RECORD PROFITS™? SKY-HIGH RATINGS™? MERCH SALES MOVING MORE UNITS THAN THE HOLY FUCKING SCRIPTURE.”

“Does it matter that we’re already deep in the eyeballs of every country with a population greater than 50? Does it count at all that our shows are translated into more languages than THE FUCKING BIBLE? Isn’t it enough that more schoolchildren can identify Vinnie Lane by pictures than they can JOE FUCKING BIDEN?”

…

“No, Robyn. The stockholders want GROWTH. They want RETURNS ON INVESTMENT. They want every dollar milked out of our audience until there is NOTHING LEFT TO EARN.”

“And then? They want more.”

“To put it in a way that someone with your limited intellectual capacity might understand: THIS YEAR MONEY NUMBER MUST BE BIGGER THAN LAST YEAR MONEY NUMBER.”

…

“But, to put it bluntly… How do I sell a shit product like you, Robyn?”

“The longer I look at your stats… The more disappointment I see.”

“Your PPV Record? 3 wins, 6 losses.”

“Your 2022 record? 6 wins, 13 losses, 1 draw.”

“Your number of successful title defenses, across FOUR championship reigns? Two.”

“And one was a DRAW. You’ve only had ONE victory while reigning as an XWF titleholder. And it was a match against GERI FUCKING VAYDEN.”

“You’ve logged losses against Tommy Wish AND Terry Borden. You’re the reason BIG FUCKING PREESH has a title reign on his resume…”

…

“My record? I’m glad you asked, Robyn.”

“Lifetime? 66-23-1.”

“2022? 24-3.”

“I AM ELITE LEVEL TALENT™.”

“I AM THE BEST IN THE FUCKING WORLD. IN. MY. FUCKING. PRIME.”

…

“And we expect those fucking smooth-brain buffoons to line up around the arena to buy tickets.”

“To a UNIVERSE-CLASS ATHLETE.”

“Kicking over a cardboard cutout of a wrestler.”

“Theo and Vinnie booked the wrestling equivalent of an Apex Predator versus a Steak Dinner.”

“How do I sell 64-ounce sodas to people watching a hungry animal eat a raw steak? Where’s the competition? WHERE’S THE FUCKING INTRIGUE, ROBYN?”

…

“Then, epiphany struck me, LSM.”

“Like a lightning bolt to my skull.”

“(Which must have been what NK felt when I tossed him into that electrical box).”

“You’re a SUBMISSION MACHINE.”

“THAT'S the sell. That right there is the fucking draw. Two MASTERS of submission wrestling in a FUCKING DUEL.”

“The man who tapped out RAION KIDO… versus a LITERAL SUBMISSION MACHINE.”

…

“So, I ran the numbers one more time.”

“With the last dredges of hope my body was capable of producing scraped into the cockles of my heart.”

“And I ran the numbers on your record in submission matches.”

“After all, Robyn. You insist on calling yourself ‘Latina Submission Machina’.”

“OBVIOUSLY, someone with that RIDICULOUS name… Must at least have the pedigree to back that up, right?”

…

Another long exhale.

“Three wins.”

“Three losses.”

“AN EVEN .500 record in submission matches.”

“Literally, a coin flip.”

“And I’d like to highlight TWO performances that illustrate the holes in LSM’s submission game.”

“PERFORMANCE #1 - XWF Fire & Ice 2022 - LSM vs Dock.”

“A match in which our dear Machine Built to Submit… Lost in ONE HEADBUTT. And one hold. The match was approximately twenty-six seconds long.”

“It was technically so short, that Dock wasn’t even considered unretired by competing in it.”

“I checked the company tax records, Robyn! XWF legally filed Dock’s pay as a GIFT, because he beat you so easily, it couldn’t be recognized financially as WORK.”

“...Performance #2 - Wednesday Night Warfare - 9/1/21.”

“Dolly Waters and Latina Submission Machina - vs - Flynn & NK.”

“Reminder: A pair proclaimed the future 'Greatest Tag-Team in XWF History’ by actor Sam Elliott.”

“A team that lost once and never worked together, EVER again.”


I don't know who's worse at wrestling predictions: Sam Elliott or LSM.

“Admittedly, this was not a submission match.”

“But, the match ended with Robyn in her element. Having wrapped the North Korean War Criminal in a dragon sleeper.”

“Now, the War Criminal, just a few weeks before, had wrestled Betsy Granger. He had attempted EIGHT moves. And successfully executed one.”

“I had taken the poor boy under my coaching expertise, but this was our second match together. Needless to say, he was still incredibly green.”

“And LSM has the greenest rookie I’ve ever seen locked in a dragon sleeper. Center of the ring.”

“And NK… using knowledge he picked up in the TWO WEEKS I taught him.”

“Bridges his back.”

“Presses LSM’s shoulders to the mat.”

“And gets a three-count.”

…

“Robyn can make all the excuses she wants that tag-team matches don’t matter when discussing singles competition…”


“(By the way, your XWF singles record is 6-19-2… Your stats are EVEN WORSE when you subtract your tag-team record of 5-2).”

“But, a self-proclaimed SUBMISSION MACHINE…”

“Lost to a day-one-of-wrestling-school bridge.”

“THAT is what I have to sell, Robyn. A fucking amateur-level SCRUB, who deserves this shot EVEN LESS than EVERYONE ELSE who's faced me thus far.”

“With an even worse record than Marf, Mieky Graves, Dick Powers, AND Atara Raven.”

“Why? What does Theo expect from me, Robyn? Why is he punishing me like this, huh?”

“Does Pryce expect me to work fucking miracles? Does he want to stop buying bulk alcohol for concessions, because his ol’ pal Mark Flynn can just turn water into OVERPRICED BEER?”

…

“And… I realized… I’m examining this problem… From the wrong angle.”

“Like the Gordian Knot. There’s a solution so obvious that it’s staring me right in the face.”

“I don’t have to sell this match like it’s a once-in-a-lifetime slobberknocker. Or a duel between submission masters…”

“I can sell it. For exactly what it is. What it will be.”

“A slaughter. A massacre.”

“A trainwreck that audiences want to stop watching But can’t help themselves from gawking at.”

“I’m a fucking sales GENIUS, Robyn. How do you sell ANY product? You play to people’s basest instincts. You give them the tool to scratch that itch in the deepest, blackest, most profane parts of their brain.”

“That part that wants to see a fucking murder in that ring.”

“That’s what I plan to do, Robyn. I plan to dissect you. Like a fucking lepidopterist, pinning a butterly with needles through its thorax. Splaying your arms out of their sockets like a goddamn wishbone.”

“That’s what this match will be, Robyn. That’s why the people will come to see Flynn - vs - LSM.”

“To witness the macabre and the grotesque. To see a flawless, dominant champion… Run through an opponent like she’s made of goddamn tissue.”

“To watch the Latina Submission Machina. Be turned into a mass of twisted limbs, covered in blood. Something no longer recognizable as human.”

…

You feel the air around you shift… Hotter...

“Aren’t you excited? You’re ON the OPTIMAL PATH™. You’re so close to the OBLIVION™ I’ve given to so many before you.”

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Robyn? How does SUCCESS™ feel?”

You thought the sweltering heat in the room was unbearable before…

Now, the sweat on your back is sizzling like oil in a pan…

“You have it all, don’tcha? Aren’t you happy?”

“Your name is in the main event.”

“Your picture is on the flyer next to the Universal Title.”

“YOUR SPOT IS ACROSS THAT RING FROM MARK. FUCKING. FLYNN.”

“The spotlight is YOURS.”

You feel like a lobster in a boiling pot.

Or a fast food burger, drying out under a heat lamp…

The air is so thin, you can’t even breathe…

“Like the first image of a damsel tied to a runaway train. This will be iconic.”

“And the end result will be graphic.”

You feel the flesh on your arms cooking... Browning like groundbeef.

Your brain screams at you to run. Keep running...

But, your legs have completely jellified…

“...And like every other massacre, Robyn.”

“You will be FAMOUS.”

The meat of your back seared like a pan-filet…

“They’ll teach this match in wrestling schools. They’ll etch it move-for-move into the fucking history books as the declaration of war on the entire industry that it was. A PERFECTLY ONE-SIDED MATCH.”

“As the greatest Universal Champion of All-Time declares once-and-for-all, as he made an example out of a talentless loudmouth.”

You feel a presence pushing against your chest.

“Challenge me.”

“And die.”

KERACK. Your spine snaps under the pressure.

Your lungs collapse immediately.

"Glad I could give you all that you wanted..."

You blackout...