August 27th, 2024


The church bell tolls. Six o'clock. The meeting was starting. The heavy double doors slammed behind him as the small congregation of eight or so focused on a man they had never seen before. I pulled a smile and a quick wave before confidently saying hello. I wanted to blend in but being the only person in the room over six feet and a new face in a room full of what seemed to me to be, friendly acquaintances, blending in wasn't on the menu. It wasn't that kind of place. You can't just blend in. No, here they want you to open up. They want you to face your demons. The friendly confines of a sectioned off space, in a rarely used church gym, organized by a former addict, fully inhabited by other recovering addicts. All secretly judging you as you pour out your stories of addiction, all of them hoping that your story isn't as bad as theirs, so that they can continue to feel like "no one has it worse."


I pointed towards a plastic table that was set up for coffee and donuts. A cheap staple at any poorly funded, poorly thrown together meeting in the back of a church on a Monday evening anywhere in the world. The Judge, I believe in Alcoholics Anonymous terminology they liked to be called, the Chairperson, nodded through a smile. Her jury looking on in unison as I sauntered towards the table. As I grabbed from the stack of styrofoam cups, their small talk commenced. I must have passed the first impression test. 


The coffee was lukewarm and tasted like tar. Disgusting, I thought. The coffee, however, did not pass the first impression test. I gulped, quickly finishing the liquid asphalt that was penetrating my will to live. I should have known it was awful and has been awful for as long as these meetings have been going on. The barely touched stack of cups should have been my first clue. It's fine. I will fix this. That was the entire point of my gracing this shit hole cloaked in Christianity. 


I am going to make more coffee, I stated. The Judge gave me a quick unassuming smile. The look on her face told me I was doing her and the entire place a favor. Someone made bad coffee here for a very long time but it wasn't her. I could tell by the subtle look of relief in her eyes. At least on this quiet summer night, she wouldn't have to choke down someone's poor attempt at coffee or whatever someone would call that shit.


On the table that housed the refreshments, were a stack of "Hello my name is" stickers and two black sharpies. I took one, filled it out and pulled up a seat next to a pale, frail man who must have been in his late forties. The dark circles under his eyes, shaded in purple and yellow and the tinge of yellow where the whites of his eyes should have been, told me immediately - early stage liver failure. His name tag read Chuck. He welcomed me with a smirk and a head nod. 


I asked Chuck if he wanted to try the coffee. He hesitated to answer before I cut in and told him that I had personally made it. We are in the equivalent of a trust circle after all, so he agreed. I advised the rest of the group that I had made a fresh pot of coffee. It was my piece offering to a crowd of strangers, I joked. It didn't take much convincing, they all obliged. 


As the meeting finally started, Ambria, her name tag read, our fateful Judge stood stoically at a large, worn wooden podium with a two-foot cross glued to the front. Clearly handed down by the church after being used for decades. She had a presence about her, I I'll give her that. Her eyes, a different shade of green, were striking. Her raven black hair had gray bursting through the roots. She was desperately trying to cling to the obvious beauty of her youth but was constantly reminded of the hard life she led before getting clean. Those graying roots and father time have betrayed her. 


"Welcome back everyone, and say hello to... Ned, I interjected pointing at my Hello my name is sticker as I stood up. Ned Kay... she cut me off. " No last names here", she insisted. "Everyone say hello to Ned. Please welcome him to our group. "


A chorus of niceties poured over the room. I smirked as I nodded. "Ned, you're new to our group, so if you would like to start us off, tell us a little bit about yourself, the floor is yours." I raised my cup, a seemingly sober toast, and took a long swig of my coffee. The entire room did the same. 


Where do I start, I said. I took a deep breath into my lungs, Hello. I am Ned and just like all of you, I am an alcoholic. Three days sober now, I continued but today I started to feel like I needed a drink. They say the first week is the hardest and I am only halfway through. You've got to start somewhere you know and I am glad to be starting my journey here with all of you, I rejoiced. I raised my cup again for our now ceremonial sober toast and took another long chug. Almost finished with my cup. The room followed suit. 


Chuck gazed at me while complimenting the coffee. Ned, he said, it's the best cup of coffee I have had in a very long time. I am glad you're here, he beamed. Please continue. I smiled at him as I carried on. My job allows me to travel all over this world, see parts of this planet that most only ever dream of. That coffee is from a little village in the northern part of Ethiopia. The best in the world. Please, drink up, I said. 


I am new here, obviously, and I am a touch shy, so if you wouldn't mind I would prefer someone else take the reins. Show me how it's done, I requested. Ambria, understanding the plight of a first timer on the road to recovery, interjected. Absolutely, Ned. Thank you for giving it a shot, her voice boomed. She shook her head curiously. She was feeling it. I could tell. She could tell. Chuck, she said. You're shitting, sorry she exclaimed, SITTING to the right of Ned, how about you go next, she ordered through a flurry of slurred words.  


Chuck, caught off guard by her tone but always willing to talk about his journey to recovery, agreed. Chuck rose to stand but couldn't catch his balance. I caught him before he landed in my lap. 

Twenty minutes earlier

"I am gonna make more coffee."


While the room full of unsuspecting addicts ran through their pre-meeting pleasantries, Matthias Syn, for this meeting, now known as, Ned Kaye, pulled out a bottle of one hundred and ninety-two proof Polish Vodka and dumped it's contents into the freshly brewing coffee. Colorless. Odorless. Hilarious.


A handful of people, coming together to seek comfort in each other's shared life experience, to clean themselves up and take the next step in their lives, have all been drinking one hundred and ninety-two proof vodka for the last twenty minutes. He was doing them yet another favor, he thought. Once they realized what was going on, it was going to be a party. Whether they wanted one or not.


Chuck, you okay? I asked. Knowing damn well the answer. This man was drunk. This man who hadn't taken even a sip of alcohol in nearly five years, could feel the short term memory turn gray. I guess I am okay, he said nervously. The weight of the situation bearing down on him. I could use another cup of coffee. Syn smirked, walking over to refill the man's cup. I think he's going to be just fine. The coffee should help, I said returning his new cup of coffee.


At that moment, Syn's phone rang. He pulled the phone from the pocket of his leather jacket. It was just the alarm he had set before he walked into the building. Six twenty-five. He pretended to answer, talking to no one on the other end of the line. Feeding into the theatrics of his plan. 


I am sorry but I have to go. Family emergency. You know how these things are. They didn't know that Syn doesn't have a family. At least  family that he would take the time to answer a phone call from. Same time next week, he said with a hint of sarcasm. Promise me you wont let the coffee go to waste. He smiled an evil smile, before walking out the double doors.

---

"To confront a person with their shadow is to show them their own light" - Carl Jung

Ned Kaye - The White Knight of the XWF. A man who tries to conceal his pride and his ego under the veil of honor and humility. Fashions himself a hero... however misunderstood. Currently in the throes of an existential crisis. 


"Why don't the fans like me?"


"Why do they boo me?"


Fucking exhausting. It's because you're boring, Ned. Without that belt you are just a gatekeeper with time accrued. Milquetoast. You are the default create-a-wrestler. You are Rocky, without charisma. Nothing more than a placeholder. Someone to carry the belt until a Superstar walks through that curtain and leaves you wondering if AA was the right choice. 


I am that Superstar, Ned.


I'm Ned Kaye and i'm an alcoholic. 


Christ, even your addiction is boring. It's two thousand and twenty-four, Ned. Everyone has an addiction. Alcoholism? Really? We have been through a manufactured plague, Ned. They forced everyone to go home and isolate themselves from everything and everybody that they knew and loved. The weak, the feeble and the frail of the herd were sacrificed to Big Pharma for massive corporate bonuses and stock dividends. 


And the whole world watched. Drowning in the despair and dejection of a world unknown. A world that no one knew what it would look like on the other side of a nightmare. The use of heavy narcotics rose to unprecedented levels. So you will find no sympathy from Matthias Syn for an addiction that has long since held little favor. Grow up and get a real addiction. 


It's the chase, Ned. It's always the chase. You are like any other white meat, babyface, hero. Once you win the belt, who gives a shit? The chase is what made you interesting. Can our hero overcome the years and years of frustration and missed opportunity and come out the other side with the greatest prize in our industry? It's a tale as old as time. 


And you did it, Ned. At the expense of your tag team partner and best friend. You did it. Stole HIS dream to satisfy YOURS.


Pretending that you saved the Universal Title and the XWF because you cashed in on Sebastian Everett-Bryce is beyond hilarious. It was never about SEB or the XWF, it was always about Ned Kaye's ego. 


Mr. Moral high ground took the low road to the title. I commend you for it. That is EXACTLY how you're supposed to use that briefcase. Funny though, how you cheered on and even championed for, Mark Flynn to cash in the right way. 


You didn't blow it like Mark Flynn. Syn, said through a smirk. I will give you that. 


Imagine holding onto that briefcase, that golden ticket to the Universal Title, for one calendar year and then cashing in the way that he did? Embarrassing. He threw his name into a three way, the "right way", only to eat the pin and watch someone else leave the ring with the Universal Title, just like the beta cuck that he is. And while he laid on his back wondering to himself if this was his last chance, his eleventh hour, his last ditch effort to call himself the Universal Champion... your fucking music hits, Ned. I wonder what Flynn was thinking in that moment?


That moment that you thrust your ego and your pride to the front and center and stole the one thing that he cares most about. That moment that he had to roll out of the ring, battered and broken and watch you hand the referee that briefcase. He thought the same thing that I thought, Ned. The same thing that these repulsive fans thought. 




It was NEVER about Sebastian Everett-Bryce, Ned. It was NEVER about saving the XWF from an outsider or saving the XWF from a man who cared more about himself than the Universal Title. No, Ned. It was always about Ned Kaye. It will always only be about Ned Kaye. You may fool everyone in the back with your good guy, every man routine, you may fool all these shit for brain fans and you may fool Mark Flynn but you aren't fooling me, Ned.


A liar knows a liar. Having that belt around your waste is the only thing that satiates that endless ego.


I see through you, Ned. Dissecting every syllable that squeezes through your teeth has shown me who Ned Kaye really is. The lying, prideful, egomaniac. I want you to know that I don't kiss rings, Ned. I collect them. I do not care what you've done or who you've beaten. You can save your accolades for nostalgia night at whichever twelve step program you hope heals your broken heart. 


Syn's eyes pierce through the camera.


The "B" show right? The big fish in the small pond has come to Warfare looking for a fight. Well I'm a different type of violent, Ned. I am a great white with blood lust and I'm hunting on the shoreline. I am going to put Anarchy on my back, strut into Warfare, into your show and I'm going to beat the champ. It's not about the title, Ned. Its about sending a message. To you. To the entire Warfare roster. Times they are a changing. Matthias Syn is here.


Do you know why I cross brands, Ned. Because I fucking can. I I'll write your eulogy in a thousand words or four thousand. 


It doesn't. Fucking. Matter.


You think I don't know you, Ned. Do you think that I can't see through the charade? Do you think that I don't see how you subtly double-fist Theo and Thad's dicks in every promo?


"I'd do anything for the XWF",


"I give everything to the XWF"


Syn gives a dismissive wanking gesture.


I am going to punch your pointy fucking nose through the back of your skull, Ned. I'll smash my first through broken rib and rip your fucking still beating heart out. I will personally deliver it to Darcy, so that the entire world doesn't have to continue watching you simp to a couple of suburban wine moms.


Couldn't please her, Ned? I'm not surprised. You're an embarrassment to anyone that can see through the facade. Adeyemi sees it. Darcy sees it. I see it, Ned. The XWF Universe sees it. 


But that's the thing, Ned. Why do you care what they think? They'll turn on you before you can blink and not think twice about it. they're fickle that way. My entire brand is telling them that they are useless, dull, NPC's and still you can't keep my merch on the shelves. The replica Revolution Title has sold more in the last month on the X-Shop than it ever has. They WANT to be treated like shit, Ned. They get off on it. It makes them feel like they matter. 


Bread and circuses, Ned. Only the bread is getting more expensive and the circus is leaving town. WAKE THE FUCK UP.


You can't take it personally. What you can take personally is that you're only slightly less boring than Sebastian Everett-Bryce. The next SEB promo I get through will in fact, be the first. Two title defenses in four months and this is the guy that you so desperately needed to get the belt off of? In fairness to SEB, at least he can say that he had two more title defenses than Ned Kaye. Even if they were wins over Dionysus, the catalyst of wanting to commit suicide and the Black Panth... I mean, Prince Adeyemi. Losing the belt in your first defense as Champion. Yikes. It's a tough business isn't it, Ned? Life has a funny way of being cyclical and it's come around for you again. I am going to take that belt from you. 


Before I do though, give me Notorious Ned Kaye. Be a fucking man again. He's right there. Waiting patiently behind those dull eyes of yours. Waiting for you to say enough is enough. Instead, I'll get the man of paper thin character. An imitation. A copy of a copy. A cosplayed version of a dollar store hero. 


The Ned Kaye whose privilege is constantly on display. Your ego has made it so that you only ever see the world through Ned Kaye's eyes. The wall that you've built to hide from the reality of this evil world would sicken even the most narcissistic among us. You said to me once, "recognizing that the world can be an awful place from time to time does not evil make."


Tell that to the eighteen year old who can't legally smoke a cigarette or drink a beer but will gladly and proudly be given a weapon of war to protect the stock market. To protect the billionaire oil man's bottom dollar. While being sold lies about freedom and protecting democracy. Tell that to the mother at a preventable funeral as she watches her child lowered into the earth in a casket draped in the flag of a country that doesn't give a shit. That never actually cared. 


There are wars on almost every continent. There are active genocides being carried out in Sudan, the Congo and in Palestine. There are January heat waves. Glaciers melting. Sea-levels rising. Natural disasters are more intense than they have ever been. The phone that you use made through child labor and slavery in cobalt mines a million miles away from your bubble, Ned. The conflict diamond that you so willfully bought for Darcy but never thought about or cared about where it really came from. 


The greatest upward wealth transfer in the history of the world happened during covid and it has continued every day since. Corporate profits at an all-time high while they lie and tell you it's inflation. When six companies own ninety percent of the media we consume, manufacturing consent becomes easy. Child's play.




So tell me again that the world isn't evil, Ned. tell me again that I am wrong. 


You can't kill ideas, Ned. They seep in through the gray matter, they fester and they feed until they have eternal life. Blooming like a spring flower. A revolution is necessity. My revolution is necessity. It wont be stopped now, Ned. 


It's your pride, Ned. The pride before the fall. I am your fall. I'm the bone saw ripping through your jugular. I am going to save the rest of the world and the biggest wrestling show on planet earth, Relentless, from having to listen to you and SEB trade equally depressing promos in old English. Who the fuck says "thy" in a promo? Who are you speaking to? Who is your core audience? I can assure you that I do not care how learned you think you are. Book smarts mean very little while your spine is turned to dust. 


Like I said, you're boring, Ned. I am a five tool athlete. The prototype. There is nothing in this business that I can't do. When I speak, the world listens. I am the best in the world when the record button is hit. My silver tongue cuts like a knife through flesh. Look around the industry since Matthias Syn showed up. A lot of them are trying to be me, Ned. Their promos are more scathing, more vile and filled with more vitriol. Only I can't be replicated. I am a one of one. No one imitates Ned Kaye. When you hit the mic, the collective wrestling community hits the mute button. "A compilation of Ned Kaye promos to fall asleep too" has over a million views on Youtube. No one has ever finished it. No one ever will. 


But I will finish you, Ned.


When Warfare is over. When it's all said and done, you can find Matthias Syn and that Universal Title, standing in the ashes at the end of the world.