WARNING: UPON RETURNING TO THE UNITED STATES, MARK FLYNN PROVIDED A TAPE TO XWF SUPERSTARS OF HIS ESCAPADES, WITHOUT A CAMERAMAN IN TOW. THE FOOTAGE WAS HORRIFYINGLY OFFENSIVE TO LITERALLY EVERY CONCEIVABLE TEST AUDIENCE. AS A RESULT, CONCERNS WITH THE CONTENT OF THIS ADVENTURE WILL NOT ONLY BE HEAVILY EDITED BUT THE NON-INVOLVEMENT OF WITASTICK ENTERPRISES WILL BE CLARIFIED AT CLEAR MOMENT AS THE PROGRAM GOES ON.

THE FOLLOWING IS RATED TV-Y7.

Sunday, February 24, 2013 - 12:07 AM

Gasps plagued his every moment as his arms surged towards dry land.

The salt of the bay’s seas burned his eyes, the waves wrenched him back from land, letting him exhaust himself.

The skies cried above him. Rain. The waves came up and down. Thunder cried above him.

He forced himself through these godless waters, closing his eyes so his body wouldn’t be tempted to quit. He didn’t know how far away the beach was. He only knew it was ahead.

His hands finally hit beach and he goes psychotic, crawling like a crab as his legs kick like a child trying to carry him out of the water…

The XWF has a really weird unemployment policy, he considers, a brief moment of mental clarity as his body psychotically presses him to safety. Usually, there’s a two weeks notice. Or maybe a check for a couple weeks. A dismissal letter following him into the bay would have at least been a nice gesture.

Mark Flynn crawls out of the waters of Marina Bay. He flops onto the beach, lying on his empty stomach… He would murder that child. That f(LIPPANT YOUNG MAN) mother(FOLLOW)ing son of a b(EDOUIN HOUSEWIFE)… That filthy f(ACEBOOK FRIEND)ing wretch…

...

Flynn really missed having uncensored thoughts…

Anyway, not in a wrestling way. He’s going to beat that kid’s face in. No calculation. No technique.

He wasn’t worth the time and the thought.

He wasn’t even worth the cost of the $4 blank tape he vould use to record every moment Crimson had been in an XWF ring to slowly consider how to conquer him from every conceivable angle.

For the moment, Flynn didn’t give a f(RENCHMAN) about mentally dominating that kid…

He just wanted to feel his own fist pressing into nose cartilage.

The second he remembered what that stupid kid’s name was, he was going to literally pummel his face in until it was..

Wait, what was his name....

It was… Crimson… Oh… C’mon… Flynn faced him last week, he should remember this...

Crimson...

signs three different people who are named Crimson… And none of them are interesting enough to Flynn to recall completely...

....

Also, he’s out of work apparently…

...

Also, he’s in Singapore…

F(RANKLY), this isn’t good…

Mark Flynn lies on the beach, chest heaving, struggling to get enough oxygen into his lungs, opening his eyes, trying to stay awake a a cameraman adjusts his lens.

Wait. What?

Standing in front of him, with a big XWF press pass around his neck. A camera before his neckbeardy face, slightly overweight, neckbeard, wearing khaki shorts, a black t-shirt, neckbeard and glasses.

Flynn breathes heavily lying on the beach, the sand climbing in his mouth and resting on his clean-shaven face.

The cameraman pulls his livelihood, the means by which he collects a weekly paycheck, to the side of his head as he stares down through spectacles at this semi-conscious psychopath.

“RULES!" The cameraman bellows impatiently. "Everyone who was fired gets a cameraman for if you make it back to the states. No money. No credit cards. Just my camera and an iPad with a Maps function.”

Flynn continues to breathe heavily staring up at the cameraman, eyes fluttering, fading in and out of mental awareness.

The cameraman bites his lip. His thumb flips the side and the red light on top of the camera flips off.

“Look, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do. And while I’ve been told to film every moment of your suffering and frustration, I’m not enjoying Singapore anymore than you are. I think the best thing to do is work to-“

“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRD!” Flynn lets out this primal cry. And falls face first into the sand unconscious.

The camera man sighs.

And turns his camera back on.
***
Blackness. A familiar voice from within the nothingness.

“Sorry. I was going to go on my normal tirade about how Witastick is a corrupt maniac obsessed with my personal torment and Angelus is his trained monkey, the real villain in this scenario in that he attacked someone who had been denied the right to defend himself.

Or I might have covered that Crimson kid officially signing his resignation document last Saturday when he made the biggest mistake of his life.

But then I watched a backwoods village idiot talk about nothing at me for five minutes and a thought, a true mystery, crossed my mind that has prevented me from possibly exploring these other avenues of discussion.

Serious question, everyone.

I’ve asked this question at least eight times in my verbal examinations into the bureaucratic cave of horrors that is the XWF.

And I need an answer now.

What sexual favors is Peter Gilmour’s lawyer regularly performing to keep him as an XWF employee?”

A light flickers on. And center stage is revealed.

Flynn sits in a chair. The world is empty around him, imprisoning darkness. A stage light above. No props.

Just a man. And a seat.

Silently staring into a camera.

Flynn’s eyes are tired. The shaven face resting on the beach has been replaced with a long-untrimmed beard, furry and unkempt. But, when his gaze connects with the camera.

Fury.

“No. Really. Both viewing audiences and corporate sponsors alike. Why are you supporting an organization that actively supports the pursuits of Peter Gilmour? It’s mind-blowing.”

“This idiot, this half-witted buffoon, has slipped and slid his way through the last three months like a child falling down a flight of stairs.”

"And somehow through his tragic descent in in-ring quality, he's found the perfect strategy for someone of his caliber to win."

"Latch yourself onto superior parties and be better than Randy Cross on his worst day."

“This brainless oaf Peter Gilmour beat JPage, Tax, became a Tag Team Champion without ever beating the Tag Team Champions, because Cross was and is an idiot, and pulled Sid Feder’s dead body out of the ground, which turned out, had Donathan’s twisted broken right arm, hanging around its leg.”

“Seriously, how did Gilmour pull two sh(ITAKE MUSHROOM)y prizes out of a the carnival of horror’s prize grabber machine? Some guys get all the luck, I guess.”

Flynn leans back calmly in his chair.

“But, let me clarify something, Petey. I don’t care what bygone has-been no-one you pulls out of the fire and keeps that meaningless Tag Belt you never beat me for around your waist. All the luck in the world isn’t going to put you over me in a one-on-one contest. Especially when you lack the capacity in your frontal lobe to do anything on the mike but spew nonsense words out of your empty skull.”

Flynn sighs as one arm slides comfortably behind the back of the chair.

“You assume a lot about the world around you, Petey.”

“Why on Earth would I be tired of facing you after your two losses? Yeah, I’ve beaten you twice in a row. Do you think I’m tired of pummeling you into goo every match? Do you think I’m dreading how every time we enter the ring at the same time, you leave a blubbering blood smear?”

“Seriously, Pete. Do you think my fists are starting to hurt from slamming into your face regularly? I enjoy facing you the same way I enjoy the occasional match against no ones like Cassius Stonne and Benjamin Crane.”

“Free wins are fun. I like little dissection experiments where I can’t really lose.”

“You’re like a coloring book, Petey. You’re not really a challenge but I’m expected to do something with you. So, I’m going to sketch out some mildly impressive in-ring art work, using you as a makeshift canvas.”

“Then, I get bored. Then, I’m going to rip your insides out and hang them on a wall. Just like a coloring book.”

“Dark metaphor when considered literally, but stay with me here.”

“How does Angelus deserve the belt around my waist? The only reason he’s ever beaten me is because of a tag match where you were a pathetic excuse for a human being who after three and a half minutes in that ring had lost too much blood to throw a punch. How is that on me? I got stuck with the lousy partner. I got stuck with the guy who couldn’t deliver in crunch time. How exactly do you thrive in X-Treme Rules matches? Every time I think back to you being in these, you lose.”

“Also, Angelus attacked me when on Witastick’s orders, I couldn’t fight back. Angelus has made my life a living Hell. Angelus stole what was mine. Gilmour, I’m not even exaggerating right now. These are facts. Are you not even watching the show you’re scheduled to perform on weekly? That explains why you’re so unashamed of your talent. Because if anyone with a modicum of decency saw themselves wrestling the way you do regularly, they’d quit and stand on a bridge until the wind carried them to the bottom.”

“Head first.”

"Death Strike."

Flynn finally breaks into a momentary grin. His arm behind the chair pulls a piece of cardboard from the darkness.

“While I’m going through your half-a(CCLAIM)ed work like a paper shredder, might as well illustrate one more point on how stupid you are.”

His hands work to unfold the thing in his lap and before long, it’s a fully sized Peter Gilmour cardboard cut-out (AVAILABLE ON XWFSHOPZONE.COM).

Flynn sets up the base and sets it on the ground.

It stands at 6’6”.

A full six inches taller than Flynn.

“Exactly how am I bigger than you?”

Flynn shakes his head.

“Gilmour, if anything, this last promo has only made it clear how incredibly undeserving you were in having a successful three months in the XWF.”

“The same way your tag title defense on Shove-It made it clear how close your little streak of successes is to its end.”

“I think you don’t get the world around you. Let me explain to you that the end of the last Shove-It had your partner joining up with Donathan, Soldier and Tyler Decker.”

"What seems to happen every time a group of supermen start latching onto each other?"

"They try to get rid of the weakest link in the chain."

“The chances of you and your tag team partner ‘talking soon’, at least amicably, is almost certainly zero.”

“The chances of you remaining a tag champion with Mister Mystery as your official partner?”

“Even less.”

“The chances of you turning your losing streak against Mark Flynn around?”

“None.”

Flynn reaches into his pocket…

“You don’t have Feder to ride on during this match like you did JP and Tax.”

And pulls a match.

“You’re not up against Randy Cross who Amazingly lost his last five matches before his subsequent firing for being a no-talent loser.”

He flicks it alive with flame.

“And you've made it clear after your orry display don’t have a chance in Hell out of out-doing me this week.”

And throws it on the cut-out.

Gilmour’s smiling likeness begins to blacken with flame as the entire thing is engulfed.

Flynn smiles and starts walking toward the camera.

“Do you really want to be taken to the extreme, Gilmour? No catchphrases, no trash talk, no stupid 90s re-spelling. Do you want to see what it’s really like to go to the extreme of your body’s physical tolerances?”

Flynn’s face encompasses the entire view as he lifts the camera off its stand. The only things visible behind him is the burning carcass of Peter Gilmour.

“C’mon. I’ll take you there…”

"Going..."

"Down..."

CUT.
***
WARNING: THIS SECTION WAS GOING TO BE A PREVIEW OF FUTURE EPISODES OF FLYNN’S ADVENTURES IN SINGAPORE. HOWEVER, DUE TO THE OFFENSIVE NATURE OF THE CONTENT IN FUTURE ENTRIES, WE HAVE ELECTED TO PRE-EMPTIVELY DECLARE THE ADMINISTRATOR NETWORK’S COMPLETE UNATTACHMENT TO MARK FLYNN AT THE TIME THESE EVENTS HAPPENED. MARK FLYNN WAS NOT AN EMPLOYEE OF XWF AT THE TIME THESE THINGS OCCURRED. THE TRAILER BELOW HAS BEEN HEAVILY EDITED TO MAKE IT SUITABLE FOR ALL AUDIENCES.

In a world run by Singapore’s drug carte-

WARNING: AS A FAMILY FRIENDLY SHOW, XWF'S WEDNESDAY NIGHT WARFARE, IN ASSOCIATION WITH WITASTICK ENTERTAINMENT, DOES NOT CONDONE THE MARKETING OF ILLEGAL DRUGS ON ITS PROGRAMMING OR ACCEPTING THE PROFITS FROM ILLEGAL DRUG PURCHASES AS LEGAL TENDER.

Two men would do anything to get ho-

WARNING: AS A FAMILY FRIENDLY SHOW, XWF’S WEDNESDAY NIGHT WARFARE, IN ASSOCIATION WITH WITASTICK ENTERTAINMENT, DOES NOT CONDONE THE USE OF THE HUMAN TRAFFICKING TO OBTAIN AFOREMENTIONED ILLEGAL DRUG PROFITS BY SELLING AMERICAN CITIZENS.

“You made a mistake coming back here, old man…”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE!”

“You can’t lie your way out of this one, Lew-“

WARNING: AS A FAMILY FRIENDLY SHOW, XWF’S WEDNESDAY NIGHT WARFARE, IN ASSOCIATION WITH WITASTICK ENTERTAINMENT, DOES NOT CONDONE ERIC LEWIS.

“…You think I’m Er-“

WEDNESDAY NIGHT WARFARE DOES NOT CONDONE THE PAST, CURRENT OR FUTURE CRIMINAL ACTIVITY OF ERIC LEWIS. ERIC LEWIS’ EXPRESSED OPINIONS, ACTIONS AND LIFE CHOICES AND MARRIAGES ARE HIS OWN AND IN NO WAY THOSE OF XWF OR WITASTICK ENTERPRISES.

“NUMBAH ONE WRESTLA IN WORLD: ERIC LEW-“

DO NOT TRY OSTRICH RACING AT HOME.

“I’m telling you people. I’m not Eric Lewi-“

DO NOT BET ON OSTRICH RACING AT HOME.

“ERR-ICK!” *CLAPCLAPCLAP* “LEW-I-“

DO NOT FIX OSTRICH RACES TAKING PLACE AT YOUR HOME.

“AND ERIC LEWIS WINS! ERIC LEWIS WINS!”

DO NOT NAME THE OSTRICH YOU REGULARLY BET ON ‘PETE ROSE’ AS A HUMOROUS ‘TAKE-THAT’ TO AUTHORITIES AFTER THEY ACCUSE YOU OF THE ABOVE CRIMES.

“PETE ROSE! NO!”

Coming in the next few weeks…

From Ashes We Rise

RATED TV-Y7.