A million tears fall from the sky, landing on the tarmac and forming little puddles of pity. The runway is slick and wet from the rain, but that won’t stop The Corporation from skipping town. A little bit of inclement weather is the least of their concerns tonight. Dark clouds settle over the Lexington sky, blocking out the light of the waning moon. Jet engines roar to life as Elon Musk’s private plane pulls up to the taxiway for boarding.

Off to the side of the screen, we see Charlie standing next to Peter Principal’s wheelchair. Big Preesh and Big Puddin’, Peter’s lackeys, are holding umbrellas above the XWF’s newest power couple. The henchmen themselves, however, are completely drenched from head-to-toe.

As the jet pulls up to The Corporation, Charlie’s gaze drifts toward the dark clouds looming overhead. Broken and battered from tonight’s battle, Charlie sees his remedy floating through the dreary sky. Every cloud looks like a pipe, but when Charlie squints, the clouds look like bottles of dark liqueur. A burst of thunder crackles through the sky, quickly followed by a bolt of lightning that is swallowed whole by the clouds.

“Lightning in a bottle. Just like Dolly Waters…”

The Nickleman grumbles beneath his breath, but only you can hear his wails of discontent. Preesh’ and Puddin’ just stand there shivering in the rain, while Peter Principal remains completely still in his wheelchair. When the jet stops in front of The Corporation, a completely motorized and ADA-accessible ramp extends down towards the ground.

As The Corporation waits for the ramp to touchdown, Charlie’s mind can’t help but wander. Tonight was supposed to be his moment of triumph over The Revolution, but instead, the walls of Charlie’s kingdom came crumbling down. The unionists stormed his gates, and now, Dolly Waters sits on the throne. Even the rain hammering against the tarmac couldn’t wash this egg off of Charlie’s face.

Charlie had plotted it all out, from the opening bell to the final 3 count. He had his cronies posted up in the back, just waiting for the signal to come down and play the numbers game with Dolly. Between himself, Preesh’ and Puddin’, Dolly Waters never should’ve stood a chance! But somehow, someway, she was the one leaving Lexington with ‘Big Gold’.

The Nickleman knew in his heart of hearts that he should look inward and take accountability after tonight’s defeat…but it was easier for him to look off to the sides, where Preesh’ and Puddin’ were standing. As far as Charlie was concerned, tonight was more than just a setback for The Corporation: it was a wake-up call. Peter's puppets had long outlived their usefulness, and now, it was time for Charlie to cut their strings.

As the wheelchair ramp finally touched down, Preesh’ and Puddin’ stepped forward, but Charlie stopped them. Then, he grabbed Puddin’s umbrella and attached it directly to Peter’s wheelchair.

 
“Woah now, boys. The road stops here for the both of ya’.”

Preesh’ and Puddin’ look at Charlie with confused expressions. Then, Preesh’ works up the courage to speak!

“Whaddya’ mean by that, boss?”

The Nickleman glares at the two heavyset jobbers with crystal-clear disdain.

“I mean you two imbeciles cost me The Universe tonight! The entire fucking Universe! I had it all, around my waist, upon my shoulder, in my hands…until you chubby cuntmunchers ripped it all away from me!”

Charlie lashes out with a vitriol that takes Preesh’ and Puddin’ by complete surprise! The big men step back, equal parts hurt and confused as The Nickleman keeps laying into them for their “failures”!

“Seriously, how hard is it to interfere in a damn match?! All you had to do was take Dolly Waters out so I could pin her, and then we’d never have to see that bitch again! That’s it! That was your whole fucking job tonight, and still, you bums couldn’t get it done!

The Corporation lost possession of our most valuable asset tonight, and it’s ALL YOUR FAULT!”

“We’re sorry boss! We won’t fail you again, we promise!”

The Nickleman pushes an accusatory finger into the chest of the big men. Then, he starts rolling Peter’s wheelchair up the ramp. When Preesh’ and Puddin’ go to follow, Charlie turns around and berates them some more!

“You’re damn right you bums won’t fail me again!

BECAUSE YOU’RE FIRED!!!!!”

Preesh’ and Puddin’ share a look of shock as Charlie pushes Peter’s wheelchair into the plane without them. The ramp is pulled back as the door to the jet shuts slowly and dramatically, locking Preesh’ and Puddin’ out of the corporate luxury they had grown accustomed to. As the private jet rolls towards the runway, Preesh’ and Puddin’ stand on the tarmac, cold and alone. As the rain pours upon The Corporation’s parade, Preesh’ and Puddin’ are left shivering beneath a single umbrella.

You can use a lot of words to describe Corey Black.

Cliche.

Trite.

Self-absorbed.

But there’s one word you can’t use:

Legendary.

Corey’s been around for years, and he’s spent time in more federations than I care to count. But despite his frequent appearances on every indie mud show under the sun, there’s only one place where Corey has ever been a true legend…

And that’s in his own damn mind!

All those years in CULT wrestling, and Corey Black can’t even muster a CULT following. But hey, what else would you expect from someone as cliché, trite, and self-absorbed as Corey Black?

Let’s cut to the chase, Corey: all those fluffed-up achievements from the minor leagues don’t mean shit when you step into an XWF ring. You learned that lesson the hard way when you first debuted in this company. It only took a couple matches for you to realize that you were out of your element, and as soon as the big dogs barked your way, you tucked your tail and ran back down to the indie circuit!

You may be a big fish when you’re swimming in the kiddie pools, but here in the XWF? You’re nothing, you’re not even a footnote in our company’s proud history!

You’re not even the best Corey on the roster- that’s Smith!

You’re not even the best Black on the roster- that’s John!

You’re such a damn cliché, even your fucking name is just a mindless mish-mash of other, better wrestlers!

And your self-given moniker isn’t any better.

You call yourself “The King of Wrestlers”?

Give me a fucking break, guy!

You’re just trite cliché after trite cliché, ain’t ya, John Smith?

You want to call yourself “The King”? Get in line! You’re just behind Kieran, York, Isaiah, and every other dumb motherfucker that watched the “Ready To Rumble” movie as a kid- and decided to base their entire career on it!

If you were half as arrogant and twice as creative, you might have a future in the XWF. It’s too bad your heart isn’t stronger than that fragile fuckin’ ego.

But alas, Corey, you just need to accept the fact that you will never escape the shadow of The Pantheon.

I mean, think about it.

How can you be a “King”, if you let “The Emperor” treat you like his little bitch?

In the War Games draft, Sebastian skipped right past you. He didn’t even think twice about it, he knew that you would bring nothing but dead weight to his team- and by God, did you prove him right! While I was busy winning War Games, you were busy getting punked out and beat down!

And then, while I was celebrating my War Games victory with the team…you were probably backstage, groveling before your “Emperor”, and begging him to take you back!

The truth is no one in The Pantheon will stand beside you anymore, Corey, because they know you’ll just drag them down to your middling level.

Is it any surprise that SEB had to look outside The Pantheon for his new tag-team partner? He couldn’t win those straps with you, no matter how many times he tried! But ever since he swapped “The King of Wrestlers” out for “The King of Wakanda”, he’s been on a fuckin’ roll in the tag division!

All SEB needed to do, was DROP YOU…

Because you’re loud, you’re obnoxious, and you lose every time it counts. You’re just  Pantheon’s cheerleading fanboy who makes SEB and Spencer look tough, just by standing next to em’.

Truth be told, Corey: you’re the Big Preesh of Pantheon.

Nothing more, nothing less.

The camera cuts to a shot of a rustic barn located just outside the city limits of Sturgis, South Dakota. A banner hangs above the open barnyard doors, reading ‘JOIN THE CORPORATION - OPEN TRYOUTS ALL WEEK!’. Hoots and hollers pour out from the barn as the camera zooms past hundreds of motorcycles parked all around the rural lot. Once inside, we see a makeshift ring made out of hay bales and rope. In the middle of that ring, we see Charlie Nickles delivering a devastating leg drop to some poor biker decked out in Hell’s Angels patches. After he drops the leg, Charlie stands up and throws the poor sap’s lifeless body over the top rope!

“Next up, please!”

Outside the ring, we see a bunch a wanna-be wrestlers sitting in chairs, just waiting for their name to be called for a try-out. On the other side of the ring we see a makeshift judges table, where Elon Musk, Peter Principle, and Nadine the secretary can be seen taking notes. Well, Peter’s not so much taking notes as he is blankly staring…but Elon and Nadine are keeping track of that action inside the ring!

“I SAID, NEXT UP!”

Nadine shuffles through her papers before finding the list of names for today’s try out. She scratches out the name of the last participant, clearly finding his work to be insufficient. As the camera zooms closer, you can see that every name above it has also been crossed out! Nadine moves her eyes down the list until she finds a fresh name.

“We need Melancholy Red in the ring!”

Upon hearing his name called, “Melancholy” slides into the makeshift ring under the bottom rope…but haybales aren’t meant for sliding, and Melancholy actually has to army crawl his way past the ropes!

“Oh sweet baby Jesus…”

The Nickleman instinctively places his head in the palm of his hand as he sees “Melancholy” crawl into the ring for a tryout. Dressed like a posh emo prick, Melancholy wore black skinny jeans that were far too tight to be functional. His skinny torso was only partially concealed by the designer shirt he was wearing, because it had “fashionable” rips and holes aplenty! Even Melancholy’s hair was pissing Charlie off. Dyed black and coated with mousse, Melancholy’s style was somewhere between Beverly Hills and Hot Topic.

“And what makes you think you’re a good fit for The Corporation?”

Melancholy huffs at the question, flipping his hair to the other side with just swivel of his neck.

“I’ll be a good fit because I’m seriously dahk n’ twist’d, mate. There’s a monster, right? Deep in me’ soul: with fangs, claws, the whole bloody nightmare! There’s nun’ who can out wrestle me, because I wrestle with that monster every day… but if I ever let it out? If I unshackle the beast? Oi, no one’s safe. Not even yur’ bloody mum!"

The Nickleman groans with second-hand embarrassment as he tries to parse the applicant’s accent.

“So what are you, Australian or some shit?”

“I’m a kiwi!”

Charlie rolls his eyes.

“Fine, you want your tryout? Then come and get it!”

The Nickleman gestures for Melancholy Red to come and get some, but Melancholy waits around awkwardly for a few seconds, not quite sure what to do!

“Oi, you want me to throw hands right ‘ere, right now? Uhhh… well usually, before a scrap, I gotta, y’know, commune with me inner beast! Real ritualistic stuff, yeah? Gets me proper in the mood to fight, mate and without it I—”

WHAP!

Charlie throws a vicious elbow across Melancholy’s jaw, sending the posh prick flying over the top rope headfirst! As Charlie leans over the ropes to look at his handiwork, Melancholy slowly rises to his feet, clutching his bruised ego. A few tears can be seen sliding down Melancholy’s tender cheek as he heads for the exit!

“This paaaain…this pain only makes me STRONGER!! Y-You just unleashed the BEAST, mate!”

“You might as well take your ass over to join The Rainbow Warriors, because you ain’t built for this, boy!”

The Nickleman waves off the foreigner and his empty threats before turning back to Nadine, who is busy scratching his name off her list.

“Who’s next, Nadine? And you better have someone good for me this time! I’m tired of seeing all these kooks and weirdos! We need someone who can help The Corporation WIN, god damn it!”

The Nickleman hangs his arm over the top rope, leaning on it for support as Nadine scans the list of applicants for a promising name.

“Will BOINK The Clown please come to the ring!”

The entire barn turns their ogling eyes towards the next applicant, who gracefully ascends the stairs before ducking under the ropes and into the ring.

“Oh my fucking God…”

As Charlie turns around to conduct the next try out, his mouth drops- with both shock and arousal. The aptly named ‘BOINK’ is painted from head to toe in white body paint, with red accent features. Her body is shapely and thick, and the only thing she’s wearing is a tiny bikini with clown noses covering her nipples.

“And how are you going to help us against The Revolution?! What’re you going to do, boob them to death?!

Get the hell out of here, you harlot!”

The clown girl busts into tears as Charlie metaphorically boots her out of the ring! That’s when a clip montage begins playing across the screen, showing highlights from the rest of the day’s tryouts. We see bikers of all stripes and gimmicks throwing their hat into the ring, but each and every one of them is thrown out with ease when Charlie gets his hands on them! Every time a biker flies out of the ring, Nadine scratches another name off the list.

At the end of the montage, we see Charlie and his corporate crew seated around the judge’s table in the emptied out barn.

“I didn’t realize it was so hard to find good help these days!”

Charlie throws his hands up in frustration, clearly worn out from the hustle and bustle of corporate recruiting. Elon Musk leans forward, clasping his hands together as he tries to influence The Nickleman.

“They weren’t all so bad, Charlie! That clown girl showed a lot of promise if you ask me. If we don’t hire her for The Corporation, I might just hire her for my female insemination program!”

The Nickleman glares in Elon’s direction.

“Good thing nobody asked you.”

That’s when Nadine chimes in, still holding the list of crossed out names.

“Well Charlie, if you hadn’t fired our most reliable employees, then we wouldn’t be scraping the bottom of the barrel looking for their replacements! Say what you will about Big Preesh and Big Pudding, but the way you fired them was completely unprofessional and uncalled for!

Honestly, we might be better off if we just give them their jobs back.”

DING!

Peter dings his silver bell in agreement as Nadine meets Charlie’s gaze with steeled confidence. This subtle act of disloyalty sends Charlie flying into a rage! He flips the judges table over before screaming at his associates, pointing an accusatory finger in their direction.

“Don’t you ever doubt me! I’m the fucking HEAD OF THE TABLE! I’m the ACTING GENERAL MANAGER, and I’m the only one who can save this failing Corporation! I fired those fatasses because they FAILED at Leap of Faith, and I won’t tolerate any more failure in our ranks!

So listen to me and listen to me good, Nadine:

Preesh’ and Puddin’ are fucking gone…and if you keep second-guessing every decision I make, you’re gone next!”

Nadine leans back in her chair, clearly terrified of The Nickleman’s vitriol. Charlie leans across Peter’s wheelchair, getting so close to Nadine that he can smell the perfume she wore last week.

“Do you understand?”

Nadine nods her head ‘yes’ as she stumbles through her words.

“O-of c-c-course, C-charlie! I n-never meant to doubt you!”

As The Nickleman snarls in Nadine’s face, Elon’s AI machine walks into the open barn. “The Grok” stands just at the entrance, breaking the tension when he announces his arrival. Charlie’s head turns on a swivel when “The Grok” addresses him.

“I’ve isolated a viable solution to our current labor deficiency.

Since Leap of Faith, I’ve parsed 3,666 hours of continuous XWF surveillance footage. I found only one potential match. An outlier. A statistical anomaly who satisfies 69% of your established criteria parameters: loyalty, brutality, charisma.

His brutality metrics exceed thresholds by 41%.

He sustained championship retention for 252 days.

Crowd sentiment: erratic.

Peer sentiment: hostile.

He does not wait for orders. He does not ask for permission.

He simply executes, with precise violence and calculated malice.

And he just reached Sturgis airspace.”

The Nickleman raises an inquisitive brow as he walks towards “The Grok”.

“And what’s his loyalty index?”

“12%.

Projected deviation likelihood: high.”

The Nickleman reels back in alarm.

“Only 12%?! Then why the fuck are you wasting my time with him?”

“His self-interest alignment with corporate objectives is 63%, contingent on maintained operational incentives.

He is not loyal, Charlie.

But he is extraordinarily useful.”

The Nickleman places his hand on his bearded chin as he contemplates The Grok’s analysis. Charlie typically demanded loyalty from everyone, but Preesh’ and Puddin’ were as loyal as could be…and they were equal parts useless. Maybe, Charlie thought, it was time for a change in The Corporation’s approach. 

“Take me to him.”

I used to cut myself after every loss, every humiliation.

I would drag the blade across my veins, and let the blood spill- just so I could feel something besides complete numbness.

But now, I don’t have to cut myself anymore…

Because I’ve learned to settle for cutting pussies like Corey wide-open!

The gushing blood still makes me feel alive, but now, that crimson river can flow endlessly, spilling out from the scalps of the fallen!

I need your help, Corey.

I need your therapy.

Because just like Mr. Black and Mr. Red, I too, am hurting on the inside…my suffering knows no bounds, and only one remedy:

The screams of the slaughter.

See Corey? I’m just as edgy as you are: but do you know the difference between us?

My words can actually cut.

So go ahead, Corey: pull out your usual tricks. Puff your chest up and convince yourself that you’re invincible when you walk down to the ring…it’ll only make your defeat that much sweeter!

Do what you always do when you lose matches, and blame the referees for counting to 3.

Blame the officials for just doing their job, exactly how I told them to do it!

Blame the management: and blame ME, your Acting General Manager for Warfare!

But after I expose you for the fraud you are on Warfare, you’ll have no one left to blame for your failures but yourself.

After I set your flailing career ablaze, I might just head over to that “burning hammer dojo” of yours and burn that shit to the ground, too, with each and every wrestler who ever passed through its doors trapped inside and charred to ash!

Because then and only then, will someone from your dojo finally be on fire!

The Corporation’s red limousine pulls up to the curb of an abandoned saloon. Charlie and The Grok are seated in the far back seats, with Charlie sipping a glass of wine as he reads over the new prospect’s scouting report. He looks towards The Grok with a smirk.

“So this guy’s the real fuckin’ deal, eh? He knows how to talk the talk, and he backs it up inside the ring every time. You can’t even say this guy “walks the walk”, because it looks like he’s running laps around everyone on Thursday nights!”

“Affirmative, Mr. Nickles. Subject exhibits elevated violence parameters, consistently validated through historical data.

Anomalous variable detected: elevated revolutionary tendencies.

Continuous surveillance required to assess loyalty integrity and potential for defection. However, if incentive alignment is sustained within defined thresholds, subject will function as a high-value operational asset.”

“So, you’re telling me he’s a Benedict Arnold. What’s it going to take to keep him loyal?”

“Correct, Mr. Nickles. Subject exhibits high risk of disloyalty. Maintaining loyalty requires continuous incentive reinforcement, adaptive resource allocation, and dynamic threat mitigation protocols. Failure to sustain these parameters increases probability of operational compromise.”

Charlie raises a curious eyebrow towards The Grok while the driver exits the front seat and walks towards the back.

“Adaptive resource allocation? What the hell is that?”

The Grok presses a button on the side of the door, and a hidden panel in the limousine opens up. Inside, we see an XWF-branded briefcase. The Grok pulls the briefcase out and hands it to Charlie.

“X-bux, mostly.”

Charlie accepts the briefcase just as his limousine driver opens the door to the backseat.

“Remember, Mr. Nickles: trust is a currency he spends sparingly. Proceed with caution. I will continue surveillance and intervene with physical violence if the need arises. Good luck in there.”

Charlie nods his head towards The Grok in appreciation, then he steps out of the open door. The driver slams the door shut behind Charlie, but The Nickleman hesitates before going forward. He turns towards his driver with a mild expression of worry.

“Wait, what the hell are we doing at an abandoned saloon? Shouldn’t he be like, at his hotel or something?”

The driver just shrugs in response.

“I dunno’ boss man, but this place looks pretty edgy. Careful not to cut yourself on some broken glass in there.”

With that, the limo driver tips his hat at Charlie before walking back towards the driver’s seat. 

“What the hell am I getting myself into…”

Charlie runs a nervous hand through his slicked-back hair, but desperate men resort to desperate measures; so Charlie has no choice but to walk through those worn-out saloon doors. As The Nickleman crosses the threshold, the saloon doors wail from the strain on their rusted hinges. The floorboards creak when he walks, and in the dusty darkness, their disembodied moans almost sound like whispers from the other side.

“Synners don’t like the light, huh? Good. Neither do I.”

As The Nickleman steps through the entrance foyer and into the main bar, he sees chains swaying from the ceiling like severed spines. Barstools are flipped over and rusted to the floorboards. A jukebox in the corner is short-circuiting with its lights on, but playing nothing.

In the darkest corner of the saloon sits Matthias Syn, waiting, and carving thunder into spines.

“I heard your thunder, but we both know the days of the revolution are numbered. Now, it’s time you let The Corporation harness your storm.”

Charlie throws the briefcase full of X-bux across the saloon. It lands with a loud ‘thud’ directly in front of Matthias. The force of the fall pops the briefcase open, revealing Charlie’s corporate bribe in all its glory.

Syn's eyes never move to Charlie. Instead, he drags a serrated blade across his palm- slow and deliberate. Blood beads and then streaks down Syn’s flesh. He wipes it on a crumpled X-bux, folding it once and dropping it at his feet. Then, Syn finally looks towards The Nickleman: smirking, dead eyed and already halfway through the next war in his head.

“They'll scream that I sold out. Let them. This isn't a sellout. It's a hostile fucking takeover!”