A large clock is ticking and tocking... slowly... methodically...

The sway of the reverberations sends the audience into an almost safe and comfortable stupor.

The room is black. All that is seen is the face of the clock showing 3:20 with the second hand clicking from 25 to 26 to 27.

A faint blue light shines behind a form standing above the clock. The form of a man. The man's form begins lifting his hands to sternum level. In tune with the sounds, he orchestrates the rhythm. The song plays on as the orchestrator moves his hands in a most relaxing fashion. Swaying from left to right and slightly up.

Sleeeeeep little children...

Sleeeeeeeeeeep.

On the morrow, the orchestrator shall enter a place of troubled accords and unfathomable rhythm.

Another day, another lost child. Another soul that needs leading. A soul that should relinquish himself to The Higher Power. Lucybaby.

You cry... you scream... you request match after match with me. Whenever is enough, enough? I agreed to this match because I am through with you. I tired of your endless desire for a match against me. This obsession you have can only end in two ways.

One: You get what you truly wish, a win over me and my title.

Two: I put an end to you, once... and for all.

Option one, Lucybaby, just will not happen. Not ever in this lifetime or the next. The other fool who obsessed over me was taken and put into the light of The Higher Power. Tyson Fury, I do believe his name WAS. Now, he's solely known as another Soldier for The Higher Power. One amongst many. After all, only the worthy shall bathe in the reverence of being named in particular by He Above Others.

Lucccccybaaaaby. It's time to put this charade to rest. I see you have decided you're WORTHY of my title. However, it just isn't so. Your record reveals a slate of uninspiring losses. In fact, your record reveals you're 0-2. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Not a win and yet you want to challenge me? Do you know who I am?

Hysteria.

Screaming through the streets. Bloodshed on the pavement.

Death... in the air.

Lucifer Kage. You embark on a trial against a man who's yet to be beaten. You set sail to take on a man who simply shall not be beaten. You... you're on a trek for Redemption.

Redemption. It seems to me that Redemption is the word on everyone's lips this week. Justin Sane wanted it. Avery Martin Alden needed it. Now you? What gives you the right? This is the XWF, child. You don't just prance into the scene and demand an audience with a man such as myself. You have to EARN the right. But I suppose that's the function that the #1 Contender's match to decide. However, before you ever get there, you will be tried by the champion of the belt you sought. You will be found out to be nothing, but a phony. A sham. A loser.

Run. Hide. Cry. Do whatever you need to do, Kage. But don't even DARE think about stepping into the ring with me tomorrow. Want to know why? Because... I. Will. Fuck. You. Up. Severely. This isn't a game. This isn't cute. At first your little jabs and remarks were cute, but now? Now I want to end this. I want to end you.

You want me to apologize? Fine.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you're so fucking stupid. I'm sorry your wrestling ability has surpassed those in the ROH, but has equivocated to absolutely jack shit in this place. I'm sorry you feel as though you're going to deliver me a wake-up call. The easy answer is that you're not. Sorry Lucybaby. So go ahead... lace up those boots.

Walk through hell and back again because what you'll soon discover is...

I am Hell. I am Heaven. I am your eternal judgment and at Warfare on the morrow?

The blue light turns to black revealing nothing but the clock.

Your time is up.

The clock fades to black as the cackling, sinister laughter is heard piercing the dark veil.