The halogen bulbs of the make-up room mirror cast a light on Madison Dyson as a feminine man in a way too tight hot red shirt skitters around her, applying dabs of foundation as he goes. Her lip curls up with annoyance.

Listen clownshoes, you don't need to cake it on like I've got herpes or some shit, alright? Save that shit for the Jenny Mysts of the world.

The make-up artist backs off a bit. Madison removes the covering from her body, dislodging the make-up and locks of hair onto the floor. She makes her exit and is instantly inundated with producers. Frantically, they shove papers into her hands. Hot topics. News updates on the biggest stories of the day. She takes the reports absently, not even looking at them as they scurry in her orbit, vying for attention. Finally, they get the picture. Dazed, they stop their clamoring. Catching sight of her eyes, they understand. They've seen it before. She drops the reports to the floor, and nobody bothers to pick them up. The hall gets chillier in her wake.

She has a victim.

There have always been rumors, of course. Rumors about her. Where did she come from? How did she climb so high? How was it, that no matter what incendiary thing she said or did she always managed to land on her feet? They laughed about it over coffee. “Did she make a deal with the devil?” “Did she come to that crossroads in the middle of the desert where old scratch himself sat waiting and sign on the dotted line?” “Did she have a soul?”

But every once in a while, you caught a glimpse. It was the eyes mostly. When she was castigating some poor bastard backstage. When somebody royally fucked up in the news. The eyes had it. They had nothing but hate, a burning pyre of animosity rooted within. A not just urge, but primal lust for destroying the weak and rending flesh from bone.

It was times like that the smiles over coffee awkwardly abated, and they averted their gaze. It was times like that they got that deep down niggling feeling that yes, maybe it was possible to lose your soul. Or not have one to begin with.

Madison stops at the precipice of the stage. Her stage. “The Right Idea with Madison Dyson”. She drags in a deep satisfied breath. The camera's lie in wait, their lenses eager to broadcast her message to the world. A thrill runs up her spine, just as it always does at this precise moment.

Let's make some fuckin' magic.

Some time later....

YOU MAKE ME SICK YOU WEAK LITTLE PUKE!

Madison drives the spike of her stiletto heel into the back of Fox News' Tucker Carlson. He's almost nude, wearing a Pampers diaper and with a ball gag snug in his mouth. As for Madison? Well, she's wearing this...



Yes, really. The backdrop is an ornate room ringed by deep red curtains. A black “u”shaped sofa encircles them. The faint sounds of club music can be heard. Fox News Magnate Rupert Murdoch is seated on the sofa, his geriatric lumpy body poured into a replica SS officer's uniform, with the sole difference being that he's wearing assless chaps. One wrinkled testicle threatens to peek out of the thong he's wearing.

And then in steps Milo Yiannopolous, comparatively overdressed in a glistening white button up and ass hugging nylon shorts.

Ugh, are we doing Nazi kitsch again? Didn't we just do that last month?

Milo, you should know as well as anyone that Hugo Boss never goes out of style.

Milo slumps down on the couch, expertly avoiding spilling his appletini. He looks over at Rupert.

How's it hangin' boss?

Rupert blows a snot bubble and slumps over in the seat, snoring.

Oh good, I was starting to think he was dead.

....probably hoping he was dead.

First on the scene baby!

Madison throws a bullwhip around Tucker's neck and starts pulling back while simultaneously digging the heel into his spine. Tucker starts to gag behind the, well....gag.

Maybe you shouldn't almost kill him this time? You went overboard last time with the “making him eat his own warmed over vomit with a funnel” thing last time.

Oh stop being a pussy, he loves it!

Tucker is starting to turn blue, his eyes rolling back behind their lids.

Who's a little bitch!

Madison gives one last deep wrench and Tucker passes out. Madison snaps up her bullwhip and sits down on the couch next to Rupert. She pushes him over so his head isn't on her shoulder and crosses one thigh high boot over another.

So, big match coming up, huh? Seems like the Trump effect is working.

Pfft, not nearly as well as I'd hoped. Ya know, I just talked to JT Washington about that not even two weeks ago and what does he do? Tries to award himself the Universal Championship! What a fuckin' crock of shit that was....

Madison reaches for her own glass and takes a sip. She sets it back down and looks at the camera.

Yeah, I see you there. Let's get this thing done.

Madison leans in towards the camera.

Soooooo, Jenny? Tough week huh? Yeah, I know how it feels. Oh wait, actually I don't because I'm not an abject failure. I'm having a real tough time though condensing your 30 minute running train wreck of fuck ups from Savage into a clip as short and sweet as the one where you got hot grease poured on you. I'm not really good with the while video editing thing. Maybe I should ask Milton.

But yeah, Savage was good times. You spent like what, four promo's shit talking the competition only to lose yet ANOTHER big time match. Maybe I had something to do with that. Just a tad. Which reminds me, that's another thing I'm better than you at: costing somebody a match. Because somehow you're so AWFUL you even managed to botch a run-in in Ezariaha's match.

And then to top it all off some fat black bitch came out and whooped your ass.

I think it's conclusive Jenny Myst. God hates you. You are the butt of some cosmic joke, a divine “seagull shits in your eye” bit of slapstick humor. You are the universe's penultimate failure.

And God how I despise failure.

Madison's fingers tighten around the bullwhip, causing the leather to crack.

But hold off on that. Because there's another bone I want to pick with you first. Now, I consider myself a connoisseur of wrestling promos. I've worked with some of the best and I've outtalked some of the best. And nothing....NOTHING....pisses me off like schmaltz. I mean, yeah, I get now that EVERYBODY needs to have some complex backstory to get over. I mean, I don't because I think less is more, ya know? Ya gotta have some mystery. But all you other schlubs feel like this goddamn COMPULSION to air all your dirty laundry like it's going out of style. And it's always some trite “overcoming adversity” bullshit. Like everyone was abused, everybody's family SUCKED and everyone is MISERABLE. Wrap. Roll Credits. Emmy noms galore.

And then there are people like you who, as soon as you start losing the war of words it's time to squirt some tears and run to the dead daddy. Oh yeah, bitch, we're getting meta up in here. And to top off your sob story your dad was like, what, some abusive asshole who got buried in the desert? I cant be arsed to read all ten thousand pages of your wikipedia entry to figure it out, I just don't care.

Madison puts her hands to her cheeks and imitates Jenny Myst.

”Oh daddy, I thought you were just doing it to punish me! **Moans** Ooooohhhhh, punish me daddy!” Hahahahaha. Although...heh....why does it NOT surprise me that you're the type to run back to somebody who treated you like shit? I bet if Chris got drunk enough one night, grew some balls and started slapping you around you'd stay because “you just KNOW he didn't mean it!”

You dumb cooze.

So yeah, like some cheap Oscar bait movie about gay cowboys getting aids and winning marathons, you go right to the tear jerker fest at daddy's graveside, asking him to give you some kind of sign. Well, because your daddy is dead and can't do shit right now, let me give you a sign.

You suck and you're weak.

Madison flips off the camera.

No, but really, you're weak and pathetic. All of those nagging doubts you're having right now? You need to listen to them. Because as much as you might like to claim otherwise, this is not some feel good PG rated fairy tale bullshit where you can fail upwards. Victory is not defeat you colossal fucking . Defeat is DEFEAT. And you've had a lot of them lately. Big crushing defeats. The kind that take a toll. Like the toll you're feeling now. I mean, face facts, in one week you've gone from saying you're queen bitch of everything to questioning your worth as a wrestler. Yeah, that sounds like some glorious victory right there.

Oh, but fine, I'm being obtuse. I know the point your trying to make. That you've been beaten down so much that fuck the world, nothing matters and you have nothing to lose. Again, way to paint a picture of dominance. Are you actually trying to make yourself seem like the favorite by saying “I am so bad at hurting people that all I have is failure to my name but now I can't fail anymore so I will hurt you because REASONS”? And those reasons are that you will kick my ass? Hard? Despite the fact that you haven't really been kicking much of any ass lately. If anything, you've just been getting your shit pushed in since I set foot in XWF.

Do I got that right bitch? You seriously think you're gonna hurt me? Hon, I've had my hands on that twiggy body. I've now seen those vacuous stupid eyes up close. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt I have nothing to fear from you. Desperate Jenny isn't dangerous, she's just sad. Desperate Jenny cries and seeks advice from her dead ass ramming daddy. Desperate Jenny thinks maybe she just needs to go back to being arm candy for Chris Chaos. Desperate Jenny is DESPERATE. And you just don't have the gumption to channel that desperation into viciousness. I think the only thing you did get right in that rambling stream of projectile vomit you called a promo was that you have no dignity left. Except I'm thinking you lost that a lot longer ago than you think.

Madison shakes her head incredulously.

This week is the fourth of July. The most quintessentially American day of the year. And unlike you Jenny Myst, America isn't weak. America doesn't cry and question it's self worth. And even when America has a set back, we go and bomb some fuckin' Japs into atoms.

If this fed is going to have a women's division it needs a REAL woman to headline it. Not somebody who favorably compares herself to a monkey fucking it's way into the pack. And yes, Jenny really did do that too.

I am the only possible choice for women's champion this place has. Well, me or JT Washington.

But it's not all bad! And believe it or not, I'm not a complete bitch! Because while I don't feel sorry for you, I do feel sorry for your dad. I mean, if he figured out early on how worthless you were and treated you like shit he must have had SOMETHING going on between the ears. And a man with that kind of foresight deserves better than a stick in the ground, right?

Suddenly, Engy explodes from behind the red curtain. He's wearing a spiked thong and a gas mask with a swastika on the filter.

THIS MASK IS FILLED WITH COCAINE! LET'S FUUUUUUUCK!!!!!

Engy walks over and straddles a now very awake and terrified Tucker Carlson. He busts out two ketchup bottles and begins squeezing the contents onto Tucker, contents which appear to be grease.

I'm gonna ride this piggy till the wheels fall off!

You should probably ask him what his safe word is first.

Oh, right! Tucker, what's your safe word?

Tucker's eyes are bulging and plaintive. He tries to mumble something out past the ball gag and almost chokes on his own saliva.

FUCK IT!

Engy drops down on his back saddle style and starts making squealing noises. Tucker starts to crawl as fast as he can through the curtain.

Goddamn, I love the fourth.

Mmmmm hmmmm. Better than Christmas.

Rupert begins to mutter in between snores.

Rupert: **snork**....blacks lifting merchandise...**zzzzzzzz**

See ya soon, Jenny. And please do take care of yourself. I know how much the holidays can be hard on people who've lost loved ones. Even loved ones who probably sodomized them. But take solace in the fact that even though your daddy is probably looking down on you wondering how he could have produced such a monumental waste of flesh, at least he now has a marker befitting someone who unleashed you on the world.

Toodles!

The shot fades to black and reopens on a lonely gravestone in the middle of the windswept desert. Its a fine stone really, looks like it cost a pretty penny. And on it's face is inscribed three simple words...

:JENNY MYST SUCKS: