1918 - Amidst fear that the anti-communist White Army would take the city of Yekaterinburg, Bolshevik troops — led by Yakov Yurovsky — lead the captive Romanov family to a confined subbasement of the Ipatiev House in the middle of the night under the pretense of moving them elsewhere. Once gathered in one place, the Romanovs are executed, eradicating the remnants of the monarchy in one fell swoop.

1969 - A police raid on a Greenwich Village gay bar erupts into violence after Stormé DeLarverie, who had been fighting with the police prior, called out to the crowd of bystanders: "why don't you guys do something?" Outnumbered by over 500 people, officers barricade themselves inside the bar; the first time a crowd of rioters forced the NYPD to retreat.

1992 - Incensed by F. Hoffmann-La Roche's refusal to publish results of its tests on protease-inhibitors, members of AIDS activist group ACT-UP Paris storm a Roche-owned laboratory, covering the building in fake blood.

1992 - Over 12,000 people are arrested in Los Angeles following six days of rioting in response to the acquittal of four LAPD officers for usage of excessive force during the arrest of Rodney King, as well as the shooting of Latasha Harlins by a Korean convenience store owner.

2017 - The 'Unite the Right' rally in Charlottesville, Virginia proves to be disastrous. Outnumbered, the collective of white supremacists that organized the rally wound up humiliated, wounded, and fractured. Tellingly, the second Unite the Right rally held a year later (and organized by one of the original rally's organizers) only draws between twenty to thirty people (LOL).

2018 - The August 18th edition of XWF's Saturday night program Savage sees the returns of Shane and Morbid Angel, as well as a seeming return to active competition for Luca Arzegotti, current commentator for XWF's Wednesday night program Warfare. The trio proceeds to attack Chris Chaos, Azrael Erebus, and Nathaniel Adolph Zachary Idenhaus, stabbing Erebus in the stomach and castrating Idenhaus on live television. Temporary Savage general manager Jenny Myst (née Jennifer Sambuca), Chaos' girlfriend and Idenhaus' stable mate, applauds this move because it means her promotional tactics to get people to attend Savage shows don't need to hit 'PLEASE COME TO OUR GAMES' levels of desperation.

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I lit a cigarette and placed it between my lips as I pushed through the back door of Universal Studios Hollywood's Stage 18 and fell into the waiting arms of a ravenous mob. The cacophonous warbles of fifty tongue-tied reporters and countless flashing cameras greeted me with all the warmness of a long-lost friend. Their individual voices were indistinguishable at first listen, all blended together into the vague sound of nails on a chalkboard, grating my nerves. I offered a cocky sneer for the cameras, ensuring that at least one of the photographers would get a good shot of the pink heart-shaped sunglasses I was wearing before turning away from the mob and and walking alongside the building to get to my car. To think that the shower scene from Psycho was filmed here; Hitchcock would be rolling in his grave if he saw this ensuing clusterfuck.

My phone vibrated in my pocket — probably the thirteenth straight text message from my agent Zane Kingsley III, no doubt castigating me for my decision to return to active competition without first consulting him. I didn't bother to check, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up and looking down the ground. The plumes from the lit end of my Newport floated above my head as I took a drag and dropped it on the asphalt, snuffing it with the heel of my boot. The white noise buzzing around me subsided, and the mob's questions began in earnest.

"Mr. Arzegotti, I'm with the L.A. Times, d'you have time to answer a few questions?" asked a heavyset Latino in a polo that must have shrunk in the wash. A few more voices cut through the monotony, though I couldn't make out their faces.

"Luca! Barstool Sports! A word?"

"Mr. Arzegotti, Oakland Tribune. Can you tell us what the fuck just happened?"

I held my arm out, flailing desperately in a vain attempt at dispersing the crowd. The vultures continued swarming, drawing nearer as I sped up my pace, stepping over a pile of broken glass on the pavement.

"No comment! The actions speak for themselves."

The cameras kept flashing and the bees kept buzzing, clapping their tongues in pursuit of the same tired set of questions I just gave a non-answer to, as if I'd cave. It's like they don't even know me.

"Mr. Arzegotti, ESPN. Who else is on your little coalition's hit list?"

I paused for a moment, a grin spreading across my lips, before turning around and facing the crowd once again. Leaning back against the wall, I removed my sunglasses and hung them on the collar of my sweatshirt. The ceaseless flashing of cameras triggered a tinge of self-consciousness — I'm much too pale and I lost more than a little weight after my last 'retirement'; I'll look sickly on camera — that I shook away before scoffing at the crowd.

"You didn't listen to Shane too closely, did you? I thought he laid it out pretty nicely, but I'll bite: everyone. Every single person signed to an XWF contract whose names aren't Shane , Morbid Angel, and Luca Arzegotti had a target etched onto their backs tonight. We're goddamned Comanches, man. Enemies of everyone."

A couple of journalists laughed, nervous.

"Know what? I'm bein' generous. Any other stupid questions?"

A hand went up towards the back of the congregation, and a faint voice spoke up, barely standing out in the wave of questions.

"Jeffery Michael O'Connell, VICE News, I just want to know who you're going to be queerbaiting this time."

That motherfucker.

I felt my face flush and my heartbeat began racing. Without thinking I stormed towards the group, stomping in the vague direction of the question. The mob parted like the Red Sea, falling deathly quiet as I grabbed onto the collar of some scrawny geek with shitty hipster facial hair and leaned in close, until our noses touched. I could almost count the clogged pores on his pockmarked face. The fear in his eyes was overwhelming. I spoke in a low whisper; this wasn't a conversation the mob-at-large needed to hear.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

He made a noise like he was choking on his own spit before stammering out a response.

"It's just, umm, been a common theme of your career. E-every relationship you've had with fellow wrestlers has been, drenched in homo-erotic subtext."

"Oh, is that so?" I let go of his shirt and pulled away from him, though my voice remained a faint whisper. "Well listen here, you fucking geek. If you've been paying attention long enough to notice that recurring element, then you must've been paying enough attention to realize you can't out me; I've been trying to out myself for half a decade and no one's listened. But you don't really want that, do you? You just want a nice little quotable, right? I'll give you a fucking quotable."

I cleared my throat, beckoning the attention of the crowd. "I'm Electra, and Shane is my fCENSOREDing daddy."

The rest of the crowd went wide-eyed in a mix of shock and confusion as I leaned back into the VICE asshole's personal space.

"Happy now, bitch?"

Cowering, the man nodded in affirmation. I turned away from him for a second, before whipping around and cocking my fist back, as if I was going to swing at him. He dropped to the ground in anticipation. The blinding cameras caught every second of this altercation, but gleamed none of the context.

There weren't any more questions. I made my way through the rapidly dispersing crowd and slunk into the driver's seat of my beat-up 1996 Buick LeSabre and started the engine.

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Fuck Rain.

What? Are you expecting more than that? Sorry to burst your bubble, hons, but there are very few people on this roster I feel strongly enough about to dissect them completely, and God knows that Rain isn't one of them. So, let me reiterate: fuck Rain. Oh right, we already did.

We fucked Rain so goddamn hard and the best part is we weren't even trying to. Morbid Angel, Shane , and I myself cuckolded the shit out of the so-called 'Perfect Storm' during their great big coming out party. The events of August 18, 2018 are already being recorded, the history books are being written, and do you know what those records are going to lead with? The precise and surgical assault on Chris Chaos, Azrael Erebus, and NAZI by none other than Shane, Morbid, and myself. The cute little games Rain and Snow played throughout the very same show are little more than footnotes. 'Oh, that also happened'. The antics of Rain and Snow took up much more screentime than our coordinated attack did, yet we've captured the zeitgeist.

We shifted the paradigm.

How's that feel, girlfriend? Yeah, that's right Rain: I'm talking to you. How does it feel knowing that in spite of everything you tried to do, you're still right back where you started? Clutching at straws, desperately grasping for relevance you don't deserve. Grappling with the crippling realization that your little crew has already been relegated to being the little brother.

Chin up though, girl, this is your big break. Shane and I will make you famous. You'll find it on Pornhub by Sunday morning: 'Annoying tranny gets abused and double-teamed by twinks'.

It's got a ring to it, right?

Ciao bella, fuckboy. Maybe you'll give me something to sink my teeth into next time I open my mouth.

Probably not, but a #MemeQueen can #MemeDream.