What’s a Wizard to do? My mastery took me far this past Sunday at War Games – but not far enough. I didn’t join XWF to put in a good showing. I didn’t join XWF to pile up a litany of moral victories. I want literal victories. I want success.

My opponents at Warfare seem to be the antithesis of my opening statement. Bilbo Blumpkinz and some guy named Greggo. If ever there were a pair of lackluster, nonsensical characters, these two would fit the bill.

Still, it’s a challenge. A chance to break the misguided preconceived notion that I’m here for fuckery, tomfoolery, and the occasion barb. WRONG. As previously stated, I’m here to win. I crave success. I need success.

Several years back when my training started, sure, I might have been happy eliciting chuckles from the audience. A pat on the back from the veterans for a ‘job well done’ would have definitely quenched my professional thirst. For, back in those days, I was a man lost in the midst of life. Attempting to find the path – my path.

It curtailed a career that should have taken off years ago.

But, better late than never.

The irony in it all is that upon overcoming the petulance of youth, climbing over the immaturity which would have led to a humorous, albeit lacking career is that my first official singles match in XWF is pitted against a couple of jesters.

I’d be angry if it weren’t so apropos.

You see, a certain stigma comes with being called ‘The Wizard’ in this day and age. People seem to assume you’re only around for kicks and giggles. Take into account that I’m six feet nine and weight four hundred, twenty pounds and, well, the optics scream ‘comedy’.

And, yea...sure. At times my life can resemble something of a running joke. But whose doesn’t? Life is cruel and tough. We play the fool more often than we’d care to admit.

The point is – I’m trying.

I’m trying to change the narrative.

I’m trying to put the past behind me. I’m trying to do something the naysayers, to this day, scoff at. I’m trying to become a champion.

So, does it anger me that it starts with Bilbo and Greggo? Sure. But it does not – will not deter me. Every challenge, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, is fruitful. It’s a test. Pass the test and look forward to a stronger subsequent test on the professional horizon.

That’s exactly what I aim to do at Warfare.

---

Staring into the mirror, I focused all the attention both eyes could manifest on my belly. Or, my gut – to be more precise. It looked slimmer than it had in years. I’m assuming that had something to do with the physical exertion of pro wrestling. As well as guarding the Woods of Elderdom.

Slapping both sides, I smiled. For the first time in a long time, I felt halfway proud of myself. Something resembling achievement swelled inside. While I’d fallen short at War Games, I had made an impact – my primary goal.

AND I PINNED THAT DOUCHER MASTERMIND.

Closing my eyes, I relived the moment when Mastermind was eliminated from the match via my wizardly hands. My back found its way up against the bathroom wall. I was nearing a state of euphoria – until the pointed end of a shoulder blade flicked the lights off, consuming my very existence in darkness.

“Ah!” I yelled, spinning around and frantically seeking illumination. “Ah.” Same word, much different cadence. Light filled the bathroom. All was well.

My reflection stared back at me. My hands ran through my long, blonde, greasy hair before sliding down a smooth cheek, and scratching its way across facial hair which had grown a bit untamed. Bits of flaky debris fell atop my bathroom counter. I casually swiped them to the floor.

A hot, steaming shower to wash the amalgamated scent of victory and defeat from my tired, worn flesh. Yes, I know. I should have showered after the event, but I caught the red-eye home. It was the cheapest flight available. There’s a parable about a fool and his money – I am no fool.

Cleansed and relaxed with a SpongeBob beach towel securely fastened around my waist, I waltzed down the skinny hallway feeding into the living area of my humble apartment. An empty bedroom sat to my left. I paused, looking inside. Sadness and regret. Weights were scattered about. Weights I was supposed to be lifting. Weights that collected dust.

The emptiness of the room. Unfulfilled promises. The vacation of life. A room which once housed a friend, a best friend. Now, gone. Leaving me to journey alone. I’d grown used to it. Still, no matter how used one grows toward a situation, melancholy only fades, it never leaves.

My alarm went off. I didn’t have time to stand around and reminisce about what could have been. I had work to do. Real-world work. It was time to put on that blue vest and become somebody’s bitch.

---

I once went an entire month without showering.

Yes, I know.

YES.

I know.

What can I say? Cleanliness is next to godliness, right? Well, I was never much of a god-fearing man.

“Bro!” Calvin, my roommate and former best friend, screamed, plugging his nose. “You fuckin reek!”

I had nothing to say. I’d just returned from a comic convention where I dressed up as Professor Xavier. Not only was he my favorite X-Men, but it meant I could wheel around all day. Less exercise. Less stress on my legs.

With a bag of flamin hot cheetos in my lap and a two-liter mountain dew between my legs, I settled in for a fun night of gaming. Calvin continued to glare at me. My odious presence and putrid scent continued to waft in his direction. He resembled a photograph taken moments before disaster. His face, warped with disgust. His posture, ready to strike. He waited...waited...waited for me to apologize, get up, do something to make amends for the stench I’d brought with me, corrupting the once decent atmosphere.

Instead, I ripped the cap off the mountain dew and took a satisfying gulp. Next, my hand, fingernails containing a mixture of dirt and dust, reached into the bag of cheetos, tossing a handful into my mouth. I wiped the red dust atop the couch cushion. Calvin popped to his feet, “THAT’S IT.”

“What?!” I was truly nonplussed, looking up at Calvin with a mouth half full of cheetos and mountain dew.

“Bruh! All you do is sit around, eating cheetos, drinking THE DEW, and playing video games. Sometimes you watch TV. Outside of that, you don’t’ do ANYTHING…”

“I travel to comic cons.”

It’s true. I did.

“YOU CAN’T EVEN SHOWER, BRO.”

That cut deep. “That’s a shitty thing to throw in my face, bro.”

His sardonic arms motioned, ever so slowly, toward the bathroom, “Well, it’s not like I’m stopping you.”

I dug my heels into the ground – or, rather, my ass into the couch. “Nah man, I just got settled in. I wanna relax, play some games, enjoy the evening. I’ll get one in the morning.”

Flabbergasted, Calvin’s arms gesticulated in directions I didn’t know was humanly possible as he continued to espouse his suffocating frustration. After which, he snared his most important personal items and stormed out.

It left me alone to think, “Cool, place to myself. Nice.”

That was the last I ever saw of Calvin. I’ve lived alone ever since. I now shower AT LEAST every other day. Lesson learned.

---

The cold gray universe that was my usual place of work enabled a sort of depression that can only be explained through the trials and tribulations of said employment. A means to an end. Did the means justify the end? Hardly. But, such is life.

Towering over the shelves in the electronics section, one of my favorite areas, I waited, hoping someone might come up to me and commend me on a job well done at War Games. Unfortunately, the likelihood of such an event taking place was zero. The hazards of wearing a hood and hiding your face, I suppose.

I wanted the celebrity and fame that came with the job of successful professional wrestler yet I was too afraid to risk the acknowledgment of failure. Hiding my identity meant a certain lack of celebrity status...but, it also meant the freedom to fail without any sort of emotional liability.

A warm blanket of protection in case I wasn’t as good as I hoped I’d be.

And while the results were infantile, at best, I’d proven to be better than most expected. Still a far cry from the Centurions of the world, I’d definitely staked my claim to a plot of land that had tremendous upside. All I had to do was see it through.

It’s tough, working such a mundane job while entertaining fanciful notions of success unparalleled by those around you. My wheels felt as though they were spinning. I longed for the moment I could up and quit my job, being able to rely solely on my wrestling career to pay for the life I sought to lead.

Those days didn’t feel far away. But, they’d yet to arrive.

“Yo,” a co-worker named David walked up. His voice stole me away from my dreams of success. I looked down, holding a couple of video games. Video games, like so many careers, purchased only to be returned when the buyer realized said games would not reach their lofty expectations. So, back to the shelves they went, eager for another buyer. Some would find another home in relatively short order. Others would sit and sit and sit...and sit. Without a definitive outcome visible on the horizon.

“YO!” David shouted. I’d apparently drifted off again. My mind was prone to slippage, especially when something with extraordinary potential became a personal influence.

“Sorry, brain’s kind of scattered today.”

Derision from David. I understood he didn’t care for me. He was king of the electronics section. Anytime I was placed under his purview he saw it as a slight. An interruption in an otherwise blissful workday. I was persona non grata. His eyes rolled, “Yea, well stay alert, man. I’m tired of carrying your load.” I nodded. He continued, “Some dude named Edward...moth? He’s looking for you at customer service.”

“Moth? You mean Mof?!”

David shrugged, yanking the games out of my hand and shelving them. With a disgruntled huff, he returned to his area.

That didn’t bother me. My perturbation remained on the presence of one Edward Mof. His name came up outside the gates of the White House (of all places) and now here he was again – having tracked my place of work in an effort to reach me.

My feelings for Mof assimilated David’s feelings for me. He was anathema. I wanted nothing to do with the man. Our past dealings harbored anxiety and regret. Never again. NO MORE EDWARD MOF.

I suddenly fell ill. Placebo or Natural? I’ll never know. All I can tell you is that I bolted for the back, sneaking out the door, and stumbling toward my car before hurling that morning’s cold spaghetti onto the pavement. With a furtive cleansing of my mouth, via a baggy sleeve, I slipped into my car and drove away.

Not my most proud moment. But it beat facing Edward Mof.

---

I know it’s cowardly to avoid confrontation. Not exactly the makings of an elite competitor. An act that doesn’t portend great things. But, you’ve got to bear with me here – Edward Mof is relentless. He is a force directing me down a destructive path. Should Edward Mof re-enter my life it could jeopardize my existence within the realm of professional wrestling.

He must be avoided at all costs.

Regardless of my perceived cowardice, I remain focused on what awaits. Bilbo and Greggo. A couple of names that sound as though they were lifted straight off of a Saturday morning cartoon. Only, I doubt they hold as much innocence. From what I’ve seen of XWF, even the most innocuous of names contain a certain amount of debauchery.

There will be antics. Tomfoolery, if you will. These two men will present the most unorthodox of challenges. And, in that sense, they are a test. A test to see how a newcomer stacks against the perceived comedy acts of XWF.

I could be wrong in that assumption. Greggo and Bilbo could, in fact, be serious, legitimate contenders – but, based on what I’ve been able to gather, they are comical fodder. Which I’m not against. Comedy presents a certain test for newcomers. A litmus test. Can you handle the offbeat, queer form of character that’s being thrown your way?

It’s easy to prepare for a contender. It’s easy to prepare for someone who takes this seriously. There are lessons all over the place on how to approach such a person. But the realm of comedy, the realm of nihilism...the realm of edge lords, if you will, that often catches even the most prepared individuals off guard.

So, make no mistake about it, this is a test. Bilbo might be short and looking. Greggo might be some sort of sexual deviant, attempting to make his opponents feel uncomfortable with his ‘shocking’ comments. But that does not mean they should be taken lightly. Misdirection is the gateway toward opportunity. I cannot allow these weirdos to disrupt the momentum I established at War Games. I must be ready.

And, I will be.

---

So The Wizard returned to his humble abode in the middle of the united states of America. Somewhere in the middle. Near the Woods of Elderdom. His car pulled up, slowly. The day remained fairly young, the sun doing it’s blazing dance way up high in the sky.

The Wizard scrolled past his apartment, wary. And, for good reason, a brown, 1980s vehicle with the license plate “MOF LUV” was parked out front. Not wanting to earn any additional attention, The Wizard’s vehicle kept scrolling, slowly through the lot before finding an exit. He sped off, seeking sanctuary.

That sanctuary manifested itself in the Woods of Elderdom.

Despite his abode rendering itself off-limits, The Wizard was in luck! Luck provided via preparation. An extra costume, always on the ready, resided in his trunk. He promptly transformed himself from modern-day-citizen into – THE WIZARD!

He crawled up the hill, into the forest. Why? A change of pace, probably. Maybe a tip of the cap to Bilbo and Greggo – let’s get weird.

Upon entering the forest, he clumsily made his way toward the center. The Tree named Jamal awaited his return.

“Jamal! My good tree!”

Jamal’s branches waved in the breeze.

“Oh, how I wish I could offer better news. Stories of triumph and victory! Alas, twas not meant to be. I fell painfully short in achieving the ultimate goal.” The Wizard’s head lowered, the point of his cap bumping into Jamal’s trunk. A moment of silence passed, allowing The Wizard and Jamal to mourn the defeat in unison. Misery loves company, I guess.

“However!” The Wizard’s head shot up! His beard wiggling in the breeze. “All was not lost! I outlasted everybody else on my team! I was a few moves away from advancing into the main event...in my debut! So, I...WE made an impact, Jamal!”

A few leaves flew from Jamal’s branches, dancing atop the breeze. The Wizard did a little dance of his own, kicking around the loofahs leftover from his most recent encounter with the high school hooligans.

“It’s all up from here, Jamal. I just need to avoid calamity. I need to avoid distractions. It’s time to practice. Practice for my next match.”

The Wizard twirled his staff. He began to practice maneuvers which would be illegal in any standard wrestling match. So, how this was a legitimate practice, one cannot be sure. However, it can be argued that one should not dispute the methods of a Wizard.

The Wizard kicked his legs out. He twirled his staff round and round. He used it to smack the old loofahs around, much like a hockey player would strike a puck. He hid behind Jamal’s giant trunk, working on the art of deception, disguise, and trickery. He proceeded to do all sorts of other things that aren’t important enough to be mentioned.

All in all, fifteen minutes later, The Wizard was seated, back against Jamal, gasping for air.

“Yes, I know. My stamina. It must be increased,” The Wizard wheezed. He spat a thick wad of saliva onto a loofah. It was absorbed quickly. “Nice,” he commented. Utilizing the back of his hand, he brushed a collection of sweat to the side. “Good news, though, is that I’m down probably, like, five pounds since starting up in XWF. I’m going to be a lean, mean, fighting machine in no time!”

With both hands, The Wizard grabbed his gut, jiggling it around. To him, anyway, it seemed smaller. He felt lighter. And, while fatigue after fifteen minutes of exercise might seem extreme to some, it was pretty damn impressive for The Wizard. Indeed, he was, slowly, whipping his body into shape. A key indicator that he would see continued improvement inside the squared circle.

“Why am I here so early?” The Wizard asked, looking up at Jamal. “Well, you see…”

His explanation was halted.

A voice shot out.

“HELLO!”

The Wizard struggled to his feet. “Who...who is that?” he whispered.

“ARE YOU OUT THERE?!”

The Wizard’s beard shivered. It was him. “By Jove, Jamal. That’s the voice of...the voice of...Edward Mof!”

It was true. Edward Mof had located The Wizard. The sanctuary was no more. Corruption had found its way inside both forms of The Wizard’s life. Mr. Mof was closing in.

---

Adapt or die. Stay ahead of the game. Elude that which seeks to destroy.

Platitudes? Yea, probably.

But they aren’t exactly false narratives.

Bilbo. Greggo. I’m going to be straight up with you guys. I don’t have the least bit of knowledge on how to attack both of you. I mean, based on what I’ve noticed, you two do a pretty good job of attacking yourselves. You set a purposefully low bar.

How do you inflict pain on a person who already self harms?

Positivity.

I admire both of you. I cannot wait to enter battle with two great warriors such as yourselves. May the best man win.

I am The Wizard.

Bask in my Aura.