10:00 pm - Don’s Diner, Sodus, New York - January 4th


Another storm. It’s always fucking raining.


The kind of rain that doesn't fall as much as it attacks. Thrashing down like nails from the darkened sky. I couldn't wait to be back on the west coast, watching the sunset over Vegas. The hemorrhage of electric purples and oranges that drip like cheap dye onto the jagged teeth of a desert horizon. A smear of neon blood across the sky. But here I was, in some shitty seaside town in bum fuck, New York. A festering wound at the edge of the world. The smell of fish guts and diesel clinging to the stale air and my clothes like bad memories. Almost no signs of life at this hour. Except for the worn out diner that time forgot staring directly at me through the faded out head lights of the rental that I procured last minute, from a young, frail, Irishman named Mickey, who loathed the night shift and looked to be exactly one paycheck away from being a vagrant. Sometimes, numbing the pain has consequence.


How'd I get here? It was like it called out to me. A single flickering street lamp buzzed like an angry insect, casting its sallow yellow glow over a diner chalk full of empty hope and broken dreams.


The sign read “DON’S DINER”. The neon sign hissed weakly against the backdrop of the driving storm. The bulbs in almost every letter burnt out, the remaining bulbs still clinging to their final desperate hope, a microcosm of this hollowed out graveyard by the sea. Was it coincidence or a sign - that the only letters still illuminating were the S, the I and the N?












I don't normally believe in signs but tonight had a strange air about it. A restful unease, that felt like it was struggling to breathe.


I killed the engine. Took a deep breath and headed inside. I need to shake this feeling.


Inside, the bell above the door jangled, a sharp, metallic shrill. This diner was a time capsule, a relic from some long forgotten era. A tired jukebox playing a static lullaby or a fractured melody - white noise trying hopelessly to drown out the sound of decay and desperation. A rhythmic, mournful sound that echoed like the slow march of time. The coffee machine gurgled like a junk-sick stomach, its insides churning out bitter black sludge that smelled of burnt dreams and shame. The fryer popped and hissed, the sound of grease screamed as it devoured yet another batch of frozen potatoes.


I’ve always loved places like this. Completely off the beaten path. Cutoff from the rest of the dying world. Quiet still. Your senses aren't inundated with some cheesy radio station playing awful music, handed down by some out of touch boomer in corporate. Here, I am able to sit with my thoughts. Something that this world doesn't want you to do anymore.


Or so I thought - as I took a seat in the furthest booth from the door, the aged, red vinyl seat cracked beneath my weight. The waitress, a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties with weary eyes and a gait that bore the scars of a shadow dragged through the wreckage of a thousand thankless shifts. A job that probably started out as something to help pay for school but as the years passed, turned into her own personal prison. The life sentence I could read on her face. Her name tag read, Sarah.


Hey Shug, what'll it be? She asked through a drawl that screamed she was from the south but had been in this part of the world long enough to adopt its diction. I have always been good at reading people and I could tell that she came here to be a star but when her light flickered out, her pride wouldn't let her call back home and ask daddy for help. With enough pride you can crack the sun.


Just a coffee, two creams, two sugars. I answered. She shuffled off to get my drink as I peered through the window, watching the pounding rain distort the entire outside world. I was only there a few minutes before I noticed a dark blue sedan pull entirely too close to my rental. The headlights beaming through the window of the diner, creating a kaleidoscope of colors rushing through the night sky.


Two rather large men exited the vehicle. Their movements were deliberate and precise. These are clearly not locals. Their suits were too sharp, their faces too hardened. The two men stepped inside, shaking the water from their coats. They moved in unison, like predators in the serengeti stalking their prey. Little did I know that I was their prey.


I didn't know these men, but I knew their type. Where they went, trouble followed. Their eyes darted around the room, quick and calculating. They were definitely looking for something or someone. The smaller man, with a face like a tombstone, skin pale and weathered, his dark brown eyes finally locking onto its target. He nudged the taller man, his face a map of scars and stubble that hadn't been shaved in a week, a subtle head nod in my direction. I don't have the time or the headspace for this.


They slid into the booth closest to the door and next to a father and daughter who were here before I came in. The girl around the age of twelve or so was wearing a Lucy Wilde shirt, her features covered by a matching Lucy Wilde hat pulled down just above her eyebrows. They must've stopped for something to eat after an XWF house show. Her father, a man in his early thirties, a rugged, portly man who had weekend warrior father written all over him, had subtly pointed at me when I walked through the door earlier. They both kept gazing in my direction.


I scanned the diner looking for the exits in case I needed to make a break, and with my current situation, that seemed more and more likely with every passing glance I received from the two strangers. I could only see the two exits. The entrance customers walk through and an exit door just beyond the kitchen.


I could feel it in my bones that they were here for me. There's that unease again, that has hovered over this entire night.


I was going through different exit strategies in my head when the silence was broken by Sarah returning with my coffee.


One coffee, two creams, two sugars. She said, her shoulders hunched forward, as she sat it in front of me, before asking if I wanted any food.


No thanks, Sarah. I replied with a subtle wink. She shot me a half smile that brimmed with a broken elegance that spoke more to her resilience and survival than it did the emptiness and sorrow that I could read on her face when I first walked in. People like when you use their name, the most important name to anyone is their own. She didn't know it but it was a self serving wink, I knew I'd need her if I were going to get out of here without a confrontation.


As Sarah walked away to check on the strangers, the young girl wearing the Lucy Wilde shirt waved at me and started walking towards my table.


You’re him aren't you? She exclaimed. You're Matthias Syn. She said with all the confidence in the world. Normally this is where I'd say that I have no idea what you're talking about and shut the conversation down but self serving is my specialty. The stone-faced stranger never looked away, waiting for me to confirm who I am.


Yes ma'am. I replied. Looks like you went to the show tonight.


Yeah, I love the XWF SO much. She said with a glint in her eyes.


You like Lucy huh? I asked, knowing damn well the answer.


Yes, she's my favorite. Her eyes lit up again.


Lucy’s cool. She's a good one to be your favorite. I said. Trying to make small talk as I kept the strangers in my peripheral.


Tell you what, I'll see if I can get her to sign something for you. What's your name? I asked.


Dani, with an I. She said.


Okay Dani with and I, I need you to do me a favor. You see those two weirdos sitting in the booth by the door?


Yeah. She peeked at them nonchalantly.


They're going to try to follow me when I leave, so what we're going to do is take a picture, you, your dad and I and after we take this picture, I need you to stand in front of that door and stop them from leaving. Pretend that they're wrestlers and you want an autograph or a picture and I'll make sure that I get Luce to sign some cool swag for you. Deal?


Really? Deal! She exclaimed, she was ready to jump out of her skin, she was so excited.


Right on, knuckles. I extended my hand and we bumped fists. Our promise to each other.


I pulled a hundred out of my wallet and left it on the table as I peeled myself from the vinyl seat. Sarah needed it more than I did.


As I walked past the two strangers I did a quick scan. The taller one was wearing entirely too much of a cologne that I had smelled before but couldn't place. His nose, forever crooked from one too many fights and his lips curled into a permanent sneer. The smaller man had his jacket sleeves pulled up to the middle of his arm revealing faded tattoos that looked more like inkblots on a Rorschach test than whatever they were intended to be. He was a coiled spring of nervous energy that reverberated throughout the entire diner.


But it was the ring they were both wearing that sent a shiver down my spine. Both men, wearing the same one. Thick, silver, with a black onyx stone set deep in the center. Around the edges were tiny engravings like runes or symbols too worn to read. I'd seen this ring before. A long time ago. In a different city, under different circumstances. I'd seen it on a man who never spoke above a hushed whisper but was fluent in making people disappear. These were men who spent too much time in bad places with bad people, their every movement a not so subtle reminder that trouble was never far behind.


I knew then that these were bad men with worse intentions.


Dani’s dad smiled at me and shook my hand. Thanking me for taking the time to take a picture with his daughter. I shook his hand and gestured back with a slight affirmative head nod.


As Dani and I huddled near the door, readying to take our picture, I glanced at Sarah and nudged my head towards the two strangers. I needed her to help run interference while I made my escape. She obliged by once again checking on the strangers, refilling each of their coffees and asking them where they're from. To no one's surprise, neither of them seemed very keen on answering that question.


She continued her interrogation as Dani and I readied ourselves by the exit. I leaned down and told her: It's Showtime. She smiled.


*Click*


And just like that, I scurried through the exit making a beeline to the car. The rain was still coming down in relentless sheets. I slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door, cutting off the sound of the rain.


I was reaching for the ignition when I felt it - a shift in the air, an unknown presence. How did I not see them get in? My heart skipped a beat, I froze, my eyes darted to the rearview mirror. A shadow, a figure, hunched and silent, its figure obscured by the darkness. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could make a sound, I felt the sharp sting of a needle. Fuck. A methohexital injection directly into my carotid.


My entire world tilted. The edges of my vision blurred as the drug coursed through my veins. I tried to move, I tried to fight, but my limbs were heavy and unresponsive. The nightmare in my backseat leaned forward, its face still hidden in the shadows of the night, and whispered something - a single word, low and guttural, I couldn't quite make it out.


The rain outside became a distant echo, my entire world shrinking into the confines of the car. The figure in the backseat watched, patient and unbothered as my breathing slowed. It was the last thing I remember before the lights went out.















Jesus Christ Tatiana, a pure wrestling rules match. How long did you have to scissor Thad to get that stipulation? Maybe you made pegging Peter Principle a priority. They've already stacked the fucking deck in your favor. Your home field. Your preferred match type. And for what? All that you’ve ever done here is fail and fail and fail again.


They've given you every opportunity in the world and you continue to let it slip through your dainty little fingers. Xtreme title opportunity, you failed, TV title opportunity, you failed and now number 1 contenders match for the TV title that you failed to win just two weeks ago. Christ.


How long until the shine of Canada's favorite failure wears off? How long until that nostalgia pop that you get becomes go away heat?


Sure, you have twenty five years in this industry but you barely have twenty five minutes of time here. In the XWF. In MY house.


What do you have on that front office that they continue to acquiesce to you, TJ? Do you think I don't pay attention to the rest of the wrestling industry? I see what you did in DPW. You pulled the same shit with them until they had had enough and called your bluff. Demanding matches, demanding opportunities based on a name you made before anybody really gave a shit. And you failed there too. Like you always do. And while you were flirting with leaving DPW by sitting ringside at one of our shows, Matthias Syn was here going head to head against all the biggest names in this industry. All the names that you were too scared to test yourself against all those fucking years ago. In the fucking big leagues, making a name for himself that you only wish you could have in the new era of wrestling.


I don't need to try and make another company jealous by sitting ringside at one of their shows. I make other companies jealous by not showing up at all. By turning down their offers. Besides the fact that you're an old, washed up, has been, that is searching for relevance in a new and unfamiliar to you landscape, what's your endgame? A few appearances here, in the land of Matthias Syn, before you fuck off back to the comfort of the minor leagues? I intend to be your send off. Then and only then, you can go back to losing to Spencer and Gerard Angelo every other fucking week.


Oh don't worry, I didn't forget about the rest of you. I've never seen a bigger group of fucking autists all in one place. What do they call a group of autistics? Is there a word for that? There should be. I'll talk to Mads, and we will get this figured out.


Phony Hawk. Oh I'm sorry, you go by Solomon Kline. The second generation wrestler, first generation douche bag. I'm sorry to break it to you kid but the only person that knows of your dad's “legacy” is Tatiana. Nobody could possibly give a shit. Can we even call you a nepo baby if the footsteps you followed in were so unbelievably forgettable. You're not going to make your name off of me kid. A year from now when you're opening the show in some armory with Tatiana on her final run tour that no one will care about, you'll remember Matthias Syn, but I'll have forgotten you even existed. Don't be sad though, most people in life are gazelle. We can't all be lions.


Tommy Make-A-Wish back at it for one more run. I feel like that's becoming a theme in this match. I have to assume you're in the make-a-wish program or how else do I justify seeing your name on the card with mine? Just another clown who was able to taste some success years before Matthias Syn showed up and wants to live on legacy. Whatever the fuck that means anymore. Just because you've been around forever doesn't mean that you have a legacy. You're Barney Green without the triple chin. Go fuck off to luchador land.


Garcia. Here we go again. Round and round we go. I'm sure you'll mention in your promo how we have some sort of rivalry, but in order for it to be a rivalry, the other guy has to win sometimes and that just isn't the case, is it, Adam? I do see you though, Mad Bull. You're Tatiana but twenty years younger. Getting opportunity after opportunity just to squander them the second a real challenge comes around. Congratulations on winning the Xtreme title only to lose it immediately. Does anyone defend their titles in the business anymore? Well, besides Matthias Syn that is.


Tyler, I didn't forget about you. You've been trying to get my attention for months now, like the creepy little beta cockroach that you are. I didn't forget how you waited until AFTER GG and I fought on Warfare to attack me. What did it get you though, Tyler? A spot at the fucking kids table. Entered into a four way. You didn't skip the line like I'm sure you thought you would and do you know why? It's because you're not the attraction that you think you are. You're just a fucking guy now, Tyler. You have to earn your way now. Not important enough to demand anything. That's the cold, biting truth of it. You wanted Matthias Syn, Tyler? Well here I am. I'm just glad that you could step away from your cum stained keyboard long enough to have a proper fight.


Listening to you five talk is as painful as waiting in the DMV waiting line. The thing you don't understand is, It's not a fucking tea party when you hit the mic, it is a survival sport. My words are my weapons. Before my music hits and I step through that curtain, I've already beaten you. And until you cast off the shackles of morality, it'll always be that way.


I tear you down not to build you back up, but to keep you down. You have to hit rock bottom before you can change the world. You have to have perspective. You have to know how bad it can truly get. Only then will you be ready to change the fucking course of your world. The trajectory of your career.


Life is full of givers and takers and I'm in a match with five givers. This whole givers are angels while takers are devils is nothing more than a propaganda campaign against anyone with actual charisma.


It should be considered a war crime having to listen to you five cut an aggressively meaningless, devoid of any actual substance promo. Computer this, Canada that, skateboards and Mad Bulls and whatever the fuck Tommy Wish rambles on about. Drive a stake through my fucking chest please. Parasites. Leeches. Matthias Syn groupies. All of you.


Those dorks in the front office had to have been asking themselves while putting this match together, how do we escape the abyss of five pieces of sentient furniture? The answer is ALWAYS Matthias Syn. Let's bring Syn into this so that people will actually be invested.


So here's what I'll do, I'll let you guys bore the crowd to tears with your chain wrestling, your collar and elbow tie ups and your German suplexes. But just know, in the back of your mind, that the deadliest knee in all of wrestling will be waiting to send your nose through the back of your fucking skull.


Until then, we will all patiently wait for statements and proclamations in your promos, so frivolous, that they're bound to slide into oblivion.


But don't worry, I'll do what I always do and hand hold you through the match of your lives. Why? Because I'm the biggest draw in this industry. I'm engaging and magnetic and bring with me an energy that simply can not be forced. You're, quite frankly, background noise in a sea of unremarkable voices. But now, you have me on the other side of the mic, and I ask you, is that really how you want to be perceived? Or are you ready to take the mic, grip it tight, and make sure no one ever forgets what you have to say?


You all vastly overestimate how much anyone else cares about your solo adventures outside of these walls. You think because you won some nothing title, in some nothing federation, that other people should be fascinated. But here's the real gut punch of your reality - nobody cares. Nobody cares about the “cool” things you did on public access tv, in front of forty hillbillies and their sister wives, for enough gas money to get you to the next nowhere town. How fucking mind numbingly mundane.


When Matthias Syn speaks, it hits your brain like a dopamine freight train. If the Pentagon could weaponize my words, they would because my tongue is a nuclear weapon. The devil sold HIS soul to Matthias Syn, for all the venom in my arsenal. And every last one of you needs to remember that when you hit the record button.


Or you can stick to your safe, dull, low stakes promos, where you're scared of what your opponent may feel, terrified of what you may feel. Whose feelings you may hurt. Or you can unlock an unfiltered magnetic connection to an audience craving for it. I don't think any of you have it in you.


But here you are, standing at the final door. This is a battle for attention. Your great moment of survival. Your chance to be remembered or erased. So say something real. Say something interesting. Or you can continue the slow descent into irrelevance. Whether you know it or not, this is your moment of reckoning. Are you brave enough to admit it?


This is art. Observation distilled into something usable. You don't like me because I reveal truths that people hide - even from themselves. Each of you are nothing more than social quicksand - where promos go to die. Every grueling second feels like it's stretching to an eternity, until there is a quiet, pathetic surrender to the void that your audience has no choice but to fall into face first. Change, before it's too late.


I am Matthias Syn and I'm the reaper in your dreams. I am not one of those “tell me what you fear” weirdos. I AM what you fear and I already know this.