"Someone didn't do their goddamned research!"

Mystica's voice rang out in sing-song tone, echoing through the dark of the manor. The odd enthusiasm glued to his melody chilled Zahra Nassar to the bone as she sat shivering upon a termite-bitten wooden chair. It creaked oddly now and then, causing her to scrunch her face into a distortion of its usual beauty, for fear of falling. She had never been afraid of heights, but more so than falling, she feared tipping back and landing rear-first onto the horrid, mildew-encrusted floor beneath. This house had been neglected by humanity, and she dared not take on its poisonous residue.

In front of her stood the tape recorder she usually carried in her bag of journalistic tricks. The bag had been carefully stowed under the equally termite-embittered, rustic table before her, but not before she had carefully set up the camera on the opposite side of the table, aimed at her, as though she were apt substitute for the Sleeping God himself -- eye candy for the deranged. Mystica had been avoiding appearing on tape recently, citing the reason as being, "mustn't let them have their cake and eat it, too." Whatever that meant.

"Johnny boy's been off on a rant, hasn't he? Oh, but that's all he knows how to do. It would require a higher plane of intelligence than he could ever acquire to actually put out something of substance. So all he can do is lounge about in slovenly facsimile of those that have come before him, bearing that same overbearing conceit -- and I do not mean an extended metaphor. He has his head stuck so far up his own ass he can't smell the air of that which Smoke Man has been describing -- change. Not change from Smoke Man, of course. That would be utterly asinine of him, me, or anyone else to assume. Change is a gradual process. But, you see, it requires one act -- one little bit of a spark -- for the entire world to go up in icy blue fire.

Now, that may seem like a dichotomy, but let me explain. Where there is smoke, there is a flame. Smoke Man wants to ride the train of fire straight into the station of change. But, you see, change is not just inevitable, but necessary. Necessity as it may be, it is a slow process. Yes, it requires a catalyst, but change is not a fucking explosion. The French Revolution didn't change the country of France in one night of blood orgy. It had transitional periods. So let it be stated: there is change coming. And the first transitional period? My victory.

I'm not going to bore you all with meager talk and braggart's rights. No, that would be so out of character for me. So let's get to the big picture:

John Austin is a semi-literate moron.

Play the tape, Zahra."

With a sigh, his mocha-skinned companion tapped the button depicting the familiar, yet faded sideways triangle. John Austin's voice came ringing out through the dark of the halls, tainting them in something awful.

Quote:Twas the night before Christmas, through all of XWF. Not a peep was mentioned about John Austin's decision. The title was hung in the case with care, in hopes that the angel of death would soon appear. Smoke-Man and Mystica slept soundly away while visions of gold kept them at bay. John Austin and Christine Nash fucked til the hearts content when suddenly a thought arose in the champ's good intent. He rose from the bed after hours at play and went to the garage with such praise. He searched and searched till he couldn't go no more and then suddenly, his eyes grew wide with such suspicion because he found the prize and made his decision. So he climbed to the top and he held out his hands to say "I am the champion bitch and I am here to stay"

"Way to shit all over literature, you magnificent example of all things wrong with modern culture! Clement Clark Moore is no doubt spinning like a fucking top in his casket, knowing you have downgraded his poetry to the level of white-trash lullabies. Let's go over your inane rehashing of a beloved classic, shall we?

You use soft rhymes like a third grader. Really. 'care' and 'appear.' Do you think 'appear' is spoken like the fruit, 'a pear?' Or do you have some horrid speech impediment the likes of which have only been found in the profoundly ?

Oh, and good job keeping the meter secure. It's a series of rhyming anapests, but you...you strangled the fucking life out of any semblance of anapests. Let me go ahead and define an anapest for you, you fucking cretin: two unstressed syllables, followed by a stressed syllable. '...slept soundly away, while visions of gold kept them at bay.' Christ, listen to yourself. There's a reason no one reads poetry anymore, and I have a good feeling it's because of people like you who decide to parody famous works and defecate on the meaning of culture!

Alright, enough of me trouncing all over your lack of any form of poetic grace. Down to the real point here: you didn't do your fucking research. See, of all the bodies I've inhabited, they've always been at least somewhat educated. You? I suspect you dropped out of high school on prom night after your date abandoned that baby you stuck inside her in the dumpster outside. You just don't know how to do your research.

You clearly didn't look into my history much, did you? Like my short stint as the latest pimp for Alexandra Callaway. Yes, I did interfere in your affairs, and yes, you did eventually beat her. Do you want a medal for beating Alexandra Callaway? Fuck, then everyone in the XWF earned that merit badge! We'll have to compare which edition of the shiny-shiny we got at the next scouting banquet! I couldn't give less of a fuck about what you remember about me helping her beat you. Truth be told, I could have sat in the back with my feet up and watched, and she would have still smacked your head around. But that's the past, right? This is a time of reflection, yes? Then let's reflect.

In the past few weeks, you yourself recall that you had your nose broken by...ugh...John Raide, and Radio attacked you. And yet you claim your clock isn't ticking? No, of course it isn't. It's not like you get your ass handed to you on every show, on every occasion, and have nothing but a transitional bit of gold around your waist to show for it. Hell, if it weren't for John Raide, the man who readjusted the cartilage on your face, you wouldn't even have that gold. Go shake the man's hand and thank him...and then go wash that hand, because God fucking knows where John Raide gets his film reels. Maybe the local kiddie porn boutique?

The point is, Johnny, your clock is ticking. I've had millennia to sit and think and sleep. And you? You're a man who what, worships Satan? Sorry to burst your bubble, but the Dark Lord ain't so dark. Satan was once Lucifer, God's favourite angel -- if you believe the lies. And do you know the translation of Lucifer? 'Light-bearer; the morning star; the bringer of light.' It's translated from the Hebrew word hêlêl. Simple. And don't you go on about "Satan's fall," because I know for a fact you haven't read the entirety of Milton's Paradise Lost. So let me recite my favourite part for you. I'm sure you can use it on one of your teenage angst-ridden diatribes. Also, look into Leveyan Satanism. At least that one makes some fucking sense outside of the Hot Topic gossip mill.

And know not that the King of Heav'n hath doom'd
This place our dungeon, not our safe retreat
Beyond his Potent arm, to live exempt
From Heav'ns high jurisdiction, in new League
Banded against his Throne, but to remaine
In strictest bondage

Do your fucking homework, and report back to me with your scansion and literary dissection of it. Wrap your little head around something greater than yourself. Or just let me wrap something greater than yourself around your head: my blade-encrusted heel."

Achievements

• 1x Tag Team Champion
  
• August 2013 Superstar of the Month (Thank you all so much!)
  
• 1x US Champion
  
• 1x X-treme Champion