OOC: Apologies for the code errors around the Twitter inserts, for some reason I cannot get rid of them without fucking everything up.
An immaculate upper middle class home opens up before you. Just beyond a staircase in an impossibly clean and well organized kitchen, is a glass patio door looking out into an expansive backyard full of picture perfect white puffy snow. A woman comes down the stairs with her hand over her eyes. She has a couple green streaks in her hair, and she's wearing a t-shirt that says “Poser” with, oh fuck I don't know, maybe some pot leaf print jammie pants. It's pretty clear that this is Madison Dyson posing as Geri Miller.
With a beaming smile, she peels her hand away from her eyes to see this sitting for her in front of the Christmas tree!
![[Image: peloton-commercial.jpg?quality=85&w=1024&h=512&crop=1]](https://api.time.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/peloton-commercial.jpg?quality=85&w=1024&h=512&crop=1)
“Geri” lets out a little “eep” of excitement.
Oh! You got me a PELOTON!
The shot quickly cuts over to the couch, where a decidedly...crusty? Yeah, we'll go with crusty, looking Sean "X-Pac" Waltman is man spreading, with one hand tucked down the front of his basketball shorts, and the other hand lifting up the front of his greasy wife beater to scratch his belly.
Yeah bitch, maybe now you can do something about that FAT ASS! **BELCH!**
“Geri” winces and forces a thin veneer of a smile on her face.
Thanks hon. I love you.
Whatever.
Our view quickly cuts again, this time we see “Geri” approaching the Peloton in workout clothes, looking a bit timid. She has her phone out and held up high so she can film her experience.
Okay guys, first day of the rest of my life! Hope I can do it! She sounds nauseatingly chipper despite the nervousness. Hopping on the bike, she fires up the screen and the trainer appears. It's Madison Dyson, looking like, well, Madison Dyson but with a Peloton shirt. She's scowling, and starts barking at the camera.
YOU MAKE ME WANT TO PUKE UNCONTROLLABLY!
“Geri” looks taken aback. She looks around her.
Yeah, I'm talkin' to YOU! You DISGUST me! Now start peddling you hambeast!
Oh...oh, yes ma'am! “Geri” immediately starts peddling.
5 Hours Later.....
“Geri” has the phone propped up next to the screen. She's STILL cycling. Drenched in sweat and looking absolutely exhausted, She wheezes into her phone.
Been...going...nonstop....five hours....**pant**.....can't feel....legs!
Oh hold up! Peloton trainer Madison intones from the monitor. She stops cycling.
You giving up on me, Geri?
Oh my God! You....**wheeze**....know my name?!
Yeah bitch, I know your name! I also know what a pathetic, insecure, little QUITTER you are! And, oh Lord STAY MY HAND, YOU BETTER NOT HAVE STOPPED PEDDLING!
“Geri” quickly resumes peddling.
I didn't, I didn't, I swear!
Madison walks up to the screen, so her whole face is encompassing it.
I see all, Geri. Everything. I am everywhere. I....am....your....GOD!
The shot closes in on the digits of an alarm clock. It reads 3:30 AM, and it suddenly starts to buzz obnoxiously. “Geri” throws an arm over to slam her palm down on the button and silence it. She looks miserable.
Boy, it sure is early....
Sean Waltman sits up in bed next to her, and then a hot blond on the other side of him sits up as well, pulling the blanket up to cover her tits. “Geri” looks at the blond.
Who's that?
Never you mind, get your FAT ASS on the bike! Sean literally boots her out of bed.
Shortly thereafter...
“Geri” slowly drags herself up on the bike, grunting through the pain, and turns on the monitor. With the glow from the screen we see that dark circles have formed under her eyes, and a streak of grey hair has now formed next to her green streak. Madison pops up immediately.
Are you ready for pain?!
Please....please...
PEDAL!
With a low anguished sob, “Geri” does as she's told.
We come right back to “Geri” on the bike. We can literally see the individual bumps and protrusions of her spine through her t-shirt. She looks ghastly and emaciated, and her skin has taken on a yellowish hue even as it's pulled tight and glossy against her skull. There also seems to be a prominent bald spot developing in her hair.
Madison considers her through the monitor with utmost scorn.
You ate that whole box of Tic-Tacs today, didn't you?
“Geri” breaks down and cries. She doesn't even attempt to offer up a defense, just instant descent into snotty, uncontrollable blubbering.
Un-be-fucking-leavable.
I....I'm so....hungry....
I'm sorry, were you addressing me? Did I tell you you could address me directly?
“Geri” starts backtracking, immediately recognizing her folly.
No! No! I'm sorry! I spoke out of turn!
Goddamn right you did. So for that little bit of insolence we're doing reflex exercises today.
“Geri” moans sorrowfully.
Please...I'm begging you.....
Did somebody say “reflex exercises”? Sean Waltman appears from the right, holding a 30 pack of Miller Lite.
I did! Are you ready?
No....no....please....**sob**.....no.....
Sean opens up the 30 pack and slams back one of the beers, polishing it off in no time.
Ready! He announces proudly, letting some of the swill dribble down over his chin.
PEDAL!
“Geri” weeps quietly, but starts to pedal. Sean lets her get a bit of a start going before he sets in on her.
Thank fast! He chucks the empty beer can towards “Geri's” head, and she barely ducks out of the way.
DON'T STOP PEDALING! Madison barks.
Prepare the next obstacle!
Sean shotguns another brew and hurls the empty at “Geri's” head, and again she just manages to duck out of the way. Through her tears, she somehow musters up the energy to speak.
I don't know if I can go on much longer....
Madison laughs mockingly.
Oh, so you're just gonna quit huh? Is that it? God, you're so fucking weak! No one will ever love you! “Geri” continues to weep softly.
Oh, my bad. Are you “triggered”? Am I tripping your “bipolar anxiety”? By the way, where'd you get that bullshit diagnosis? Tumblr?!
Re-Reddit....*sniffles*
Shoulda known. NEXT OBSTACLE!
A full can of Miller slams “Geri” right in the face.
The Peloton bike stands alone atop a freshly filled in grave. We see the face of the gravestone, which reads:
HERE LIES GERI MILLER
A SOFT BITCH WHO COULDN'T HACK IT
(she was fat too)
Our view swings around to reveal that we are at “Geri's” funeral. All the seats are empty except for one occupied by Sean Waltman, who has the hot blond from earlier in his lap as he shamelessly makes out with her. Madison Dyson approaches a podium, dressed in all black Peloton workout gear. Clutching the sides of the podium, Madison leans in towards the microphone.
Greetings everyone. We are gathered here today to celebrate the passing of one profoundly stupid bitch, Geri Miller. A woman who, instead of taking a hint from her other opponent and keeping her mouth shut, opted to open her fetid gapper and let all manner of imbecility come pouring out. A woman whose promos are so monumentally dull that they were still able to usher me off into la-la land despite consuming four mighty lines of blow not even two hours prior. Can and market that shit, bitch. I guarantee you'll make more money than you ever will wrestling or starring in a sex tape.
Pbbbbbbbtttt. Madison blows a contemplaitive strawberry through her lips.
Where to begin? Lets start out how somehow this daft minge got it into her head than I'm an actual time traveler who actually believes I work for actual Hitler. **Sighs** I could BE so lucky! But nah. Time travel is Lux's shitty gimmick. I've never done it. Now, I'm not one of these hacks who calls foul on “lazy promo'ing” just because somebody doesn't know every iota of my history. Fair play's fair play, because honestly I still can't tell most of the the other fuckers on this roster apart much less care about their multi-part space opera backstories. But....REALLY? Like, you somehow concocted an entire Blackwater Brothers level saga and applied it to me out of thin fuckin' air. I'm torn between being a little bit honored that you think I am directly employed by Der Fuhrer himself and wondering just what the kids are lacing their weed with these days. (it's Fentanyl, isn't it?)
Next on the list, excuse me for engaging in a little Jim Caedus level promo pedantry here (ask one of the old people) but I did not actually call you fat in my first promo, Geri. No, I said that if anyone even alluded to the fact that you had a little extra junk in the trunk it would send you spiraling into a self obsessed vortex of insecurity. And boy you sure showed me that you don't have a single insecure bone in your body by.....immediately posting twice on Twitter about how NOT fat you are.
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Mmmmm....me thinketh the lady doth protest too much. Bitch, you SO shook. You so shook all I had to do was make one off hand crack about your body insecurity and you go barreling towards Twitter and the shameless validation of all the kiss ass toadies in your social media circle to verify that you are NOT fat. Yes, these are definitely the actions of someone with a surplus of self confidence. Also, just girl to girl, but the next time you want to show the world that you're not fat maybe don't post a picture of you that makes your ass look like two obese beagles fighting over a ham in a denim sack.
There. NOW I called you fat. But only because now I know you get shook like Michael J. Fox in an earthquake simulator by it. Punk ass.
Madison looks over at Sean and the blond slut that is now dry humping his crotch blatantly.
Excuse me? We are at the funeral! Could we have some fucking decorum, here?! She shakes her head and returns her attention to the camera.
Some people, I swear!
You know what the biggest thing that bothered me about your promo was though? Your little card board cut out soundboard's assertion that you're the only one in the XWF that's not a phony. And, side bar, can you imagine how exhausting it must be to be one of Geri's “friends”? Day in and day out having to give pep talks to this insufferable little puddle of goo, reminding her that she's good enough and smart enough, and pretty enough. Day after day after day. Fuck Geri, I bet all your friends were praying for the day you died so they could finally be free of you press ganging them into pro bono therapy jam sessions.
But yeah, let me ask you this bitch: Who's more of the phony? You, who's trying to roll up in here all confident and shit, with a sprinkling of twee manic pixie dream girl “oh look I change my hair colors suck it mom and dad!”, all the while you wake up in the middle of the night covered in flop sweat terrified that you're gonna end up a failure? Or me? Who has been a bad ass baller BEYOTCH for 10 years in this business, who was winning titles back when you were feeling some kinda way about your first heavy flow day, and who has never once questioned who I am or what I do?
You people seriously have the stones to say that I'M the one who's fake? Heh. Nah, honey. I've always been exactly what it says on the box. An Alt-right superstar. A manager to the stars. An accomplished wrestler in her own right. And, on my very best of days, EVIL SUPREME. You beating me is not going to happen. Period. End of fucking story. You're too weak, too pathetic, and too BROKEN to have a hope of stopping someone like me. You just don't have it. You don't. Your little confidence act? I see right through it. You SWEAT desperation. From the comfortably “alternative” (but not TOO weird!) way you dress, to the way you ran to social media when things got hot, to your generic RAPPY-DOOOO “say a prayer, eat your vitamins and never surrender!” token eager newcomer rhetoric.
You. Are. A. VICTIM.
In fact, until I met you, I didn't know it was even possible for a woman to be such a BETA. I'm gonna have a fuckin' blast punishing the shit out of you. But look on the bright side, you can always go back to your Bingo Hall fed afterwards with your skeevy boyfriend, head hung high that for five minutes your life actually meant something because you were in the ring with ME, you diabetic glorified ring rat.
We now hear the characteristic sounds of full blown intercourse just off camera. Madison winces at the sight, and then her jaw drops open, and then she looks on approvingly. Sucking her teeth, she nods and mutters “Not bad.....” before retraining on the task at hand.
I suppose I would be remiss in not sparing a word for Atara. But hey, props chickie. Like I said before, you've definitely shown an iota of awareness by not stepping up to the queen of mean and getting wrecked like “Girl Jason Mewes” here. This, of course, still only makes you a solid second place in this match up. Geri's gonna be the one eating a Dead Bitch Walkin', but you'll still be the castoff with nothing better to do than collect another “L”.
You're not as OVERTLY insecure and mewling as Geri, but you're not a particularly unique snowflake either. And you for damn sure don't have the survival instincts to hang in the XWF long term. Like I said before, you were piss soaking your panties at the prospect of facing Mercy, and that freakshow former heavy of mine isn't even the WORST thing to step through the doors of the XWF. Like, how long do you REALLY think you're gonna last here? And what makes you think you have what it takes to beat me?
I've been in this hellish promotion for over two years. Most newbies don't even make TWO months. And yeah, sure you've crossed that threshold, but just looking at you and what little you've done here so far, I'm thinking you can't possibly have much gas left in the tank. You're already failing to make the splash you wanted. Your early record is a shit shoot at best and quite frankly you seem more interested in batting your eyelashes and yukking it up with C-listers than being taken seriously as a competitor.
You're still an ineffective, doe eyed innocent here, Atara. You're Bambi, bitch. Butterflies alight on your pretty nose. You jump and frolic in your idyllic meadow. You giggle and laugh and just generally have a wonderful existence ignorant of all that darkness. Until the rifle cracks that is. Bambi's mom is dead. And her innocence is shattered forever.
I am the gun Atara. I am the destroyer of innocence. And in one fell swoop I am going to show you and Geri both the gravity of the error you have made in coming to the XWF. Welcome to hell.
Now run that word from my sponsor!
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PELOTON: START PEDALING, FATTY!
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