Mise en scene. A barren and dilapidated room bearing little but a broken sink, a filthy mirror and a single bulb just barely swinging overhead like the proverbial pendulum from the pit. A final item of note. A beautiful young woman in a hospital gown laying on an old surgical bed.

Her eyes flutter open, and no sooner do they do so than does a voice grate through an ancient loudspeaker built into the upper wall.

Good morning, Mercy! Don’t be alarmed, it’s me, Madison Dyson. And you have been given a second chance at life.

The woman, Mercy apparently, though looking significantly less scarred than when we last saw her, looks around, eyes widening in panic.

I SAID DON’T BE ALARMED! Madison bleats. Just chill the fuck out. Look, I used the same technology to give me a new body after I bit the big one to give YOU a new body too! Mercy, you have your beauty back, the beauty you’ve chased for so, so….

wHeRe is MY gLOvE?

Despite the pretty face, the voice coming out of it is less so. A gutteral hiss that is incongruent with the pouty mouth providing it.

We, uh, we have your stuff.

Madison actually snaps her fingers over the intercom, and one of her endless cultists enters bearing Mercy’s mask, leather tight suit, and needle and scalpel tipped glove.



But are you really gonna need that mask anymore? I mean damn bitch you fine now.

Mercy, wordlessly, takes the glove from the cultists and slips it on over her hand. She flexes the vicious fingers a few times, as though getting a feel for it once more. And then, suddenly, she wheels on the cultist, stabbing him in the face with the scalpel on her pointer finger. Blood taints the pure white hood instantly. He drops her items and staggers against the wall as the crimson blotch continues to spread down to his neck.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Mercy, was that necessary?!

Then, hopping down off the bed, Mercy walks to the mirror. She stares deeply into herself, and then,her expression cracks. At first it bears the tracest hint of a smile, but then the tears start flowing, leading to a feral scream. Mercy brings up the glove and places the scalpel blade on the inside of her cheek. And she begins sawwing.

What the fuck?!!!

Mercy howls deliciously as the pain takes hold and the surgical tool cuts through the tender flesh of her cheek, widening her smile to an unnatural degree. Just as it used to be. Ever as it used to be. Blood blows down her face like the slavering froth of a beast with rabies as the pained howls turn into a deep rumbling laughter.

She sets in on the other cheek.

Later

Mise en scene deux. The team sits at a table inside the multicolored bowels of a Baskin Robbins. Latina Submission Machina. Tommy Wish. Unknown Soldier.

Tommy is holding a bouquet of flowers. He turns to hand them to Latina Submission Machina. I brought these for you as a token of reconciliation.

LSM mean mugs him. And you can keep them after all the shit you pulled.

Rebuffed, Tommy withdraws and mutters Whatever.

Then, from out of the employees only area? Mercy and Madison Dyson. Madison wades over to the table, Mercy in tow, a psychotic, unpredictable shadow.

Madison, why are we at a Baskin Robbins? LSM inquires.

Baskin Robbins is one of our biggest corporate partners.

Unknown Soldier looks up from the little bowl of ice cream in front of him. I made a flavor suggestion: Satan’s Salty Asshole, but I don’t think they were interested. He honestly sounds befuddled by this.

Hey Madison, I got these for you. Tommy holds up the bouquet of flowers with an expression approaching earnestness. Madison slathers on a plastic veneer and takes them.

Oh, let me just put these in some water. Thank you Tommy. Madison walks up to the counter and when Tommy’s attention is averted she dumps them unceremoniously to the floor behind the register. A crew member attends to Madison.

Yeah, I’ll have a scoop of cotton candy. The attendant rushes to fulfill Madison’s order like her life depends on it. Maybe it does.

Praise Mammon! She intones as she gives Madison her ice cream.

Praise Mammon!

Praise Mammon! Soldier echoes from the table.

Mercy slides into a seat next to LSM as Madison returns to the team. Alright ladies and germs, let’s talk turkey.

The match ups were just announced. We drew Money Oswald’s team.

The table all look at each other. And then all of them save LSM burst into hysterics. LSM holds up a hand. Ahora facil! We can’t let our guards down. They have at least one formidable member, Bobby Bourbon. We can’t discount him.

Sure we can! That fuckin’ maskless rump.

Madison, tell them about the plan! TELL THEM ABOUT THE PLAN! Soldier is now crouching on his chair, perched like a buzzard.

LSM’s gaze darts to Madison. What plan?!

Let’s call it a “team building exercise”....

Now hold on a second! I’m La Capitana!

Of course you are! Madison splays her hands before her placantingly. But you know how these things go. You’ve watched War Games before, right? Every team needs to band together in service to some overarching narrative to prove that they’re a cohesive unit. It’s just how things are done.

So what’s our plan, Maddy?

Don’t call me Maddy. And I’m about to tell you. Our name is Viewer Desecration Advised, and I think it’s high time we live up to that name! So, in conjunction with Soldier and Mercy, I came up with an idea. We’re going to collect mass murderers, and Frankenstein them together into one super murderer to serve as our backup at War Games!

LSM looks astonished. Why the hell would we do that?!

Because it’s awesome! Soldier responds, spitting a mouthful of ice cream onto the table. I call Richard Ramirez!

But isn’t he dead?

A trifling technicality!

LSM looks frustrated. Espera un segundo! This is insane!

But you have to admit, you’re intrigued?

I…she sighs. Unfortunately.

YES!

Excuse me for a moment guys, I’ve gotta hit the head. Tommy pushes away from the table and they all watch him walk to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes, a flutter of activity follows.

We’re totally replacing Tommy with your Frankenstein’s monster, aren’t we? LSM pieces it together.

Um, duh!

He’s the weakest link!

The leader of Parental Desecration Advised looks contemplative for a moment, before waving in a conciliatory fashion and saying, Yeah. Yeah, I’m for it.

So, we’re agreed? Each of us is going to pick up some freakshow lunatic killer and we’re gonna Mary Shelly this bitch into an ultra predator that’s going to make Mark Flynn sully his pants with impotent rage poops.

YES! Soldier bangs his fists on the table. Just then, Tommy returns.

So what did I miss?

LSM glances around the table. Oh, just a team coming together….

LATER…

It’s a bit further on into evening, and we see Madison and Mercy reclined on the roof of the Baskin Robbins. They are each laying on expensive looking lawn furniture dusted with diamonds. Because when you’re a Dyson, you even glamp it in style.

Elijah Martin
Ring Master
Money Oswald
Calypso
Savvanah Knightly

Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just pointing out the glaring weaknesses in all the other teams. If ya didn’t know, now ya know. You can kiss the ring later.

I mean, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me my evaluation is off base here? Madison pauses. We literally hear crickets. Must be a whole horde of the fuckers hanging out in BR’s ventilation system. You can’t. Nobody is going to refute what I’m saying because I’m OBJECTIVELY correct. And what’s really hilarious? Two of these assholes are TEAM CAPTAINS. Look guys, when your weakest link on the chain is the one giving orders, you got a big mutha fuckin’ problem there.

But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe I’m looking past the wholescale pink bellied punk bitchery that’s right in front of my face.

I’m talking about Sudden Death.

Yes, “Sudden Death”. The team who’s name placed second in the “I paused PornHub for about five seconds and brain queefed out this uninspired dreck” rankings. Number one, of course, being “War Masters” which is either an 80’s action film or something some autist puked up trying to sound badass. Yeah, fuck you Mastermind you Bobby Fischer without the talent level Sperg-Lord.

Yes, it’s SUDDEN DEATH. Aka what happens to a woman’s sex drive the moment Bobby Bourbon prostrates himself before her, spilling his udders onto the satin sheets and whispering ”Dolly please wreck my asshole."

Ya know, let’s have a chat about Bobby. Let’s start at what is admittedly the top and work our way down to sewage level, hmm? Yes, Bobby is the most accomplished member of his team. Or maybe it’s Cholo because who knows how many titles he won in his cousins Slip and Slide Pro Wrestling promotion.

The thing you need to understand about Bobby’s career is that it is, in fact, the tale of two very different Bobby’s. There is the successful championship winning Bobby and the Bobby that is a gormless waste of space. His entire time in the XWF he has reliably vascillated between the two like a pendulum. And quite frankly, the pendulum has definitely shifted back to waste of space. Like a dog returning to smell it’s own shit, so has Bobby Bourbon returned to being an abject failure.

Cases in point? Bobby has recently logged losses to both Calypso and Jenny Myst. A murderer’s row of respectable talent they are not. And if Bobby had his shit together, he would have, nay, SHOULD have, dominated both of them. But he didn’t. In fact, he even bitched about Jenny cheating to win in their last match. Bobby. Bitching that Jenny CHEATED.

Bobby, are you not aware that you should not be losing to Jenny Myst under ANY circumstances? “Ohhh, a bloo bloo bloo Jenny hit her finish on me when she wasn’t supposed to!” Whines the biggest blubbery bitch on the planet after getting beat by someone like a tenth his size. Butch up Bobby, you sound pathetic.

Does this sound like the Bobby Bourbon that is ready to carry this Titanic of a team on his broad shoulders? No, no it does not.

So let’s delve deeper into the dreg’s of this utter failure of a team. Cholo, I don’t know who the fuck you are and I don’t care. As of this taping you just beat Thunder Knuckles in the Cannabis Cup. Congrats on triumphing over one of our staunchest mid card performers.

You got picked last, by talking sock puppet Broken Oswald (because you’ll ALWAYS be “broken” to me), which should say everything about assessing your level of notoriety in the XWF. Or your level of notoriety outside of it. Because I’ve never heard of you. And it’s not like I’m totally ignorant of what happens outside these doors. I knew who Angie Vaughn was before she shlepped her way onto our roster. Jason Cashe’s name rang a bell before he decided to take a turn at disappointing us here in the XWF. But you? Nada. Zilch. Bupkis. You’re a totally unknown quantity. Now, you may think that’s a good thing, right? We know nothing about you save that you have TK’s number and honestly, who fuckin’ doesn’t the moment he steps from outside Bobby’s shadow. Side bar, are you now the Xtreme champion? You may want to take that up with management! Lord knows TK hasn’t been doing anything interesting with the title. In fact, it’s been so uninteresting that people don’t even try to roll him up in the 24/7 hallways. Congrats on making one of the XWF’s premier championships a joke. Just give it to this Chicano fuck and call it a day.

Sorry, I can never resist dunking on Thunder Knuckles.

Who was I just talking about?

Exactly.

NEXT!

Marf. Marf, Marf, Marf. The man who showed a modicum of intelligence when he broke with The Left Hand. Why, you even amassed yourself a few championship runs since then, haven’t you? Granted, it hasn’t been anything exceptionally memorable, but considering the utter joke you were born out of I guess you actually defied expectations in a positive way. But the wrestling biz is all about “what have you done lately”. And lately, Marf’s been all about that JACK SHIT. Marf hasn’t won a match since April. In fact, he has completely fallen down the fucking stairs and lost his last five matches! Lately, the only thing he’s noted for is carrying water for Charlie Nickles, scrub lord extrordinnairre.

Heh, and still this man got picked before Cholo.

Marf, your career trajectory is a hot turd pushed out a moist asshole, and it’s about to take a trip down the tubes. And you think this mega event is what’s going to turn the tides for you? One of the most chaotic and unpredictable events in the entire XWF PPV itinerary? Uh huh. You’re gonna fuck it up. Just like you fucked up Leap of Faith. Just like you’ve been fucking up for months. Ya useless bag of scat.

And finally, we come to the ripest shit of all…Money Oswald. And yes Money, I’m putting you dead last on your team for a reason. Why?

Because you’re its biggest joke of all.

Oswald, you’re about as intimidating as a damp scrotum, and about five times less interesting. Ever since you rebranded yourself as Big Money Oswald a couple years back, you’ve been desperate to distance yourself from your pathetic past. Unfortunately, pathetic doesn’t rub off that easy, does it? And the only thing you’ve accomplished since that rebranding was a blink and you’ll miss it Anarchy Title Reign and being a B-team B.O.B.er. And by the by, who beat you for that Anarchy title?

Latina Submission Machina.

Ohhhh, I just LOVE it when shit comes full circle!

You will always…ALWAYS…have the stink of Ghost Tank on you. You will always….ALWAYS….be one of the biggest jokes in the XWF. And the saddest part of all of that is that you are completely oblivious to it. You’re the Downsy idiot on the playground that all the mean kids puff up only to push you in the mud and piss on your Transformers. You are not the bully, your are the BULLIED. Case in fucking point, you were supposed to be one of the founders of B.O.B. And then Chris Page stole all that thunder and pushed you right into the background. And you took it. Like a bitch.

And yet here you are, drafting Bobby Bourbon and…what? Trying to rekindle some of that B.O.B. magic? Sad, sad, SAD. Dredging up recent history to try to have a prayer of winning War Games. But you’re utterly incompetent as a team leader, passing up industry veterans like Angie Vaughn and Dolly Waters to take on provable failure Marf and complete unknown Cholo. Goddammit Money, is failure written right into your “godly” DNA? Ohhh, I’d say so.

Yeah, your team doesn’t have a chance in hell. This thing is coming down to us versus Team Calypso. Because for as much of a fart in the wind Calpyso is, he at least knows how to draft talent.

Finally, I’d like to spend a moment discussing my client, Mercy.

Madison gestures to Mercy, who is now sitting up and seemingly muttering Eldritch insanities to herself.

I’m sure some of you will try to turn Mercy’s lack of activity in the XWF into a “thing”. Despite the fact that when she does show up she usually wins. And she once killed Dracula. True story!

And, you see, there’s a reason Mercy doesn’t wrestle more in the XWF. And its because she’s a liability. Not in the “sucks” sense, but in the fiscal sense. Mercy has a tendency to get stabby. And there is nothing she likes more than flaying human flesh to the bone. Hell, this bitch is so crazy she killed ME! In short, she’s a violent depraved psycho who drops suckas on a dime. And quite frankly, I just can’t stand that kind of heat. If she kills one of you assholes, then its lawsuits and crying families and unflattering news reports and I just don’t have time for that shit! So, I bust Mercy out sparingly and for special occasions.

Occasions just like this.

I didn’t sign Mercy up for War Games. I UNLEASHED her. She is without a shadow of a doubt the most violent thing in this match. And now that I have her back on lock down as one of my premier assassins, there is nothing stopping her. Latina Submission Machina drafted Mercy first for a reason. Because Latina Submission Machina is smart. Because she studied the tapes and drank in every bit of this monster’s savagery. Because she knows a WEAPON when she sees one.

I don’t envy a single one of you assholes. This thing is going to get bloody with a quickness. And woe to any other team that stands in our way.

Peace, bitches. As in, “Rest in…”.

The shot closes out on Madison’s vicious cackling as it fades to black.