The scene opens to the circus tent-turned chapel, the lights all turned off with only a few lit candles lining the podium generating any light. Titan’s female accomplice is humming loudly, along with the members of the crowd who can be seen swaying back and forth. Titan steps into the candlelight with his arms spread wide as the humming dies down into a gentle whisper.

“Ask and ye shall receive, little mutt. Here we are. Is this what you want, our undivided attention? Then for the moment you shall have your foolish wish.”

Titan places his hands on the podium and squeezes the sides tightly. The wood begins to splinter under his touch as he peers directly into the camera.

“Unlike the mindless husks that plague the XWF, we have no problem admitting we have made a mistake. Here we stood, labeling you, Lazarus, as a lap dog. A claim which you seemed to take umbrage with. And we realize why-- You’re not the lap dog, not any longer. You’re the mangy stray, pacing the yard praying for a scrap of food and an ounce of affection. When you lost the Ark of the Covenant championship to a man who shares his name with a type of pasta, you lost your spot on the crusty lap of that hillboy, Eli James. When he stole the title back, and passed it to that manpig Morbid Angel, you were left out in the rain. And here you are, scratching at the Congregation’s door, praying that one of these mental illness poster children will give you some kind of shelter. It won’t come Lazarus, not for you. Do you really believe that you are softening up Theo for Eli? How tragically sad. We can assure you that Eli does not care about you--in this match, or in life. And why should he? You are little more than a foul-mouthed hooligan who dabbles extensively in hypocrisy.”

“Unfunny satire, you say? Perhaps you would be willing to teach a course, because with every word that dribbles out of that foul, unintelligible mouth of yours we laugh. How comical, to think that those constant, unremarkable words actually managed to pass through your lips without you first finding it necessary to bite down on your tongue in hopes that the world would not bear witness to the pathetic thought process that you haven’t quite seemed to get the hang of yet. Running our names into the ground, Lazarus? The only thing you’ve managed to run is the gamut of embarrassing drivel from boring to tedious. Congratulations, you are clearly an understudy of Peter Gilmour. We don’t believe that will be quite enough for you to lift the manpig from his perch in Eli’s good graces, however. With the amount of absolute garbage that seeps from your mouth, we believe that you don’t give a second thought when it comes to speaking...namely, because you are incapable of coming up with as many. Still barkin’, boy?”

“You want to refer to us as a ‘pusscake?’ By all means. However we would be remiss to remind you that we fight our own battles. We do not cower behind Eli and his slaves and wait for them to fight our battles for us. That pointless title which Eli renamed was ours. We defeated the King of the XWF, much like we will this saturday, for it. And what happened? An incapable Eli was forced to cheat to claim the title from us. Let that think it, little doggy. Eli James, the master of your little band of misfits, had to resort to underhanded tactics and help from an official to beat us for a title that we frankly had no interest in keeping. And then it was rebranded and handed straight to you. Quite the trajectory, no? From a deserving champion, to a felonious owner, to an unloved urchin like yourself. And how do you repay the man? By losing to a whelp who couldn’t hold a candle to Scott Charlotte. Have you turned red underneath that mask of yours? Had our past few weeks gone like yours we would be embarrassed as well. But no, we’ve destroyed everything put in our path. No shortcuts. Nothing handed to us. So again, call us a pusscake if you’d like, but what exactly would that make a useless windbag like yourself? Now sit, boy. Here’s the fun part.”

“What’s to become of you when you lose, Lazarus? You’re already nothing but the source of feces that the rest of your ilk must trudge through on their way to actual relevancy. Will Eli be so willing to continue wiping the piles of Lazarus from the bottom of his boot when he has no Earthly need for you? Then what? What will you fight for when you’re no longer worth keeping around? You are so quick to ally yourself with a man who has no earthly morals, why would he not kick you to the curb? And yet you think you are the one who has us deceived. You attempted to make a point, an exclamation, on all those eardrum-wrenching words that spit forth from your mouth like idiocy was a drink that you had consumed heartily the night before. And what happened to your point? It was swiftly, and thoroughly annihilated. Much like that decrepit body you plan on parading around in front of us this Saturday. Theo Pryce is the big name in this one, the marquee to be sure, but our eyes will be trained upon you from the outset, Lazarus. Something of ours, no matter how insignificant, was stolen and placed on your unworthy waist. You may have been little more than accomplice to the real thief, but your punishment will be just as severe. Perhaps more so. At least Eli had the gall to stand up and attempt to take the title with his own two hands. Where were you while he was robbing us of our title belt? Were you cowering in the corner? Were you locked in the back room, having a competition with the manpig Morbid Angel to see who between you was less of a homosexual? Was Sid Feder holding your nose into a Lazarus puddle and swatting your rear with a rolled up newspaper? Were Elisha and Amos James taking turns finding out what body parts you would lick peanut butter off? You bad dog, you.”

“And for the record, Lazarus, we do not believe you are a . Whatever anal stretching befalls you is merely a display of dominance, and you being the lowliest of these trolls have no control over what happens. We do feel pity for you. Perhaps you should begin recruiting the likes of Caliban or Frodo to ease the stress on your sphincter? Maybe Peter Gilmour? Sid Feder has taken a particular interest in Gilmour, and he is almost. Almost. As lowly as you are, so maybe Feder will forget about you and punish the hole he so clearly worships. Not that any of this matters, come Saturday night your Feder-holster won’t be the only thing raw and bleeding. There’s no Congregation in the chamber, and we can’t imagine Theo Pryce has feelings much less hostile than mine toward you. You’re locked in the chamber with us. Your savior will be nowhere to be found. Will he even watch your extermination? Or are you just another stray that is going to be put out of it’s misery without an ounce of love?”

The candles begin to flicker wildly in a gust of wind, exterminating all but one. The hums of the fellowship grow louder and louder as music from the organ begins to fill the scene. Titan leans into the candle, holding his left eye near the flame as laughter escapes from his mask.

“Good dog. Play dead.”

With a large huff, the last candle is extinguished.

1X - GOAT.