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John Samuels · (03-11-2014)

“Oh great. I had to sit through Dimallisher’s painful lesson in mental instability and now I have to fucking deal with you? This is not my week.”--“We must speak.”

“Stop with that ‘we’ shit. It’s annoying.”--“We will persist.”

“What the fuck do you want? You’re supposed to be history.”--”We are history. We are the present. We are the future.”

“You’re fucking annoying, that’s what you are.”--”Fuck you.”

“Wait, what?”--”We’ve grown.”

Samuels is shown staring into a large mirror. Staring back is the familiar crimson mask of Titan. Samuels waves his hand before the mirror, Titan mimics the movement. Samuels drops his arm and sighs, Titan however folds his arms and shakes his head slowly.

“And just how may I help you?”--"You are fighting a losing battle. We have come to help.”

“I’m not losing a damn thing. You think that Eli and his band of merry men are getting one over on me? You’re out of your goddamn mind, Mr. Hallucination.”--”Are we a hallucination? Or are we the truth that your seek?”

“That doesn’t even make sense. Of course you’re a fucking hallucination. You’re just a cheap mask and a terrible personality. Did I die in my sleep? Did listening to Dimallisher literally bore me to death?”--”You already made this joke.”--”Ha! You’re right. Ah the old days of pickin’ on old almond eyes. That was great, wasn’t it?”--”We despised it.”--”Fuck you. You lost to Lazarus. You’re garbage.”--”You lost to Radio.”--”Once.”

“How exactly are you going to help me? You look like a pus-filled pimple trying to hide in Eli’s forest of back hair, not exactly my idea of a mentor.”--”We’ll let that one slide.”

“Slide like a couple mayonnaise and ketchup covered fingers into your mother’s ass cavern while she plays the skin flute in a Burger King parking lot?”--”We… We are you. You insult your own mother.”

“You want to know what’s an insult? That you can just come creeping in here like you’re a member of the Congregation-luring away those poor, backwoods altar boys with promises of sarsaparilla and being filled with ‘the almighty.’ You’re fucking creeping me out. I need this mirror to fix some slightly singed pubic hair, so if you could do me the grandest of favors and fuck off, I’d appreciate it.”--”Your mouth moves faster than your brain. Perhaps you should tend to that situation before you make another statement that draws our ire.”--”Oh? And what exactly are you going to do to me, mirror bitch?”--”This is what we have come for. To restore your brutality. At one point you were the at the apex of this company.”

“So what, you’re here to suck me off and tell me how great I used to be? Why don’t you visit Eli’s room, I’m pretty sure that boy could use it more than me. And don’t come back.”--”Would you just shut the fuck up, already?”--”Hey, you can’t talk to me like that.”--”We’ll do whatever we please. We established an aura of dominance, we will not stand to see you destroy it with your clownish antics.”

“Clownish? You’re the asshole who was running around here looking like the business end of a tampon. Nobody likes a redhead, didn’t you get the memo?”--”We did not, what’s your excuse? You moan and cry like an attention starved newborn, and then drink yourself into numbness. Have you found what you’ve been searching for in the bottom of your empty liquor bottles? Love? Acceptance?”--”I find myself wanting to get knuckle deep inside a cougar with self esteem issues, what other kind of love does a man like myself need? I see what you’re trying to do here, and it’s not going to work.”

“You’re weak, John. You came back to prominence waving your average-sized member”--”Watch that shit, boy”--”Waving it around like all who witnessed it would immediately open the floodgates of their loins, but that’s not the case, is it John? You’re nobody. You’re nothing. Not anymore. You hang your hat on your past accomplishments, yet you’re the only who cares enough to remember them. Do you still take pride in crushing Neonero? He is facing John Austin soon. John Austin. To say that he has fallen from relevancy is the understatement of the year. Relevance has eluded Neonero to the point that boasting of a win over him is bound to raise more questions of who he is, than feathers stuck in your cap. What of beating Steve Davids and the former Mr. Satellite ? Has the thought crossed your mind to brag about their defeat? Steve Davids has never flirted with relevancy, and that sad, crippled spaceman would be a task for only the most inept of the physically handicapped. Beating them is no more impressive than winning a cheap, foreign made toy in the bottom of your cereal box. It is time for the monster inside John Samuels to awaken. The past is no longer relevant, you must turn toward the future. World War X is where John Samuels takes the spotlight from Theo Pryce, Eli James and Weapon:Ashen, and he fixes it solely on himself where it belongs. Nuclear Winter was only the beginning. Claiming the number one contendership to the crown of the XWF is the first in a short series of steps in the ascent of John Samuel’s true destiny. You are here to rule over these simpletons, not mingle amongst them. A forgivable offense in light of the brevity of what is on the line, but one that needs to be corrected immediately after Theo Pryce and his assembled excuse for talent have outlived their usefulness. There is no room in the future king’s court for these peasants and their pointless squabbling and lowbrow humor. When the time comes, the XWF will witness the unrivaled animal hibernating in the soul of John Samuels--an animal whose carnal savagery will make the beheading of Shane

appear to be a clean and humane way to extinguish life. And all we need to bring this to fruition, is for you to accept that we will continue to cohabit this vessel with the intentions of releasing a dark, twisted version of Hell that will leave even the darkest of souls quivering in our shadows and praying for a nonexistent mercy. Will you rule with us, John?

“What’d you say? Sorry. I’ve got this weird mole on my shoulder, do you think I should get it checked out?”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“What?”
“Are you really that self absorbed? You would ignore the very blueprint to your future for a cosmetic anomaly?”
“Well it could be cancer or something. How am I supposed to do all those things that you were saying if I’m bald and people look at me weird? I can’t go through life looking like a freak, not like the rest of these oddballs.”
“A foolish reason, however the concern is--”
“Oh it’s chocolate! Thank God!”
“You.”

“You.”

“You are literally the epitome of human fecal matter.”
“What? That’s not very nice.”

“Pleasantries have gone out the window. We cannot believe that we were foolish enough to believe a bonding of our wills would create a supreme being, capable of an unseen level of dominance.”

“Don’t be thinking you’re gonna be doing any kind of bonding with me, you fucking weirdo. Why don’t you take that hippy shit with you and get the fuck out of my mirror?”

“Why don’t you shut that uninformed hole of yours and use what little brain power you have to think of a valid excuse for being such a worthless piece of shit?”

“Worthless? I think it’s time for somebody to stop using words they don’t know the meaning of before you start getting confused with Amos James. You talk to me like you’re all high and mighty, but I see right through your act. You’re a tiny fish that exits the womb as prey, that connects itself to the underside of a massive shark that prowls the waters aimlessly because he knows that he is at the top of the food chain and anything foolish to swim within his hunting radius is going to be a quick snack.”

“Me.”

“You parasite. You think I don’t see you there, feeding off me? I do. And I can shake you at any moment I please, unlike Eli James and the collection of leeches attached to his teet. No, Eli needs the suckling of those overly eager wretches because without them, he is nothing. Just another fat guy with a terrible sense of style. Watch how quickly that needy son of a bitch fades into obscurity once he gets his ass handed to him by yours truly at World War X. That little power trip of his is going to finish faster than Dimallisher when that hog of of his decides it’s mounting night. And then the only thing that’s left is for me to take the shot I’ve earned at becoming the King of the XWF, cash it in and watch as the collective hearts of the XWF sink when they realize that John Samuels is the new measuring stick for success. Not Eli, not Theo, not any of their lackeys. There’s a lot of names floating around these days; some deserving mention, most not. But not a single one of them matters any longer, because World War X is where John Samuels personally pulls the convoluted air right from the lungs of Eli James. And as this false prophet writhes in agony like a fish out of water, I’m going to pluck every single lie that escapes his treacherous lips and I’m going to cram them so far down his throat that he’ll have to waddle to the bathroom and deposit every single word of his exactly where it belongs.”

“We came to help. And we have.”

“You are back.”

“And now it is our time to blend with the irrelevancy of history.”

“You still look like a baboon’s ass, you creepy fuck.”

“Couldn’t you just let us have the last word?”

“Not really how I work.”

“Goodbye, Samuels.”

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