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Thomas Nixon · (03-19-2017)

Bullets fly by the young platoon. As they duck into the trench, they can practically feel the bullets race past their ears, nearly grazing them. The air reeks of shit and piss, which goes unnoticed by the men because it is ever present in their life. The putrid smell is inescapable on the battle field, from soldiers constantly soiling themselves, whether it be fear or dysentery.

Back on the home land, people protest. They feel like the boys are sent to die by a cruel president. The president doesn’t care about their lives, and there is no end to the war in sight. “Bring the troops home!” They shout, yell, and protest. They fashion signs. The people know that the men are dying without a cause.

But the young man on the frontlines doesn’t share that opinion. His training and experience over the last couple of years have changed his mindset. There is pride in fighting a war. There is pride in defeating the enemy. The young man feels like he is accomplishing something noble.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. Not so deep in his mind, he simply can’t stand the men on the other lines. Those goddamn red back commies. They don’t deserve to breathe Mother Earth’s air. Those men deserve iron through the throat, that’ll teach those slanty eyed fucks a lesson. Don’t fuck with the US of A.

War is a vile thing. As the young platoon prepares their rifles, they are hoping to strike down the enemy. But that hope isn’t a simple objective. They are emotionally attached and have even glorified killing another person because they have undeniable hate in their heart. Hate that swells at the thought of battle. They may be doing a duty for their country, but they are feeding an animal inside themselves.

In the end, there re casualties on both sides. The young men will die without watching their kids get past elementary school. They were fueled with a mission and driven by a personal vendetta. A hate that was indoctrinated into them. But the soldiers didn’t do anything wrong, it was human nature that took over. The sick nature to hurt and kill when given the opportunity. The nature that allows people to delve into their sickest fantasies. The primal instinct to right wrongs. But in the end, we’re fighting cruel actions with more cruel actions. A demented cycle that justifies harsh violence.

And the fallen voices echo one united sentiment.

“And we would all go down together
We said we’d all go down together
Yes we would all go down together”

* * *

So the match is set. Thomas Nixon faces off with Michael McBride in a dog collar match, where one man will either quit or be knocked out. A bout that is months in the making. A contest that I’ve been dying to have ever since McBride slammed me through a god damn announce table in Dealey Plaza.

I want to emphasize that this may be held in an XWF ring, but I hesitate to call this encounter a wrestling match. If the fans are tuning in to see a wrestling match, they’re going to beg the pay per view channel for a refund because we won’t be wrestling.

The moment the collars are clapped on, I’m not intending on wrestling McBride. My goal is to hurt, to maim, and to torture. None of that involves slapping on a side head lock to wear him down. There won’t be drop downs and leap frogs, instead there will be pools of blood and wounds of war.

War. That’s a good war to describe this. This isn’t any of that cliché bullshit either. McBride and I haven’t pussyfooted around with melodramatic antics. We’ve never stood across the ring with microphones in our hands and talked smacked to each other and we never became best friends for a week just to turn on each other. We don’t fuck around with mind games.

Every scrap we’ve had has ended in blood and injuries. First it was my ribs, then my eye, then McBride’s cheek, and on Warfare he gave me a little gash on the head. I wear my wounds with pride because I look in the mirror and have a constant reminder of what I’m fighting for. I want a receipt.

Sure, it hurt when Jim Caedus dropped me on my skull and took the Television title from me, but that’s a different kind of pain. The shit that gets to me is when my eye is used as a fucking ashtray. That cruelty and disrespect won’t go unchecked. We’re working with a one to one exchange rate. What McBride dished at me, he’s getting back, and if he might just get more than what he paid for.

This match is beyond winning and losing, it’s about returning the favor. I’ve been out for vengeance since January, but I find myself lusting for more. It would be much more satisfying to choke McBride half to death with a chain then to be declared the winner. Fuck, I don’t care if I win. Either way, I don’t expect to be able to walk out of the place. Because win or lose, our battle is personal. We’re out for blood, not a W.

I’m surprised XWF is sanctioning this bout. They have to know that I’m not going to hold anything back. I won’t hesitate to traumatize the millions of viewers at home. Our hatred is different than the other petty rivalries culminating at Lethal Lottery. We aren’t dueling out for status or a piece of gold. We’re brawling to cause irreparable harm. I’m glad the pussified suits in the XWF office ignored that they’re liable for what happens. Quite frankly, they shouldn’t be surprised if they get stuck paying off McBride for the rest of his life. With all the operations, expert opinions, and medication, the XWF might lose millions. And that’s just McBride. I probably won’t be in the best shape either because any man that’s staring death in the face will put up a fight.

I’m setting expectations for McBride, XWF, and the fans. This won’t be the usual shenanigans you see on TV. I’m risking it all. I’m walking out there with an AK-47, but I don’t have a bullet proof vest or a life insurance policy. Kill or be killed; that’s my mantra. I’m sick of hollow words and empty threats, which is the cancer in this company. Too many people throw around words, but I’m going to make mine come to life.

According to Pennsylvania statute, “A criminal homicide constitutes murder of the first degree when it is committed by an intentional killing.” And “intentional killing” is defined as, “Killing by means of poison, or by lying in wait, or by any other kind of willful, deliberate and premeditated killing.”

This will be an open and shut case for the lawyer hired by Mrs. McBride. It will be more than clear that everything I do in that ring is “willful, deliberate, and premeditated”, so if I’m lucky enough to take the life of McBride, feel free to prosecute me. I’ll take pride in the moment because I want to rip him from his loved ones. That’s what the cruel, arrogant fuck deserves for the mistakes he made.

I’m a smart, calculated man, but everybody has line. A line where ego supersedes logic and reason. When McBride walked all over my rising career to make a point to SCULLY, that was pushing the line. Then McBride added insult to injury after his buddy outnumbered me. He earned himself a trip to the judgement gates, and if I have to break every law in the United States of America, so help me God, I will do it. That’s why this is no wrestling match. This is war.

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