Enchanting music plays. ENCHANTING MUSIC. It tickles our auditory senses, sending feel good fuzzies into the brain, resulting in a heightened sense of medieval mystique. And, no, we’re not part of this story. Merely observers.

Casual observers. Aside from one Mark Flynn. He’ll hopefully be watching this one closer than most.

Mark Flynn. Dude’s got the name of a career backup quarterback. Which isn’t all that terrible. Could be way worse. He could bear the name belonging to an all-star hockey player.

Anyway, I digress.

Medieval music. All the goofy ass instruments you are familiar with join together to mashup something that sounds surprisingly whimsical.

As the screen goes from SUPER BLACK to Not So Black to Kinda Visible to HEY THERE WE GO. We spot The Woods of Elderdom. Yes, The Wizard’s home.

Only, it’s been corrupted. Corrupted by machines. Corrupted by technology. CORRUPTED BY MAN. Cameras, lighting, recorders...any and everything associated with making an indy film that’s gonna look way cheaper than it actually cost.

Production has screeched to a halt. Edward Mof stares at a document. A thick, yellow sheet of paper with demands written on it in blue crayon which, actually, makes them green.

“Hmm,” Mof mumbles, scouring the list as best he can. It’s barely legible. “Does the kid know about this?” And, by kid, he’s referencing his client, The Wizard.

I guess at this point it should be made very clear that The Wizard quit wrestling almost a year ago after reuniting with his brother, Warrick Hill. Since then, The Wizard has pursued his life long passion of taking LARPing onto the big screen. Yes, he’s attempting to become a movie star.



“THE WIZARD’S QUILL” is the working title. But, as you can see, nobody is really working.

“He is, Mr. Mof,” the shaky voice belonging to a skinny assistant, responds.

Edward nods. “And, what about his brother, Warrick?”

The assistant’s face goes pale. Mof lowers his glasses, staring at the ghostly man, “You mean you haven’t told the other half of the partnership that the dwarves are on strike which has resulted in this production going on an involuntary hiatus?”

“Would you?” the nervous assistant leans in, whispering.

Mof folds up the demands and removes his glasses, “Good point.” He turns and heads to confront The Wizard.

Inside The Wizard’s tent, the man himself is nestled comfortably in a bean bag, sipping on a craft beer while watching highlights of his Leap of Faith victory over Mastermind.

“Wiz?”

“Eddie, my man!” The Wizard ejaculates, jolting from his bean bag...or trying to. He’s not all that nimble these days, having packed on like fifty pounds of useless mass.

“You can stay seated, don’t pull a muscle.” The Wizard has no issue with that. “You haven’t told Warrick about the strike, have you?”

The Wizard sips his beer aggressively, returning his eyes to the wrestling footage. “Haha! You remember that, Eddie? Man, I sure mastered that guy’s mind!”

With a sigh, Mof reaches to shut the TV off. Only, it’s not one of the old fashioned TV’s he’s used to. It’s one of these new aged flat screeners...so he fumbles around for a second like a total fuckwit before flipping the TV face down.

“Rude,” a discerning Wizard casts, finishing his beer and reaching for another.

“Man, look, I didn’t care that you walked away from what was a pretty decent wrestling career. I didn’t even care when you decided to partner up with that calamitous brother of yours. And, shit, I don’t even care that you’re so eager to drink your life away.” The Wizard shrugs and nods, sounds all good to him. But Mof isn’t finished releasing his frustration, “But, what I do care about is my hard earned money being pissed away because everybody around here is too frightened to contact Warrick so he can deal with some angry midgets!”

A cell phone is thrust Mof’s way, “Here, you do it.” Edward slaps the phone out of The Wizard’s hand, rejecting his offer. “See? Not so easy, is it?”

Eddie tosses the demands at The Wizard, “You call him right now, or, I swear, I’ll make sure this project never gets made and your career as a ‘thespian’ is over before it starts.” Mof storms out, leaving the Wizard stuck between a cock and a fireplace.

---

And we switch from the sounds of medieval music to the groans of pleasure. It’s Warrick’s barren apartment. Nothing on the walls. Barely any furniture...just enough shit to get by without feeling too uncomfortable. The pleasure noises emanate from his television...he’s watching porn, getting himself primed for what’s to come.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Warrick, a muscular, good looking man with curly blonde hair and barely anything on his body – like, ever...stands and makes his way to the door of his pretty crummy apartment. “Cumming!” He snickers, having substituted a u for the o and adding an m...like anybody would really notice, though.

He pulls the door back and spots two women. One is an asian with redhair and the other a caucasion with straight black hair.

They giggle, “Hello, Warrick. Are you ready to - “

“WHAT THE FUCK”

He slams the door shut.

“Fuckin John E Depth.”

Ohhhkay, and at this point it should be mentioned that Warrick was once a mentor to a man named John E Depth. Warrick took it upon himself to make Depth a pro-wrestling star. Only, it didn’t really turn out as planned. So, Depth returned to his previous life as a porn director. He also contracts his actresses out to a-list clients and friends.

Pacing the apartment, Warrick waits for Depth to answer. “Finally!” his pacing halts. “I told you I wanted a redhead and an asian.” He listens. He throws his arms in the air, “So? You sent me an asian with redhair and a white bitch with asian hair.” He leans in, listening, “What do you mean that’s slightly racist? Man, fuck off. I’m just gonna whack it to Wild Things again.”

Warrick hangs up and hurls his phone at the door. The two girls on the other end shriek at the sudden impact, their heels clicking rapidly as they sprint down the hall and out of the complex.

Crestfallen, Warrick collapses onto his couch. He begins the search for Wild Things. His phone rings.

“Mother fucker,” he grits his teeth, ready to light into Depth. “Listen here you sleazy son of a - “

He goes quiet. Slowly, his free hand balls up into a fist. His blood pressure rises. His face turns red.

---

A shitty car belonging to Warrick Hill swerves into the parking lot just beneath The Woods of Elderdom. If you’ll remember (I’m sure none of you do)...The Woods of Elderdom rest atop a large hill over looking a gas station on one side and a field on the other. Warrick has chosen the gas station.

He’s about to storm up the hill when he pauses and hurries into the gas station to purchase some Slim Jim jerky and a beer.

Moments later. Warrick is arguing with the frightened assistant. Mof stands by, observing...mediating, if necessary.

“Listen, you tell those fucking midgets…”

“Dwarves,” the frightened assistant manages to eke out.

“Whatever! You tell those little assholes that if they don’t get their tiny little legs out here and get to work then I’m going to personally sack punt the fuck out of each and every one of them.”

The assistant runs off. Mof nods, “Sack punt.”

“Eh, I’d heard some bitch use the term cunt punt once. Figured sack punt would work just as well for dudes.” Warrick thinks for a moment, “Do midgets have sacks?”

“Yea, but they’re probably really small.”

Warrick nods. This makes sense.

The group of hired little people marches forward. Warrick counts, “Ay! I only count six of you tiny bastards. Where’s the seventh?”

“Asleep.” One of them responds.

“Ah, yea, makes sense.”

There is an awkward pause.

“Sooo…what’s the big fucking deal? Why are you guys acting like a bunch of bleeding pussies?”

The lead midget, one with a sorta grumpy exterior, espouses the groups’ grievances. “Well, for starters,” he begins, in his high pitched voice. Warrick has trouble stifling a laugh. “What?” the little man asks.

“Nothing, please continue.”

“Well, for starters…” he’s cut off again, by Warrick’s inability to contain a brief yet a noticeable burst of laughter.

“Aww man, you know what? Fuck you! This is why we’re on strike! Everybody treats us like we’re half the men you are!”

Warrick laughs so hard he spits. Mof turns around, shielding his laughter.

The grumpy little man runs forward, furious...he tries to kick Warrick in the shin, but Warrick palms him by the head and pushes the little dude back. “Calm down, little guy. I’m sure we can fix those things.”

“What about our pay?”

“What about your pay?”

“Well, Dr. Schwittleman over here, who left his practice as a doctor to pursue this acting gig, found out that we’re making HALF of everyone else.”

Warrick turns around, “Who authorized that? WHO authorized that?”

“Uhh, you did, sir,” the meek assistant responds, knowing full well he may have just earned a bitch slap.

Warrick leans in, “I know I did. But let’s pretend I didn’t.” The assistant nods.

“Oh, you know what? I think that was an oversight. From accounting.”

“See?” Warrick snaps his fingers, “it’s all a misunderstanding! So you guys good?”

The little people fold their arms and look toward one another. They confer. A decision is reached, “Okay, we’ll resume work. But only if we get to go to Universal Studios Florida. We’ve always wanted to go there.”

Grimacing, Warrick knows that’ll be expensive. Plus he’ll feel like a parent, leading all these little dudes around. But, he’s dropped a pretty solid chunk of change into this project and his lazy ass brother isn’t doing anything...so, he does what he must.

“Deal.” Warrick extends his hand. The grumpy little man shakes it...his hand completely disappearing within Warrick’s.

---

We all do what we must. We must work. We must shit. We must listen to people we don’t particularly care for talk about things we have no interest in.

Such is the way of life.

We do what we must so that we can enjoy what we want.

The eternal, perpetual quid pro quo.

That’s why I’m back, XWF. That’s why I’m back, Mark Flynn.

Not because I want to be back. But because I have to come back.

As you can tell, shit with my movie project isn’t exactly running so smoothly. We’re just about out of money and, well, our anonymous emergency financier has suddenly stopped returning my calls. So, here I am.

Whoring this wonderful body of mine out to pro wrestling once more for a payday. And, no, not the disgustingly peanut butter rich candy bar. Not sure you could even call that shit candy, to be honest.

But I’m back, nevertheless. And, yea, you’re probably saying, “LOL this guy doesn’t even care. I’m gonna beat his magical hat off his mystical head before fucking with his mythical beard.” Which is fair. I’d probably be saying that too.

Only problem is the winner gets paid more than the loser. I think, anyway. If I’m going to show up and do this shit again, you better bet your ass I’m gonna TRY to win the match. Bigger payday...can we call it something else? Bigger PAYCHECK. Then maybe I can finish my movie.

Issue with leaving for so long, especially in this industry, is that when you return there’s a whole host of new, annoying names. Like yours, Mark Flynn. I don’t have a fucking clue who you are.

As stated, you SOUND like a shitty football player that only achieves relevancy during a game of Trivial Pursuit. You appear to have more nicknames than the Urban Dictionary has terms for oral sex. And, you want people to know that you’re not plain ole crazy but that you’re ACTUALLY crazy. Whatever the fuck that means.

You’re able to dissect your opponents...very well, apparently. Kudos for that, I guess. You have like a million trademark moves and blah blah blah.

*tosses roster bio for Mark Flynn in the air*

That’s all well and good. Shit plastered across a piece of power so the powers that be can manage your career correctly. I get it. I have one of those. It most likely says some bullshit about the woods, wizardry, and a couple of basic ass moves.

Look it up. Check it out. Maybe you already have. I’m not allowed to read the work you’ve already posted because this, son, is a cold opening. And, by jove, when it comes to Mark Flynn...it’s downright freezing up in this bitch.

It’s the realm of the hypothetical in which I can bash and rant and rave. So let’s do that.

I assume you’ve already got some shit in the works. I see RELENTLESS is bearing down on the wonderful people of XWF. No doubt you’ve got some shit planned. Probably against a duke or an earl or a lady fanny from omaha. I don’t really know.

Not too interested in looking, either. After all, you’re Mark Flynn.

If you were, say, Flark Mynn, then we’d be talking.

But enough with the name stuff, we all know that’s pro wrestling 101. And I’d like to think I’ve at least graduated into sophomore level curriculum.

It wasn’t but a year ago when The Wizard was prepping for a big match against Robert Main. The pretty-much-undefeated Wizard.

Back then, I had high ideals of being something in this business. Rising to the top and proving everybody wrong...my former trainer, my brother, the beautiful woman who left me because she deemed me too big a ‘loser’. Yea, I was gonna show them all.

Didn’t exactly pan out.

Truth be told, I don’t think I was tough enough for this business. I genuinely liked most of my opponents...which made it kind of difficult to talk about sodomizing their mothers and mouth fucking their fathers. That’s what tripped me up in the end. A dull edge to an ineffective blade. The longer you cook in this place, the tougher the meat.

I face yet another life impasse. A life that shrinks with each passing minute. All of us dying every second of every day. We only have so many opportunities to hop on that joyride and enjoy this crazy little thing called human existence. Wait too long and the train will have left the tracks, forcing you to wonder ‘what if’ for the rest of your pitiful existence.

Quitting, that’s what I did with my wrestling career. I’m not ashamed to admit it. The going got tough and I was like, “Nah, fuck this. Not my deal.” My final match might have been against the guy who thinks he’s like a roman guard or some shit, but it was really nearly one year ago in the ring with Robert Main.

Adversity has once again come knocking on my thick, wooden door. A big, scary, pink eviction notice crunched up in its left hand, ready to kick me out of the abode I’ve started to grow comfortable in...as it’s done time, after time, after time. Each and every time I’ve acquiesced. I’ve taken that eviction notice, packed my shit, and moved on.

I’m tired of moving.

This movie career is it. This is my last stand. This is the hill I will die on.

But, it’s not going to be easy. Far from it. If you think training to become a wrestler is expensive, try making a movie people will give enough of a shit to watch. It bleeds you fucking dry.

Dry we are. Dryer than that beef jerky of a meat pocket Atara Themis likes to call a pussy.

And that’s why I’m here. No, not for Atara Themis and that disease infested rotted out crotch of hers. I’m here to make some mother fucking money. Because, without money, there is no Wizard’s Quill. Without The Wizard’s Quill there is no movie career. And, without a movie career, there is no chosen profession, once again.

Evicted. Forced to remain transient in all the ways that matter.

Stand up or move along.

I choose to stand. I choose to fight. The Wizard’s Quill will get finished and it will be a success.

Mark Flynn, if you’re starting to feel this match doesn’t have a whole lot to do with you, good. The feeling is 100% mutual on my end. Two ships that were meant to pass in the night, dead set on colliding.

None of this means I won’t give you the best fight I can. XWF isn’t going to keep some soup of can around, paying them a decent wage. They want fighters. They want wrestlers. They want people the fans will pay to see. And, while my name still carries SOME weight, that will quickly vanquish if I don’t perform well against ya, Flynn.

So don’t mind me. You stay focused on whatever shit you’ve got going down for Relentless. You stay on your path. And, come Wednesday, at Warfare, I’m gonna blindside the fuck out of you.

Crushed, in the wake of my magical destruction, you’ll be left to ponder, “Who the fuck is that and why is The Wizard so awesome?” And I’ll turn around and reply, “Yes.”

Then I’ll merrily take my W and my paycheck to the window, cashing out and returning to the Woods of Elderdom finishing my vanity project en route to establishing a rock solid foundation for my career as the most famous LARPer who ever lived.

We fight in a few weeks at Warfare.

But we’ll talk again soon, no doubt.

Until then, Mark Flynn

Prepare to

Bask in my Aura.