The shot opens on a rather grisly sight. It’s a close up of a brain in a jar, floating in formaldehyde.



We pan out to reveal Madison Dyson, inspecting another brain in a jar. In fact, the entire room, which seems to be part of a hospital research wing based on the environs, is wall to wall brains in jars!

Madison places the brain she was holding back on the shelf and turns to the camera, bearing an imperious smile.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste. An ironic statement given who I’m facing.

So, we meet again Mastermind. Or perhaps for the first time? I honestly have no goddamn idea given how utterly forgettable you are. But rest assured, I won’t forget THIS match after it transpires. Because I like to call this match, “the end of audacity”.

She waves her hand in the air in a grandiose manner as she speaks the words.

Because what audacity you have, Mastermind, waving that Television championship around. The nerve…the unmittigated gall! Allowing yourself to be added to that illustrious list of champions past knowing, full well, that you didn’t do a goddamn thing to earn that accolade.

You. Showed. Up. That’s it. And instead of simply cancelling the match knowing that Jason Cashe took his ball and went home, management literally HANDED you a championship.

And then, to add insult to injury, your first defense? Against Razor Blade! Fucking RAZOR BLADE! The man whose very favorite Biblical figure is JOB.

Madison jerks her thumb back at the wall of brains.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that something is definitely amiss here. And you’d need a lobotomy not to call BULLSHIT on this whole ordeal. Because it’s clear to me that management is protecting you, Mastermind. Towards what end I have no idea. I’d say maybe you mastered their minds, but let’s be real. You can’t even master your own ‘bation.

Madison picks another jar up off the shelf and inspects it a bit before continuing.

I admit, I requested this match Mastermind. And my reasons are two fold. Number one, much like Mr. Oz last Anarchy, I’m using middling talent like you to shake some of my rust off and propel myself to greater heights. And number two, I’m staking a claim to that Television championship!

It’ll be nigh impossible to deny me a chance at it after beating the current champion. And yes, yes, I realize Summer Page beat you too but let’s be honest, who gives a fuck about Summer Page? You think management is clamoring to put a title on that milquetoast slice of banality?

But I guess I lied. There’s actually THREE reasons I requested this match. And the third one’s a bit more esoteric.

Let’s cycle back around to that notion of audacity again. Because I’ve always found that you have some nerve positing yourself as some cerebral warrior, psychologically manipulating your lessers, humbling them into submission with the power of your superior mind games and intellect. Because let me be forthright.

You’re DUMB as SHIT.

And that’s what bothers me about your whole shtick, Mastermind. The fact that you have the juevos to call yourself a Master of Minds when you yourself are a Master of None. Case in point? Did we really just see you literally BEGGING Scarlet the Huntress to help you reform The Misfits?

I mean, aside from how surface level pathetic that whole scene was, what was even the PURPOSE of that bit of idiocy? You see Mastermind, usually when people want to put a band back together, the conceit is that that band was usually GOOD to begin with. But this Misfits? They’re an albatross about your neck as you DROWN. Tell me Mastermind, no really, TELL ME what they have brought to the table for you? Have they upped your credibility? Hardly. Have they dominated the landscape of the XWF? Well considering the only title reign amongst the whole lot of them was Kris’ Xtreme reign that didn’t even last two weeks, I’m thinking survey says NO.

So again, what the fuck is the point of reigniting the paltry flame of this band of abject LOSERS? Are you so desperate for relevance you’ll take literally ANYTHING when it comes to a posse? Or are you truly that dense that none of what I’ve just said has even occurred to you?

Because it would seem to me that a so called “master of minds” would be quick to cut ties with minions who are as useful as tits on a bull.

Heh.

But this is all just par for the course for you, isn’t it? Flailing. Misfiring neurons desperate for cohesion. All in the guise of a gussied up lower mid carder with delusions of grandeur and intelligence he could only aspire to.

Mastermind, at Anarchoween, you're my Mister Oz redux. The next stepping stone I plant my boot on as I revitalize my career and make a play at greatness. A greatness you have never, and will never, achieve. So my advice? Lay down and take it like a bitch. Because only one of us is ever going to amount to anything in the XWF. And it surely wont be you.

Madison takes hold of the brain in a jaw and proffers it up to the camera.

Master of Minds, eh?

She drops the container, and it explodes spectacularly all over the floor. Then, Madison places the heel of her boot on the brain and crushes it. It smears into the cement floor with a grotesque wet squelching sound. All in all, the effect is absolutely disgusting.

Looks like nothing more than scrambled eggs from up here.

See you soon, Mastermind. In the mean time, pray this isn’t what I have in store for you.

The shot closes in on the crushed brain before fading to black.