Over.

Before it even began.


Samuels: What in God’s name are you doing, Ann? We’re supposed to be serious here.

Fairchild: I’m sorry.


Samuels: Here he lies. Nightmare. The supposed biggest challenge that I have faced in my career thus far. And yet, here he is, lying at the bottom of this hole... cold and lifeless.

Fairchild: Uh.. What?

Samuels: Before we even made it to our match, I have put him where he belongs--deep down into the ground.

Fairchild: That’s... That’s Nightmare?

Samuels: Yes, what else would it be?


Fairchild: Looks like a big, steaming, pile of shit.

Samuels: Exactly.


Fairchild: You’re taking this a little bit lightly, aren’t you? Not to bring up the past, but he did manage to steal your title belt and lay you out two weeks in a row. Maybe you shouldn’t write him off so easily? He’s huge!

Samuels: Size isn’t everything that matters, my dear Ann--contrary to what you think.

Fairchild: Hey...

Samuels: Oh, hush. The Nightmare might be big and strong, but I’ve learned a lot about him in the short amount of time that he’s stopped hiding in the shadows. He’s no Nightmare. Nightmares draw upon your fears and shake you to your very core. A nightmare can wake you from a dead sleep, in a cold sweat with a racing pulse. Hell, it’s very plausible that Nightmares could even kill you. Now, take a look at this guy. Does any of what I just said apply to him? Not a damn word. He’s no nightmare. No, he’s unsuited for such a name. From here on forward, I will refer to him as the Abomination. I couldn’t think of anything more fitting.

Fairchild: Abomination?

Samuels: You know exactly what I mean. He plays dress up. He likes poetry. He has men buried in his hole. He’s no nightmare, he’s just an overgrown boy-toucher. I bet he’s not allowed to be within 300 feet of a schoolyard. And I’m supposed to take him more seriously? Exactly what am I supposed to be afraid of? Being locked in a cage with a giant gay man doesn’t exactly sound fun, but I have nothing to worry about unless he catches me dropping the soap in the showers before the match. Did you see that stupid little video of his earlier? Was that supposed to be some kind of warning to me? I got worse threats than that on the kickball diamond back in fourth grade. I’m sure he can relate. Kids can be cruel, especially to a freakishly large kid who gets an erection every time it’s hot dog day in the cafeteria. Hell, I’d cover my shame with a mask if that were me too.

Fairchild: I wonder what he’s hiding underneath that thing?

Samuels: A vagina instead of a face? A Backstreet Boys tattoo? Does it really matter what’s under the mask? All that matters to me is that he feels like he needs it. That he needs to hide--behind his mask and in the shadows. Do you think he would even be in this position if he didn’t find such a cowardly way to make an entrance? Of course not. He’s no John Samuels. He doesn’t arrive to the XWF and tear a hole through everything in his path like I have. He can’t say that he’s clawed his way to the top, beating the best that Madness had to offer along the way. I can. I can say that I took my title belt from Neonero, a man that nobody other than myself could have beaten. Look what I did to Crimson Cobra, I single handedly devolved him from number one title contender to driveling idiot, grasping at the coattails of relevance. Nightmare didn’t enter a match with three of the brightest stars in the XWF, including the TV champion himself, and prove that he was the best. No, all he did was pretend to be Ralph Waldo Emerson for a couple weeks and then cheap shot me like a little bitch once the lights went out. And I’m supposed to take him serious, you say? I’m not the one who has something to prove, he is. How are his gay-rilla warfare tactics gonna help him out inside a cage on Saturday night? There’s nowhere to hide, there’s no shadows to pop out from. All that’s there is a large steel cage, a selection of instruments to beat someone’s ass, and the most dangerous part of all: Me. Maybe I’ll find a sledgehammer and break his legs. Or maybe it’ll be a police baton that I can use to crack a few ribs? The possibilities are endless, and oh-so-exciting. Finally I’ll get my hands on this giant pain-in-the-ass. No tricks, no security- just a good ol’ fashioned ass kicking. And it’s gonna be a bad one, you think what I did to Crimson Cobra is impressive? Just wait until I’m done on Saturday. I’m gonna send this panty-waist straight to the same hole that Neonero slithered off to when I beat him to become champion. Never to be heard from again.


Samuels: Or maybe I’ll drag your pathetic ass back here and bury you in that pit, where you belong. How would you like that, boy-toucher? Buried alive, with nothing but the stench of failure to occupy your senses. Unlike you, that’s a real-life nightmare. Or maybe I’ll just put you in the Longhorn Lock and snap your spine into two pieces? I think we would all get quite the laugh from watching a monster like yourself writhing around in agony before being put into the confines of a wheelchair. Hell, maybe I’ll just drop you right on your skull with the Filibuster. There’s no getting up from that, I don’t care who you are. How’s it feel Abomination? Knowing that in just a few days you’re going to be locked inside a cage with a real nightmare. It must be terrifying... Trying to pass on this persona of fear and indestructibility, only to stumble ass backwards into a championship match with the XWF’s only real nightmare. What happens when you lose? Will you still pretend to be some kind of dream monster that demolishes champions? Or will you realize that nightmares are not a nickname you give yourself while you’re sitting in a fat man’s basement wearing a gimp suit. Nightmare is a name you earn, and you haven’t earned it. You never will. When you can stand toe-to-toe with John Samuels, then you begin calling yourself a nightmare. Until then I suggest something a little more up your alley, like the Big Cupcake or Giant He-Bitch. Whatever the name may be, one thing is certain: A true nightmare is going to walk into that cage on Saturday night, he’s going to mercilessly pound on his opponent until he begins crying like the bitch that he is, and then that nightmare is going to walk out of that cage with the championship belt held high. And let’s face it, that nightmare isn’t you, Cupcake. It’s yours truly. The only man worthy of holding the XWF European title.

Fairchild: John Samuels!


Samuels: Don’t you think it was obvious that I meant myself!? Seriously, have you any idea what the whole point of all this is? I’m not standing down-wind of a giant pit full of horse manure to tell Abomination that someone ELSE is the best possible European champion. Dear lord, you’re denser than normal tonight. Let’s get the Hell out of here, I’m going to have a drink with Heyman.

Fairchild: Can I come?

Samuels: Can you go longer than ten minutes without embarassing me?

Fairchild: Most likely.

Samuels: Fine. But wear something low-cut, if I’m going to subject Heyman to your company I should at least provide him with something to look at.

Fairchild: Can do!

Samuels: And for God’s sake, take a shower. Cheap perfume and horse shit is not an attractive scent.

Fairchild: You bought me this perfume for Christmas...

Samuels: Go home and take a shower.

1X - GOAT.