“It’s interview time!”

The scene opens to Titan and his accomplice opening a large door to the backstage area of the XWF. The various crew members scurrying about all stop in the middle of their duties to take note of the hulking Titan.

“Keeeeep it movin,’ people.”

The woman slaps Titan on the chest and points down the long hallway.

“That fucking Radio idiot had to go hunt down and beg somebody to interview him, so it might--”

“Hello there! You’re Titan, aren’t you? I must say I’m a huge fan of yours! I’m the new female interviewer for the XWF, my name is...well, I guess that doesn’t really matter, now does it? You’re the star, not me.”

The woman giggles nervously as she fixes her bangs in front of the camera.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? We take two steps into the building and this peppy little bitch is already tongue raping our eardrums. I feel sick. Can we file some kind of paperwork to have this bitch’s tongue removed?”

“Unfortunate contract obligations require us to submit to this nonsense. We will end it as quickly as possible, we have no interest in answering these pointless questions.”

“You have no idea how much of an honor this is, Mr. Titan. My first interview was with Mr. Radio, who is a real piece of shit in person, and he droned on and on about nothing at all. He didn’t even know what Twitter is, can you believe that?”

“He does not know of Twitter? He is a special brand of idiot. Does the fool’s multiverse exist solely underneath a rock?”

“What a fucking jackoff. Even Big Red has a Twitter account! @BigRedMonster. And you know, you can follow me @Crazyshebitch69. Just so you know.”

“Umm… Thanks, but could you take a few steps back. I’m only interviewing Titan.”

“Sure thing, bitch lady. I saw a box of donuts over there that I was lookin’ to spit on anyway. Go get ‘em, big fella.”

“Now Titan, our viewers, myself included, would really like to hear you break down the interview with Mr. Radio. We’ll do an bit of an extensive recap, because I’m sure that most of the viewing audience turned the channel in disgust once they saw his face.”

“Our pleasure.”

“Well first off, Mr. Radio had some remarks to make about Morbid Angel, and how he thinks that he is ducking the challenge. What do you make of this?”

“We could care less. We would like to note, however, that Radio believing that he is a challenge to Morbid is more preposterous than the notion that we will ever see his name on the main event of any card featuring even the most basically talented of roster members. Does he think that he belongs in a title match? Honestly? The only reason his name was mentioned by Morbid is because he knew that facing Radio would be tantamount to taking a week off. Radio is nothing more than a hammock and a fruity drink to anyone with the skills to wake up and tie their own shoes in the morning.”

“Speaking of, do you think Radio owns more than one pair of velcro shoes?”

“Without a doubt. Next question.”

“Radio also had some words about his aspirations to eliminate everyone in the match, and for some reason felt the need to point out that he would not be eliminating those who have already exited the match. With such a dangerously weak-minded thought process such as this, is it your belief that Mr. Radio is of sound mind to be competing against some of the top athletes in the world?”

“Not at all. Have you listened to this manboy speak? It’s as if he reads from a script written by a dyslexic orangutan. We don’t know which is more unfathomable; the boy’s belief in himself, his ignorance towards his superiors, or his twisted concept of reality. Perhaps the XWF should seek a licensed psychologist to evaluate whether or not the simp has the brain capacity to even agree to being placed in matches such as this. It seems like an inevitable lawsuit, and unwanted headlines. We can picture it now; “‘XWF sued over mentally handicapped manchild being beaten into quadriplegia.’”

“Hey, if it stops us from ever having to see Radio in the XWF it might be a worthwhile investment, am I right?”

“That is a valid point.”

“And now we get to the meat of the interview, curiously enough it was about you. He was asked about his thoughts on your latest piece of of footage and he… well… I mean, he was just all over the place. It was like he was a nervous little gopher trying to cross the intersection. He had no idea what he was doing. He said, and I quote, “his only insults consist of calling people different terms of the word Vagina.”

“We believe the term he was looking for was synonym.”

“Anddd he followed that up with, and again I quote, “but making them sound just a tiny bit smarter some how.”

“Nevermind, clearly that wouldn’t be a word in his vocabulary. Do you know why we refer to Radio as a vagina? Because we have never seen such a bold display of cowardice in our life. It’s almost as if he enjoys running away from a challenge, he considers the best view of the action to be over his shoulder and in the distance. He cannot chastise for properly labeling something. Grass is green. The sky is blue. Nova is a and Radio is a vagina. It’s not an insult, it’s a label. If Radio wishes for us to stop informing him that he is a pair of flappy lady lips, then all he needs to do is stop being one. He ran from Swagmire Swaggins. Let that seep in. Swagmire Swaggins. Brother of that dead imp Frodo, challenged Radio to a match. And what did Radio do? He tucked his tail and ran away, using a myriad of pitiful excuses to fuel his retreat.”

“Pussy. Now he had some slightly more scathing remarks, at one point suggesting that you decapitate yourself. With the help of a guillotine.”

“We see that a lack of originality is another one of his countless flaws. Had we not suggested that he terminate his pitiful existence just hours prior? Any man that would need to resort to imitating another’s insults is a coward and has no business opening their mouth in the first place.”

Just then, Irony passes by the camera, eating a donut.

“Did someone call me?”

“No.”

Irony shrugs and walks off camera, leaving the interviewer with a confused look on her face.

“Right. Anyway. Did you catch his comment about comparing your head to a scrotum?”

“What kind of disease festers on his testicle sack that he could even remotely confuse our head with a scrotum? Either the boy has a serious medical issue that should immediately be examined, or--and this is the more likely scenario--Radio was born without a set of testicles and can only make uneducated guesses as to what the actual scrotum of a man looks like. He believes us to be fools for discrediting the shallow talent pool that will be occupying the ring with us? Perhaps he should take a break from speculating what real testicles look like, and start guessing as to what they are used for. We can fill you in on that one, Radio: They are used for elevating yourself to a position of power when you are surrounded by lowly fools who believe they are on your level. And to clarify, we are not speaking of the level which you occupy Radio. We would have to tumble to our knees in a makeshift grave to lower ourselves that far.”

“I suppose before I leave you, and believe I don’t even want to address something so stupid so I cannot imagine how excited you are for it, I should ask on your thoughts about being called Kevin Bacon?”

“Are you familiar with the sounds of a sputtering engine as a car runs out of fuel? The low pitched whining of a dying animal before it succumbs to it’s wounds? That is what you just heard from Radio. An annoying sputtering of life coming from something that has run out of life. Kevin Bacon? That’s the best thing he could come up with. Does he really believe there are others out there stupid enough to be chanting such an irrelevant name? Mr. Radio is a bad joke. A bad joke with no punchline and extremely poor delivery.”

“We could keep going, but do you really want to? I feel bad for making you sit through and reminisce about that moron’s speech. It’s more of the same, really.”

“We think that will do just fine. We have a match to prepare for, if Radio wishes to open his mouth any more he can do so inside the ring. And we will promptly slam it shut hard enough to eject every last tooth from his hollow skull.”

“You know, Mr. Titan, after all your videos I was really expecting you to be very scary and unwelcoming, but I must say this has been quite the pleasant--”

The woman is cut off by a fist to her jaw from Titan’s female accomplice. The interviewer crashes to the floor with a thud, evoking a shrill laughter from Titan’s woman. She claps her hands as Titan slowly looks over in her direction.

“What? She was talking to fucking much. Hey! Did you see that asshole take the donut? I spit all over that thing. What a moron.”

The scene fades to black as Titan and the woman stand in the middle of the hall, the backstage crew trying as hard as possible to ignore the spectacle in front of them.

1X - GOAT.