:MM 17 31707 1: Welcome to the re-shoot of Mark Flynn's tightly packed can of stolen bullshit that he tried to open on me earlier in the week. Between shit he recycled that had previously fallen out of Madison's asshole and shit he made up on the spot that showed us he should stick to heisting Madison's brown runs, I honestly wasn't sure how to even answer this. How do you answer something that leaves you staring at the television and asking "was that it?" and then smacking yourself in the skull to see if you're dreaming? Do you even answer it?
I guess my personal narrator took care of a lot of that for me previous to this piece but as far as I'm concerned -- no -- I'm not going to answer Flynn's bullshit.
I'm going to correct it.
I'm going to literally become Mark Flynn and properly "shoot" on Mister Mystery 17 31707 1.
You won't see me going this often; it's basically like I'm handing Mark Flynn a whole new promo that can take the place of his disastrous performance but you know what? I don't mind. There are those here who hail him as some kind of king on the mic but if that were the case, he wouldn't have left me feeling like I needed to fix his material. He'd have left me speechless and overwhelmed rather than confused on if he's even being serious or not. Sid thinks this is a ploy to make me retort, thus giving him some free material to try and rip apart like he has others believing he can do. Sid thinks that first promo against me was a decoy. Well, for the love of god and for Flynn's sake, I hope Sid was right. Doesn't matter though because I'm still going to show Flynn how he could have ripped ME a new asshole in that first piece instead of wasting it.
Mister Mystery walks over to stand beside Sid Feder as they turn down all the lights on the inside of the warehouse. The camera zooms gradually on the barely visible outline of what is a steel folding chair; the only remnants of light being what is creeping in through the small windows from the moon outside.
The heavy sounding "snap" of a very powerful spotlight suddenly being shot to life is heard echoing throughout the warehouse. It breaks the silence as abruptly and definitively as a Cyren promo can break your will to live. We're not here to talk about Cyren though -- right, Flynn? Why would we make him a main point of topic?
The spotlight shines down on the steel chair as its edges are lit up and almost glow underneath it. The steel chair appears to rotate in place but we quickly surmise that this is simply the effect of the cameraman very slowly circling around the chair. The silence is broken once again as the sounds of glass on glass can be heard, along with the unmistakable sounds of liquid splashing inside of its container -- bottles. The slurred, rambling, grumbling voice of nonsensical gibberish affirms that we're hearing the sounds of a drunken slob who most likely is drowning his sorrows after losing what he could have started bragging about as his biggest triumph yet.
This no doubt is the man we've come to know as Mark Fucking Flynn in all his glory.
Mister Mystery as Mark Flynn steps into view -- his shirt torn and his pants soaked. Booze trails him toward the steel folding chair as the light from above bounces off of what appears to be the shards of glass that once constructed a top to the bottle he's cradling.
He lifts the bottle with its broken top and tips it, leaning his head back and allowing some of the liquid to fall through the holes of his hockey mask while his lips are protected from the sharp glass. He swishes the small amount that makes its way into his mouth and then swallows hard. He positions himself in front of the folding chair and allows his body to crash down into a seated position as the label on the bottle is revealed as Jameson's Irish Whiskey.
He holds the bottle in one hand as his other hand twiddles an object in his jacket pocket. The form of a fist can be made out through the pocket of that jacket as he compresses the unknown object in his hand.
:MM 17 31707 1: Fear not, children -- for I've got quite the show planned for you this week. Before we get to my feature presentation though, I felt I should address the bungling nincompoop who is already licking the King Of XWF Crown clean for me. That's right -- Mister Mystery 17 31707 1.
He leans back in the chair as his weight causes the steel to creek and stretch ever so slightly; a small sound in most comparisons but in this empty warehouse it seemed to echo on for miles and miles.
:MM 17 31707 1: My dear Mister Mystery -- I'd like to grant your request to use only the simplest of words so that your already twisted mind doesn't contort into a sponge like spiral and squeeze the last remaining drops of intelligence out of your nostrils and down the lower half of that mask we're all thanking god on a regular basis that you are wearing. I'd hate to be responsible for your aneurism before you can even make it into Gauntlet City. You claimed that when I use a word too complex for you to understand that you don't find yourself running to your dictionary, but instead you send your remote control through your television? I'd venture to say that you can't even accomplish that much. That object you're throwing through your television is most likely Sid Feder; your personal "remote control" that's been helping you along ever since Donathan stopped guiding your every step this week. Do you actually expect me to believe you can operate something as complicated as a television remote? Those have words on them, you ignoramus! More importantly than that, they often times have different colors and occasionally -- depending on how cheap they are -- have to be pointed directly at a censor on whatever device they're intended to control. You expect me to believe that between your bumbling, incoherent nonsense and your roid rages that you would even recognize a remote control, let alone have one in your hand while watching my promos? That would suggest you turned it on yourself.
I don't buy it.
He swishes the whiskey around in the bottle a few times as he remains still. You can hear Sid Feder whispering off camera to him-
:3 x Better: Alright next was the part where he started wasting time insulting me instead of talking about you. You know -- same shit, different moron. Skip right past all that and brag about how you're not uncreative enough to do what every other superstar is doing and bringing up Cyren.
Mister Mystery nods and then takes in some whiskey through the holes of his mask and even pours some of it on top of his head like he's bathing in it.
:MM 17 31707 1: This is the first I've cleansed myself since my loss by your hand, Mister Mystery. I've been wallowing in my own filth and thinking about all the things I could say about Sid Feder to deter the fact that you pinned me, but then I realized I'm a much smarter man than to do what the others have been doing. Why would I waste my time talking about Sid when he has effectively become nothing more than a side-character in your productions? You're the one who I'm going to enjoy extracting revenge from the same way Donathan was extracting every last ounce of your self worth all these weeks.
Hell; I could even sit here and degrade myself by turning to everyone's favorite throwing stone -- Cyren -- but I'm too smart for that. I had actually thought up a verbal onslaught which, between my mentions of Cyren's escapades and my three minute pauses between sentences, was going to take up about fifteen minutes of this promo. You know what though? I'm Three Times Better than that because I can kill both of the aforementioned stones with one bird.
You heard that right. There was no stutter -- no error in that line. I need not sit here rambling on and on about Sid Feder or making comparisons between you and Cyren.
All I need to do?
Wait for it. This is me pausing.
Pausing again.
Pausing between pauses.
All I need to do?
Is.
Compare you directly to Sid Feder -- the very man who came stomping his way through the ranks of the XWF and then-
-and then-
-what? What then? He finally opened his big mouth when he shouldn't have, got backed into a corner he couldn't escape, and fell victim to one of the lowest ranking members of the entire roster. Even John Madison could not put him down but Benjamin Crane sure did.
That's you, Mystery. That's your bloodline. That's your heritage. You'll suffer from the same disease as your screaming, belligerent relative did. Gain so much steam that you run right off the tracks and crash at the feet of the first j o b b e r who comes trailing along. For Sid it was Craine; maybe for you it can be John Black. He's on a roll after all -- he did just beat the "legend" known as Cyren.
See how all I need to do is tell you to look at the man standing beside you at all times in order to show you your own future?
I am pausing again.
See it?
Pausing again for you to take it in. Take it.
Accept the fact that you -- much like Sid Feder -- won't even manage to cash in that briefcase before your time runs out. A guaranteed championship right there at your finger tips but you'll be long forgotten when yet another member of the Feder family comes walking along to claim the briefcase. Then, that person can wear pantyhose over their face and pretend to be "Sid" and then pretend to be "Mister Mystery" all while rising up the ranks juuuust high enough so that we are all guaranteed to see his or her fall -- and even those who are too bored to watch, will be able to hear the splash.
Sid Feder can be heard off camera.
:3 x Better: You're a dick!
Mystery as Flynn, laughs.
He pauses.
:MM 17 31707 1: Even my production crew can't take my words to you, Mystery.
I pause.
There, the scene awkwardly trails on for a few minutes even after the pause.
Everyone pauses.
Whatever's next must be something worth pausing for.
Oh my god-
He clicks his tongue.
The next click comes from the lighter he had in his pocket this whole time. He just ignited his entire head! The flames shoot down his body and race off screen where they cause an explosion.
The warehouse and everyone in it explodes -- a sky high mushroom cloud rises up as the front of the hockey mask can almost be made out within it.
The sound of a tongue clicking is heard but then that tongue is seen flying through the air away from the blast site.
If only this could have been how Mark Flynn's real promo actually ended.
![[Image: oqhyzp.png]](http://i43.tinypic.com/oqhyzp.png)
![[-]](https://xwf99.com/images/portal2/collapse.gif)
