We see Corey Smith as he tentatively approaches a door deep in the bowels of XWF headquarters. Helpfully, the door bears the placard Vincent Lane: Official New Owner of the XWF, alongside a barrage of glittery stars.

That was fast.

Corey takes a breath, collecting himself a moment. He's never come face to face with Vincent Lane. And knowing how first impressions could be make or break, the weight bearing down on him was rather high. Plus, there was that whole “about to ask for a million dollars” thing. Corey raises his hand and wraps on the door a few times. A voice calls out from within.

Executive time, come back in 30!

Corey pulls his hand back, shrugs, and turns to leave. But he's stopped short by the door being opened by Mr. Lane himself. Just messin' with you. I got a shit ton of paperwork to do to finalize the transition of power here and good GOD do I need a distraction. Come in. But don't touch anything.

Lux nods affirmatively and follows the boss in, immediately taking in the walls of hair metal and rock and roll memorabilia lining almost every bit of open space in the office. Lane's desk looked ready to collapse under the weight of piles and piles of documents, file folders, and the like. Corey looks down at his own manila folder, and immediately doesn't like his chances.

Vincent pulls his chair out from behind the mountain of dead trees. It's a massage chair, which he turns on and plants himself down in. Vibrating as he speaks, he kicks out his legs and crosses his ankles. 'Sup dude.... Lane quirks an eyebrow. ….dudette?

It's Corey today, sir! Sorry, I know it's confusing. Corey stops speaking, and offers up a nervous chuckle. Vinnie looks at Corey inquisitively. Corey returns the look as a pregnant pause opens between them.

, uhhhhh...?

Oh yeah! Sorry! Corey pulls out his manilla folder, which he had been carrying pressed under his arm pit. I see you already have a lot to do, so if you need to wait...

It's all good. What is it?

Well.... Corey swallows. …..it's a requisition for “Fuck You” Promo Money, sir. Corey stammers out nervously.

Lane sits back in his chair, his expression an almost inscrutable combination of surprise and mild annoyance. How long have you been here?

About two months, sir.

Picking himself up out of the massage chair, the boss comes over to Corey and takes the folder from him. He pulls out the requisition form (Form XWF-FUK$$$-01 if you're interested) and looks it over. Then, raising his eyes to consider Corey again he speaks in a mildly accusatory tone. Who told you about this?

Corey again “gulps” nervously. I swore I wouldn't tell. Sir!

Lane sighs. Goddamn, all these old farts hanging around again giving the rookies fresh ideas. Alright, listen kid.... Lane slips the papers back into the folder and presses it into Corey's chest. “Fuck You” Promo Money, officially speaking, isn't supposed to exist. But when it does magically spring into existence, it's reserved for guys and gals who have been around for a spell, you feel me?

Corey takes the folder. I understand, sir! I knew it was a long shot, but I had to take it. It's cool if you can't...

Oh, you can have the money.

I....wait, what? Corey double takes. Did you just say I can have the money?

I did. New administration. New rules. Plus people seem to like you. But if you tell anyone else about “Fuck You” promo money I'm booking you against Kid Kool for, like, a month.

The young man salutes smartly. Understood!

Follow me. Vincent Lane steps over to the left hand wall of his office, and then, grabbing the handle of a bright orange guitar affixed there, he pulls downward. The wall swings inward, revealing a dark passage just behind it. Corey walks up to it and marvels.

Wow. This place just gets weirder and weirder.

You don't know the half of it, dude. I'm STILL finding creepy old tunnels from the Brown administration! Come on. Lane steps through the hidden passage way with Corey in tow. They appear at the top of a musty spiral staircase. A candelabra is affixed to the wall, which Lane scoops up to light their way.



These stairs are another thing you can never tell anyone about. OSHA would have a shit fit. Watch your step.

Corey dutifully follows the boss down the expansive spiral of steps. It feels like they had been walking for damn near forever when they finally reach the bottom. Lane proceeds for a few moments longer down a watery subterranean corridor, holding the candelabra aloft and peeling back spider webs before they become entangled in his blond locks. Reaching the end of the corridor, they finally come face to face with an archaic looking vault that nonetheless has a very modern looking keypad embedded in it. Lane goes to the key pad and Corey follows him up, until Lane casts a suspicious slant eyed glare back at him. Taking the hint, Corey gives the boss some space, but Lane still insists on cupping his hand over the key pad to shield it as he punches in the numbers.


Corey's face twists up in bemusement.

Lane is still punching in numbers.


Are they all “one”?

Don't break my concentration!

Sorry.

The vault pops open with a clank that races down the empty cavernous corridor. Gripping the edge of the vault door, he muscles it the rest of the way open, revealing the contents in all their glory. Corey immediately covers his face with his shirt sleeve. Oh, God...what the hell?!

Lane pulls a surgical mask out of his back pocket and pulls it down over his face. Yeah, sorry, forgot to warn you about Shane's collection. Uhhh, try real hard not to knock any of them over. Vinnie takes the first cautious step into the vault, stepping up and over the ball jars full of liquid shit lining the entrance and a good five feet into the vault. Corey carefully follows suit, sleeve pressed against his nose and mouth to ward off the stench. Stepping in Lane's wake, he makes it past this obstacle and further into the vault. They reach a second large metal door, this one thankfully without a key code, which Lane also opens. Corey slips inside with Lane, who then closes the door over to give them a reprieve from the smell.

Oh thank God clean air....whoaaaaaa.....Corey's eyes open wide as he takes in what is before him.



Vincent Lane walks up to the mountain of cash, scoops up a handful of it, and presents it to Corey. One million dollars in “Fuck You” Promo money. Go forth. Be fruitful. And most of all, be funny.

Taking the money in quivering hands, the boy can't help but marvel at it. I've never...

I get it dude. It was pretty rad my first time too. He glances at his watch. Hey, I still got some time to kill. You wanna check out the Contract Room down here? We like to keep Peter Gilmour's contract hanging from the ceiling over a giant industrial shredder, and then we shoot Nerf guns at it.

Corey shrugs as he pockets the cash. I'm game!


Sarah...Sarah....Sarah....it' a shame you didn't stick it out in fantasy land. You really were quite a bit more interesting as a vampire. But hey, Corey says “jump” and you say “how high”. Glad to see you're actually bothering to wade into the deep end and give yourself a little depth. It's fun over here, you should try it more often. Like 100% more often, because what you spend the vast majority of your time doing is...quite frankly gross.


You're still trying to play things off like you're some kind of irrefutable cultural monolith. An indispensable piece of the fabric of the XWF, inspiring your legions of fans with hopeful messages such as “be rich and pretty” and “box, tag, and wholesale every bit of your existence”. But you have been grossly misreading the tea leaves, you think you're some kind of inspiration but in reality the whole of American culture is getting sick of your shit. Just because you try now to put a meaningful gloss of childhood mental illness on your life (you're welcome, for pushing you to do that by the by) the whole idle rich egomaniac thing is just so utterly tiresome. Do you pay even an iota of attention to what goes on outside the mirror you're constantly holding up to your own face? College admissions scandals proving the notion of meritocracy is dead and buried. Growing income inequality. A president with the intellectual curiosity of a toddler picking shit out of it's own ass and smearing it on the wall. The country is in the grip of a deep ennui due to the soul deadening culture people like you proliferate, and the crushing grind of having to work for wages out of step with their labor. And as payment for all of that? They get to turn the TV on to you sitting over an expensive dinner and get choked with gross reminders that there's a clam bake in your near future, because God forbid we forget for even one fucking SECOND that yes, YOU ARE A LESBIAN, and yes, YOU HAVE SEX. They get to turn on the TV and see you wax on about how Daddsy sent you around the world for training. They get to see you navel gazing with a massively expensive blank slate sounding board...err....psychiatrist, as you went with the old tried and true “therapy jam session as shoot” as though that has never, ever been done before. But I guess in your case it lets you sneak out the back door so you don't have to discuss anything even remotely meaningful. Good to see you're just as shallow in your “personal” life as you are on the teevee.

For someone as media savvy as you are, how are you missing the boat so hard?

And you know, I don't like getting political. THAT is dull. But because you're so unaccustomed to the reality of everyday experience it seems like you were in dire need of a primer. It also serves as a big part of the explanation for why I do what I do.

Unfortunately, your arm chair psychoanalysis is, like most of the bile that comes tripping out past your lips like so much over-heated schizophrenic word salad, wrong. I'm NOT crazy. And even if I were, I'm sure pointing it out will do just as much for you as it did for Mastermind. IE. Abso-fucking-lutely zilch.
I know this may be tough for you to see, seeing as how you are an irredeemable cesspit of self-referential egomania, but not everyone spends the majority of their lives falling into their own fantasy worlds. I'll say this nice and slow for you, because I'm sure it stands quite outside the bounds of your ability to understand buuuut.....

Not. Everyone. Is. Like. You.

You dealt with oppressive trauma and the deadly scourge of albinism by concocting an elaborate vampire fantasy world where you treat your servants like shit (Dolly are you taking notes). Awesome. Even in your delusions you completely set yourself apart from the common people and can't stop crawling up your own ass. Glad to see you're so consistent. Also, it gets a big old “LOL” from me that even your “dire” medical conditions reek of nouveau rich privilege. Albinism. The NEW cancer. “Oh for the love of Christ I tan really hard and have to wear some goop on my skin to go outside, time to completely indulge in borderline sociopathic delusion and totally withdraw from reality.” And you say MY mental health is tenuous?! SUN BURN MADE YOUNG SARAH LOSE HER GODDAMN MIND. Despite your difference you still had friends! You were a cheerleader, so you can't even blame social isolation for it. Nope, it was just “I gotta take extra precautions in the sun equals mental breakdown and years of therapy.” Jesus but you are a tender snowflake. And I'll be damned if I'm going to accept a quack diagnosis from someone like you when you have a proven track record of not being able to keep your own shit straight in the face of the barest of adversities.


So, back to “why I do what I do.” Well for starters, because I have some semblance of understanding of what it's like to be a real person with real concerns, I don't throw it in people's faces what I have that they don't because it's extremely fucking douchey. So I tell them a story of hope. I tell them a story of two people from completely different backgrounds growing together, coming together to fight the same forces of existential dread that so many Americans, especially young Americans, feel in smaller ways every day of their lives. I provide entertainment that refuses to accept the boundaries of what the XWF is and instead push it into the realm of “what could be.” Just because you have the imaginative capabilities of dish water (well, when you're not trying to escape your own pain. YOU. YOU. YOU. there it is again), doesn't mean that I need to hinder myself the same way. See, unlike you I CHOOSE to actually entertain the people who spend their free time watching and supporting me. I choose to actually give back to the people who spend their hard earned money watching our shows and buying our merch. I give them every ounce of creative energy and passion I have to not only entertain them in the ring, but outside of it as well. And I'm not the only one who does, either! You act like this is some new concept. Look at Game Girl. Look at the legions of champions past and present who pulled the dual role of being an ass kicker and a story teller. Just because you BLOW at it, doesn't mean the rest of us need to drag ourselves down to your petty self-indulgent level.

The world doesn't need a socialite who wilts under the sun. It needs hope. It needs a distraction that doesn't remind themselves of what they don't have 24/7. A distraction that doesn't make them feel inferior because they can't possibly compare to your new sports car, or your impossibly beautiful wife, or whatever gorgeous tropical location you decided to piss off to today because you're wealthy enough to do it (but don't forget your goop). Because things really are tough out there. You say I'm boring? No, I'm pretty sure the definition of boring is watching your trifling ass eat an expensive dinner while we're peppered with unsubtle innuendo's, bludgeoning us with“OMG I'M A SEXY LESBIAN WHO HAS SEX LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE” yet AGAIN. I'm pretty sure boring is your incessant media overexposure. I'm pretty sure boring is your effete disregard for everyone who is NOT YOU. I'm pretty sure boring is your relentless vomit stew of haughty “I'm just so much better than EVERYONE” drivel day in and day out. I'm pretty sure boring is a grown ass adult woman who still talks like a 13 year old as though that's some unique example of a character defining trait when in reality the time clock ran out on that hours ago and honey you're still just allotted Warhol's 15! CLUELESS CALLED FROM WAY BACK IN 1995 and...well, honestly it doesn't want you back all that much.....

Which leads me to my final victory lap. Sarah wants to know where the wrestling is.

It's.

Right.

Here.

It's right here packaged in a cute, but not intimidatingly so, 17 year old spitfire who kicks the souls right up outta people's bodies. But 'lo, what's this? Sarah Lacklan has a secret weapon. Many of them in fact. But the biggest one?

This. Bitch. Gets. Up.

Mind. Blown.

I HAVE LITERALLY NEVER HAD SOMEONE GET UP IN ONE OF MY MATCHES OH GAWD HALP!

**Laughs**

Actually, by my rough count my opponents so far have gotten up about 42 collective times. At which point I continued to take the fight to them and ended up kicking most of them until they stopped moving. Vita's the only exception and that's because she's pretty damn good and I kinda maybe was trying to hide a chub the whole time. Rest assured, that won't be an issue against your painfully vanilla ass. Oh, but that's not all! You see Mary Sue Lacklan's daddy's paid for her to be trained by all the most elite ninja masters around the world, so she knows multiple styles. Sweet.

You do realize there are multiple styles of strike based martial arts, right? I'd humble brag into saying “I know a few” but I think that's pretty clear. But oh-oh...she of the silver spoon knows how to GRAPPLE! And it's true, generally speaking, I don't bother with grappling. You know why? Because it would be dumb. I know I'm far from the biggest dog in the yard, so why in Allah's name would I want to focus on a style that requires me to try to get in close and overpower a dude like twice my size? Now, I don't know what your experience is with deadlifting 300 pounders, but it's actually kinda hard at a buck fifty much less at your buck thirty five. Now maybe you come from one of those crazy feds that has an invisible pulley system in place that allows people like you to powerbomb Brock Stronglarge on the regular (talk about stretching credibility), but for those of us with real fight experience we play to our strengths. And mine are that I'm fast, and I hit hard. And I dare say, it works pretty well for me. So far in my short career here I have deftly managed to fight a number of different styles which is a fact that you simply cannot deny. Which reminds me, I want to give a shout out to you for outing yourself as a fellow traveler from the future. Because you know precisely how this match is going to turn out: a scenario where I conveniently look hilariously completely incompetent which is supported by absolutely none of my fight performances thus far. I didn't realize it was possible to build an entire field of straw men in such a short period of time, but there you go.

Also, thanks for reminding me I lost my first match. I had ALMOST forgotten. It is kind of brutal though, being as my entire career is just sitting out there ripe for the picking. Unfortunately for me, your career is mostly behind closed doors as it's played out in other promotions. So a big, big thank you for giving me some insight into it. Now, let me get this straight. You're going to pop off on me for losing my first match in my rookie year, all the while telling us you're definitely going to win this tournament WHILE you tell us about all the other tournaments where you **whoop**GOT TO THE FINALS **whoop**, but ultimately didn't cinch it. Like that's anything but proof that when the chips are down and it really matters you can't get it done four out of five times. Does that particular criticism sound familiar? Think hard. Also, I like how you blamed your rookie status for losing those tournaments while you were preemptively apologizing for yourself, but can't offer me the same consideration. Eh, tomato tomatoe I suppose.

But that XWF record 'doe! That's what really counts. And you have just been so-SO dominant in this tournament so far! Clearly front-runner status, with the rest of us picking off scrubs on our way to the finals like a hillbilly shooting buck shot at half- trash pandas. Yes almighty Sarah, who so smote Eli....pulled A Cadryn and ain't done shit for the last year....James, and, wait....what's this? DONOVAN BLACKWATER?! THE TELEVISION CHAMPION, YOU BEAT HIM?! Que problema! Man, I can't touch that! I..feel some tears coming on.....I....I just might cry....

Actually, raincheck on the waterworks. I beat Mastermind. Like, last round. You know Mastermind. The guy you blithely wrote off and glossed over. Yeah, turns out he's like the second longest reigning TV Champ of all time. I mean, sure, I ragged on the guy pretty hard. But it turns out he's actually pretty good. Sooooo...yeah.

I'm sorry, what were you saying about your epic tier momentum in this tournament so far?

I get it Sarah. This is what we're supposed to do. We're supposed to undercut each other at every turn and sell the world on why this is gonna be a lock for the one doing the talking. And you come across as very, very confident. But you know, deep down in that plastic heart of hearts of yours, that this is in no way, shape, or form, going to be easy for you. YOU KNOW THAT. And I don't think you were expecting to have someone run the fight back to you this hard in the arena that you usually own: talking. So let me break through that rush of anxiety you're feeling and sum this up for you. Those feelings you think I need to be afraid of? That popping of joints. That rending of flesh and bone. Oh my sweet vanilla princess, that only happens IF I LET YOU. Which I won't, because I am far, faster, far more efficient, and far deadlier in that ring that you will allow yourself to see. Kick. Fade. Wash. Repeat. And before long, that waifish, toneless 135 (tha'ts 1-3-5, dear LORD) pound super duper featherweight body of yours will start to break down under the strain of all those lightning fast kicks and probably also the sun.

Bring your SPF girl. You're gonna need it.

Wait, wait, wait! Don't shut off that camera. Sarah, did you know that there are two whole other threats left in this tournament? I mean, I did anyway.

Dolly, the silent treatment's starting to weird me out. You got a love of trash talk like a Catholic priest's got a love of dark, sound proof confessionals. So either you are preparing one monster of a clap back for all of us scrubs, or the “pressure” (heh) is starting to get to you. Sarah and I have clearly pulled this one up and above the foregone conclusion that is the Universal title match in the hype department, we're just waiting for you to join the party. Please bring moonshine. I know you got some.

Okay...okay....you're definitely fighting the good fight. Graves is disgusting sleeze and absolutely needs to be shown the door. But don't you think you've bit off a bit more than you can chew? You're staring directly down the barrel of THREE potential matches at March Madness. THREE. I don't even think Dime Store Year One Batman Sarah Lacklan could handle all that, even with her montage of world hopping fight training sessions. And it's kind of stupefying why you would do this to yourself given you stated desire for the Universal championship. I mean, yeah, I'm new, but isn't a 24/7 briefcase basically a contra code for winning that title? Why are you stacking the deck against yourself? Do you actually want to be on top?

I'm gonna yoink a talking point from Game Girl for a moment. You very publicly blamed management for not getting a shot at the Universal Championship. But when I looked back at your history I expected amazing and what I found was...well....inconsistent. You've had an active contract for how long, and yet were only in active competition for part of that time. Your track record seems to be a series of false starts and abrupt stops. And I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Cadryn weeks back. Inconsistency does not a legacy make. If you want it you need to buckle down and commit. You're good, and you've been recognized for that in the past with championships and awards. But if I was management I'd sure as hell be gun shy about pushing you into the spotlight given your recent resume.

Now please roast me for giving you a pep talk instead of telling you how much you suck. There's something about seeing that innocent looking face of yours pop up on my screen, chew cud, and verbally gut people that just fills my day with unfettered joy.

And finally, last (I'm SORRY)....we have Game Girl. Game Girl, who I gotta say shocked me with this little diddy!

Quote:"Finally, Lux. Can't wait to talk to you too. Maybe next time you'll actually have the balls to say what you feel instead of tucking them up inside yourself to play your better half."

Yikes! And here I thought you were Rated E! You know what though, that's on me. It was probably kind of patronizing of me to ascribe innocence to a grown woman and a fierce competitor like you. So allow me to rectify that.

The hard reality of your situation is that you're the underdog in this match by many of Dolly's country miles. Which is really saying something considering that two of the competitors in this match can't even legally buy alcohol. Actually, can YOU buy alcohol? Anyway...in the smoky back rooms at OTB precious few people are letting it ride on you. And while you did get in some good dings on Dolly and, well, pretty much just rehashed the savage dunking I've been laying on Sarah, you're not making a great case as to why it's your time.

I'm not gonna pull a Sarah and accuse you of being delusional or any of that dumb shit. I like your world, and I hope it's real. The XWF is absolutely big enough for competitors like you, and frankly we need more people who aren't afraid to push the boundaries of what is possible. But as fun as you are, I'm just not FEELING it. That tingle in my bones that screams “Oh shit, she's the one.” It's HER time. I'm hosed. I don't feel it. Okay, I'm a little biased. I really want to win that briefcase so I can cash in hard on Kid Kool the next time he rolls somebody up for the Federweight and rub it right in his bleached blond face. But I dare say my assessment is pretty objective, because nobody else is talking about you. Sarah seems to have written you right off (she's kinda dumb though), and all that chatter in the back is sans YOU with regard to the tournament finals. Now sure, that's just talk. But maybe you're going to want to take a long critical look at why there is so much of that talk. And how you can grab this thing by the balls and turn it around.

Damn it, I'm doing pep talks again!

Okay, okay, I'm gonna wrap this up before I get reprimanded for all this playing nice. But don't worry kids, I got plenty more in store! And I am contractually obligated not to reveal how or why it's going to happen. So no worries there, Mr. Lane.

…...

Fuck.