"How about you start slow, ease them back into it?" asks a familiar voice from beyond the abyss.

One beat passes.

Then another.

And a third.

"How the fuck are you still employed?" speaks another voice in response, this one cold. Distant. Unrecognizable under a layer of thick obfuscation and distortion.

"That's the secret, I'm not. They just forgot to cut me from payroll."

"Call it a college fund," the second voice says with a mirthless, hacking chuckle.

"Two steps ahead of you there."

"As always."

"Now, out with it."

"Pushy."

"As always."

---

It started with a phone call and a payment. An undisclosed amount in an inconspicuous bank account in Cyprus. That's how it always starts, ain't it? The prelude to any Hired Gun sighting is a Gun being hired. It's not fucking rocket surgery. But maybe in the interest of making sure shit is spelled out so we can go back and mock the collective intelligence of anyone who wants it to go another way, I should be as blunt as I possibly can be.

Fuck Red X. Fuck Brian Storm. Fuck Kieran Overton. And especially fuck Phantom Panzer. This is not their match. This is not about them. They're the ragtag bunch of lovable losers tossed at our feet like table scraps in the vain hope to satiate our collective hunger. Despite their complete and utter destruction being the endgame for this match, they could not be, both individually or as a group, more irrelevant to its outcome. So I'm not going to talk about them. Not specifically. I hope you enjoyed the vitriol, gang. That's all you're getting. Because this match is not about your charming attempts at coming together to defeat the four of us, to conquer this impossible challenge, to scale Everest, to walk on the moon, to make it another goddamn day without putting a gun in your mouth.

It's about the doom that came to Sarnath, motherfuckers. It's about the cutting of the Gordian Knot. Pandora's box is open, nerds, and as it turns out: hope machine's broke. Read 'em and fuckin' weep, when you got enemies like this, friends are useless. And it's real goddamn Comanche hours R-N.

Look at the team you're being fed to, you absolute chumps. Let that realization sink in as you picture the men who are going to be on the other side of the ring and tell me how fucking confident you are.

You got Gilly tha motherfuckin' GAWD staring you down. The man that death forgot. The man who has weathered every fucking attack lodged against him, physical or otherwise, and used it as fuel to get what he wants. Most of the fuckin' tough guys in this business would have folded up or literally died if they took half the abuse that Peter does every time he steps between the ropes. Fuck that, every time he gets out of bed in the morning. Truth be told, Gilly's the OG Comanche boi, knows better than fuckin' anyone what it means to be the enemy of everyone.

He's the measuring stick anyone wanting to be successful in this business is held up to. The question is "can you beat Peter Gilmour"? That kinda notoriety, that kinda respect put on someone's name is a goddamn aura of immortality that most ham and eggers get crippled trying to acquire. And this fuckin' guy did it without trying. There ain't no bullshit you can spew, no disrespect you can put on his name that's gonna change the facts: 1 v 4, Gilly would fuckin' kill you. Gilly would push your shit in if there was an army of Brians and Panzers running around for the assist. 100 v 1 and Vegas makes the mob the biggest underdog since Buster Douglas and there ain't no Cinderella story in that fight.

Imagine what it's like when he has help.

Imagine what it's like when he has not just one, but a pair of Hired Guns.

Imagine my father, the OG Hired Gun swarming on you limp-dicked losers with the speed of a centipede. Fucking one man Wu-Tang Clan shitstomping all you curtain-jerking cowards back to whatever podunk, local-ass indy fed you were sharted out of. Imagine being the targets. Imagine someone, anyone, caring enough about y'all individually or as a group enough to sic the pair of us on you.

Now dead that shit, pussies. Because that isn't the case. That would make this about you, which we've already established isn't what's happening here.

But it does appear you're in our crosshairs after all. Collateral damage, truly. That's all chumps like you will ever amount to being. Collateral. The unexpected, unintended, unforeseen, and thoroughly insignificant consequences that result from waking us from the dead and unleashing us back upon this world.

Maybe that's the thing that you might be struggling to understand. To comprehend. To you, hearing me say that is like lye on a skinned knee. It's bulletin board material. You're dreaming of making me eat my words, you're fuckin' jerkin' it to the thought, ain't you?

To you, this match is about knocking off someone like Gilly. Overcoming the unthinkable in not one, but two Hired Guns (a true anomaly), and sticking it to Shane (who we haven't even gotten to yet, but it's coming). This match is important. It's a career-defining moment. You see yourselves at the crossroads, ready to take that next step.

Meanwhile, we're shooting fish in a barrel. You should read our WhatsApp group chat, we're literally planning your funerals. Shane's thinking of splurging for a real nice flower arrangement; we're telling him to save his wallet. This match is a formality. This match is meaningless. It's my goddamn cardio routine for the twenty-ninth.

There's the difference. You look at this like it's make or break, when really there's only one option. Break, or break. That's how it goes. That's how it always goes when you have people like us involved. The unbreakable iron will of Peter Gilmour. The crafty, compensated ultraviolence of the Hired Gun family business. And the perverted, unparalleled brilliance of one Shane .

The OG Hired Gun may be my father, but Shane is my daddy. And let me tell ya, that Electra Complex is something fierce. There's a connection between us, an immutable bond that stretches far beyond the confines of personas and affiliations. That man saved my goddamn life. He saw something in me that no one else would admit. And he molded me into what I am today.

A perfect.

Living.

Weapon.

A true, dyed-in-the-wool Hired Gun.

So let me backtrack. I said this started the way it always does, right? Phone call and a payment? That part is true, but I left something out, didn't think it really fit until right now. Here's a stark confession: I would have done this for free.

So, there. That's what this is for me. A chance to pay shit back in full (and I'm still profiting off that, this that beast mode, chessmaster shit half y'all wannabe intellectuals strive for). Four disparate wrestlers are gonna stare me down on the twenty-ninth, trying to suss out any fear beneath the mask because they're deluded enough to think they got that intimidating presence.

And one by one they're going to be dismantled.

Don't worry, though: it'll be over soon.

Just have faith.