In Corey Smith’s brief time as a multimillionaire, he was coming to discover the vast array of things his fortune could procure. In this case, it had netted he and R.L. Edgar private usage of a small Italian gym for an entire week. A worldwide pandemic no doubt had something to do with the acquisition, but be that as it may, it was the epitome of a “right day, right time” situation.

As we close in on the gym’s interior, in the near distance we can make out the sounds of exertion. Panning over the various pieces of gym equipment, we finally rest on a boxing ring containing Corey and R.L. They’re both sodden with sweat and the tribulations of a day’s hard work were evident on their strained features.

R. L. presently had Corey in a rear waist lock. Corey dextrously escapes and performs his own. R.L. reaches over to try and pull Corey down into a headlock, but Corey deftly avoids it and pushes R.L. into the ropes. R.L. uses the momentum to break into a run, and he tries to flatten Corey with a clothesline on the rebound. Corey bridges underneath his partner’s beefy arm, and R.L. continues to let the momentum carry him into the ropes on the opposite side. But, Corey had planned for this and goes for a snap dropkick on his partner as he careens back towards him. R.L. had clearly done some planning of his own, swatting the smaller man out of the air while simultaneously taking hold of his right leg. Corey hit the canvas and R.L. wasted no time floating over him and syncing in a tight single leg boston crab. Corey tapped quickly, and R.L. broke the hold, standing upright and panting a bit. He uses his forearm to clear the sweat from his forehead as Corey too picks himself up off the canvas.

Corey pats R.L. on the shoulder, his smile all pearly whites. That was damn good, using your size and strength against me. And the transition into the single leg was poetry.

R.L. allows himself the shadow of a smile as he sits down in the corner, taking hold of his water bottle and sprintzing a bit of it over his hair before sipping from it. You’re not doing any of us any favors by sugar coating it.

Corey follows suit, dipping down into an indian style position and grabbing at his own bottle. I’m not sugar coating anything, man. That WAS good. I mean, look,am I ready to deem you technical wrestler of the year? No. But you have talent. You got the basics and a bit more. And, more than all that the INSTINCT is in there. He points at R.L. for emphasis.

So what am I missing?

Confidence. Corey speaks the word simply, but imperatively.

Story of my life. He bumps the back of his head against the turnbuckle, a small mirthless smile working it’s way onto his lips.

I saw your first promo, and right out of the gate you framed this as me having to hold your hand. You pumped the breaks before you even put it in drive, man.

Am I wrong?

Yes.

R.L. looks at Corey, surprised at his utter forthrightness.

You ARE wrong. He repeats it, for emphasis. You try to get out ahead of your own failures, and in so doing, you create a self fulfilling prophecy.

The bigger man chuckles. What self help book did you take that one from?

Corey stops, looking contemplative. Probably Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. BUT! It holds true, my friend! YOU are your biggest obstacle. So knock it off and come kick my ass.

You’re not taking it easy on me, are you?

No! I’ll kick you in the dick this time.

R.L. chuckles as he rises back up with a playful, prolonged grunt of exertion.

In short order, he and Corey lock up. R.L. goes for an arm drag but Corey flips over and lands on his feet. In a flash, he goes to level Edgar with a high, and quite deadly, roundhouse kick. R.L. barely ducks back to avoid it, permitting a small whistle. You’re not fuckin’ around.

Wordlessly, Corey sweeps low, crashing into R.L.’s ankles and dropping him to the mat. The man’s breath rushes out past his lips with a surprised gasp, and he regains control just in time to see Corey launch himself into a standing moonsault. R.L.’s eyes widen, and he moves to roll out of the way. He mostly clears himself from the impact zone, catching only Corey’s arm on his shoulder, which still stung a bit and made him thankful for narrowly avoiding the full experience. R.L. kept rolling until he got to the ropes. Corey, recovered, charges at him. R.L. gets his weight up and under the smaller man and tosses him up and over the top rope. But Corey lands on his feet and just as R.L. turns around, Corey takes hold of his head and goes to garrote him on the top rope. R.L. brings his right arm down out of pure base instinct in a chopping motion, carving Corey’s forearms away. Shocked, Corey nearly loses his balance, teetering on the edge of the ring apron. R.L. gives him the shove that clinches his destiny, sending Corey sprawling to the floor.

R.L. leans over on the top rope, panting a bit but seeming satisfied. Corey sits up, a bit of a pained wince cutting into his expression, and he flashes his partner a thumbs up. Good he intones, allowing some breath to refill his lungs.

Thanks. Keeping it brief, just the same.

Corey shifted up to his feet, dusting off his gear, before casting his glance back up at R.L. Been thinking of names for that bigass elbow drop you do.

Oh yeah? How ‘bout “bigass elbow drop”?

Eeeeehhhh. Corey wiggles his hand in the air, the universal symbol for “pretty lackluster”. To borrow a friend of mine’s parlance, I think we need to “sex it up a bit”.

Like, a “sexy elbow drop”? I can gyrate my hips a bit before I do it. He does so, gesturing down at the display and lifting his eyebrows a few times.

Corey smirks and points at him. You have the gift of a CIS white man’s rhythm, my friend. But that needn’t stop you. Hmmmm….how about the Shatterpoint?

He narrows his eyes at Corey, looking unconvinced. Sounds like a Tom Clancy novel.

Ah, ‘you right. Corey rolls back in the ring, and he clambers up to a vantage point on the top rope, continuing to mull it over. How about The Savage Land? Pays tribute to the man himself while sprinkling it with your own distinctive flavoring?

R.L. smiles, playfully waving Corey off in a mock dismissive way. He grabs up his water bottle again and takes another draught from it before continuing. Who trained you anyway? Been meaning to ask.

Lux.

R.L. nods slowly, the influx of half serious doubtfulness made clear. You mean the lady that used to live in your head?

Corey pauses a bit before replying. More or less. Well, actually….more. It’s….uhhhh….a lot…..

Uh huh. I gather. So, are YOU from the future too?

The boy winces, leaning back a bit on his perch. Yeah...kind of. But I’m not as “from the future” as Lux was. There is actually a version of me that exists on THIS time line, but he’s in like second grade at this point.

R.L. face goes slack. So you ARE a time traveler?

Corey’s expression is still somewhat pained. I mean….I guess? But I didn’t travel in time per se, Lux did. In MY body. Corey suddenly smiles and claps his hands together in a painfully obvious attempt at changing the subject. How about we do wristlock counters?!

But R.L. is dogged. How about we talk more about your crazy ass life! His tone is playful, but it’s gilded with a sincere desire for knowledge. Look man, I’m a simple guy. I cotton to things I can feel and hear, and touch. Strum a guitar in a certain way, it either sounds like nothin’ or Smoke on the Water. I know what Fireball tastes like every time I order it. I know up’s the sky and down’s terra firma, and I kind of like my physics textbook and my time chronological. He sighs a bit through his nose. You, I struggle with. .

R.L. ponders these things while rubbing his chin, pulling in a suspicious twitch of the eye from Corey,

You know what I mean?

I do, actually, and you wouldn't be the first to struggle with me.

Assuming that Corey was lightheartedly alluding to his in-ring ability, R.L. chuckles,

Way to rub it in, dick.

Corey smiles,

Oh I wasn’t talking about kicking your ass, R.L.-

-you can call me Reggie, that’s what my friends call me

He responds with an endearing tone,

Reggie? I like that a helluva lot better than R.L.!

You and me both!

The two share a laugh, but Corey minces his down and gives his partner his long awaited context,

Essentially the conscious identities of a totalitarian antichrist-to-be and a resistance assassin waged war over my body after I time jumped here from a couple decades in the future.

”...”

There’s an awkward silence,

So yeah, even I struggle with it too, and your sense of knowing? The guitar? The cinnamon whiskey? The textbooks of the natural order and the practice of existentialism? I can’t say I don’t envy you for it…

R.L. gazes at Corey with a frozen shock etched across his face, but it doesn’t hold up for long as he slips into a sputtering laughter,

Ah! Fuck man!

He says with a point towards Corey and an enthused voice,

You really had me goin’ man! Fuck! You should be on broadway or some shit!

But Corey remains stoic. He waits a bit for his parter’s laughter to subside. It’s actually the truth. There was a splash of hurt there.

R.L. quickly extinguishes what’s left of his laughter, and he looks at Corey with a combination of awe and utter confusion. Taking stock of the boy’s sincerity, his entire demeanor changes. Jesus. You’re telling the truth. Or, at the very least, you’re telling what you think is the truth. He shakes his head, and then gestures back at him. Okay...okay….so what does that make you NOW? You say you’ve spent the better part of two years with two other...people….knocking around inside your head. And now they’re gone. His tone goes a little more quiet and contemplative. What’s left?

It’s a good question honestly. I guess the short answer is “Corey Smith”. But even before Lux came into my life, before the XWF, before the future and all it’s insanity….I didn’t like who Corey Smith was either. The boy averts his eyes, suddenly finding a spot on the canvas very interesting. That Corey was monstrous to his family, that Corey needed to load up his veins with poison because he was terrified of feeling. That Corey….he closes his eyes for a moment…..was the bad guy too. When he opens them and looks at R.L. they’re threatening tears. So I guess the long answer is that who I am now is a work in progress.

R.L. considers Corey again, feeling moved by his candor. Thank you for that. Probably the most honest thing I’ve heard in quite some time.

Corey breaks into a little laugh, and the threatening tears retreat. Yeah, well, I doubt I could come up with a lie as crazy, so might as well tell the truth! He holds his water bottle up. Cheers.

R.L. holds his aloft as well, pretending to “clink” it with Corey’s from across the ring. Cheers.

Now, I think that’s enough INTROspection for me. How about we do some EXTROspection!

I don’t believe that’s a word.

It’s not. But damn it I didn’t have a better transition planned. He points at the camera. R.L. “oh’s” silently. And Corey pops up to his feet, and hops down to the canvas, looking fixed on doing some serious damage.

Hey Lycana, nice to meet you again. Sorry I cut and ran the last time we met. I hope you didn’t take it personally. I mean, I have a certain je ne se quois to preserve and I was scared your brand of entertainment poison was contagious.

Wow, I have never seen someone crib a style as faithfully as you do. The style I’m referring to, of course, is “White Wolf: World of Darkness spinoff novel written by a hack author for a bus token and a Subway sandwich.” Damn girl, but you are SPOT ON! White Wolf, are you paying attention? The makings of your next shitty paperback are RIGHT here! You are missing out on TENS of dollars guys!

Look lady, it’s not that I don’t believe the unreal, the unearthly, or the supernatural exist. And contrary to what a certain dearly departed Universal Champion would admit, the very foundation of the XWF is built on the strange and unusual. From certified madman John Madison, to frenemy extraordinaire Dr. Louis DeVille, to the Blackwaters to, well, YOURS TRULY! Oddity abounds.

But here’s the thing….I don’t think you are what you say you are. I mean, I suppose somewhere out there is some string universe where something as utterly on the nose as you are is the real deal. But in this universe, I don’t buy it. Not even for a dollar. Because honey, it is quite possible to be TOO MUCH of something. And you are positively overflowing with something.

I mean, Christ almighty, from that painfully awkward (and yeah, I get it was SUPPOSED to be awkward, but I’m talking awkward for a whole different PHILUM of reasons here) opener where you exhibited your cast of utterly interchangeable, hoighty toighty British inflected Munsters, to….euughhh THE NAMES! Arcana?! Fenrir?! Rolfe?! I guess if they’re not gonna have discrete personalities aside from “obnoxious and vaguely spooky” then they should probably at least have BITCHIN’ RAD names right?! Be still my fan fiction writing heart!

Incidentally, I’m probably being too hard on Fenrir. He’s just an animal. Unless he’s a werewolf too? I don’t know I can’t be arsed to blah….blah...blah…..

Whatever, okay! WHATEVER! The point is, I cannot POSSIBLY take you seriously as a competitor, as an agent of the supernatural, or even as a THREAT because of just how PROSCRIBED all this shit is. It’s like your very existence is an assault on ingenuity to the point that I don’t think it’s even POSSIBLE to achieve that randomly. Which means only one thing.

You’re fake as fuck.

Fake. Fake. Fake. Faaaaaaake.

You know another reason I know you’re not the real deal? The whole obsession with pain thing. I mean, yeah, I know S&M and pain play is a real thing, but every once in a while even the most hardened Dom puts down the whip and ball gag and talks about the weather, you know what I mean? Oh, but not you. Nothing but pain, pain, pain 24/7. But you know what they say, right? It’s usually the people that talk most about it who aren’t ‘bout it ‘bout it! Thank you Redhook, and goodnight!

But seriously though, when one person’s kink is another person’s entire identity, you know you got problems. And this whole nonstop pain obsession with yours, isn’t it just a little bit juvenile? Doesn’t it speak to some fundamental lack of life experience? Because anybody who has ever experienced true pain, REAL pain, knows that it SUCKS. It’s not sexy, or chic, or cool. And deep down inside, you know that too. I mean, if pain really does knock your rocks around as well as you say it does, why not go all in? Chop off a couple fingers. Corey Mmmmmm’s sensually. Lop off a few toes. He gently bites his bottom lip and shoots a pouty look at the camera. Or fuck it, just take off a whole arm. Both arms. BOTH LEGS! Go full QUAD BABY! OHHHHH, I THINK I’M GONNAAAAAA….he rolls his eyes back in his head as his body locks up in pure orgasic pleasure aaaaaand…..

….ehhhh, the moment passed. He sniffs and shrugs.

But yeah, you’ll never take it to those extremes because you know it would be stupid. The end game of your entire self concept is stupid. You’re just a token Fetlifer with aspirations of being a unique little snowflake and it’s as transparent as freshly washed plate glass.

Maybe I’ve got a touch of the masochist in me too though, because somehow I made it to the end of that full bodied wet fart you call a promo and lo and behold, you had something to say about the match. And it just got dumber from there!

You think I sweat you? Don’t flatter yourself. And look I’m not the kinda guy who proclaims to be fearless. Lots of things scare me. Webbed toes, trap door spiders, skin tags that just seem to appear out of nowhere….

He frowns, lowering his tone a bit.

...failing my friends, Doctor Louis DeVille (if I’m being honest), never finding someone to accept and love me for who I am, and perhaps most of all, going back to being the kind of dull, insipid stock villain you are.

Fear you? No dear….I WAS you. Yeah, for all the supposed research you’ve done on me, you still have no idea I was The Engineer, do you? I would think that would be something you’d relish pointing out, but it turns out Gravedigger Barbie knows fuck all. Surprise surprise.

Back when The Engineer had possession of me, I was the same kind of nihilistic piece of shit you are. And you know what? Playing “life” on “fuck the world” mode is the easiest way to play the game. Not daring to love, or to trust, or to find beauty in the mundane. No, you just place yourself above it all, declare yourself a superior being and move right on. But you’re not superior, you’re just broken. And kind of pathetic. Because there is absolutely nothing about you that makes you better than anyone else. If anything, you’re so SO much worse because you’re a hollow facsimile of what a real life should be. Some twisted moron playing pretend because it makes her feel special.

Oh but don’t you fret, Lycana. I’m bringing that thing you likey-likey in spades. Pain, girl. But not just physical pain. No, I’m talkin’ a good old one-two punch to the ego too. That kinda sting. Imagine how dog shit you’re gonna look, placing yourself atop that mountain only to be knocked off your perch before The Left Hand could even gain a foothold. Heh. I wonder how Baphy-daddy is gonna feel about that. Maybe you’re a bit more disposable than you think….

Corey sucks his teeth and smiles smugly. And then, he bounces back on his heels, eyes widening with shock.

Oh my gosh! Ash Quinn! In all that hubbub over your partner, I almost forgot about that half assed piddlin’ shit you call a promo! Silly me! And boy, I haven’t seen such a fecal centric effort since one of Crimson Dong’s golden oldies.

Your hamfisted “gift” for symbolism aside, just because you compare the time honored tradition of wrestling trash talk to throwing feces, doesn’t hide the fact that you truly suck at it.

Ashy, I’m not “talking shit to everyone because I beat two Hall of Famers”, I’m taking shit to YOU wanksters because I’d like people to continue watching the XWF and not turn the channel the moment one of you Count Chocula flavored basic bitches lights up the airwaves with your profound ruminations on what “night time” is.

Buuuut, yeah, incidentally I did help my good friend Dolly Waters go over two legit legends. Which puts you ladies chances of victory here at about bupkis. Fact is, I can break a buck fifty pretty easily, but even more so when they spend more time painting spider acrylics on their nails than actually paying attention to what the hell they’re up against and preparing accordingly. Because while I turn my boy R.L. Edgar here into an instrument of wrestling excellence, you choose to waste your time acting like you invented “promo as metaphor” while blithely ignorant of the fact that you’re too stupid to carry it out effectively. Between your abject failures and Lycana’s boring as all get out intro to the cast of Teen Wolf, I think your time would be better spent doing fight prep than shooting your neutered loads out into the promo-sphere to the waiting ambivalence of the XWF fanbase

Although! I will say, that Circle of Protection thing you talked about sounds mighty fine. Mark me down for one Circle of Protection Black please! I’VE GOT THE MANA TO SPARE!



Aaaaaaaand…..Corey dances a little jig over to R.L. and taps him on the shoulder. …...TAG!

BA-GAWD! TALK ABOUT A HOT-TAG, KING!

R.L. yells out with his best Oklahoman with cerebral palsy impersonation, before reeling it back in,

Okay, look: I confess, the lack of confidence I was displaying that King Corey rightly called me on? It was a bit unfounded, and that's become all too clear now that I have a better understanding of what we're actually dealing with this coming Warfare.

For all of the all of the HEARTRACING hullabaloo The Left Hand has been stirring over the last few weeks, you know? The Windows Movie Maker spots, chalk full of sorta' spooky stock photos and glowing eyes, the ganging up on defenseless people, the incessant involvement in every other match on every other show, acting like Chris Chaos in Stable-form, while also starting a rivalry with Chris Chaos...

With all of that forceFED hype, I guess I just expected... more?

Lycana, were you catfishing us? I feel like we got catfished, bro.

R.L. says looking over to Corey,

Definitely catfished...

Right?! Because underneath the gross looking gobs of foundation, and the Lamb of God groupie ensemble you throw on to distract us all from your lack of substance is something way worse than being just the basic-bitch that you can't help from portraying:

Deep down, underneath all of that masquerade, you're just a bore.

Like, no fucking plot twist potential with you, huh?

It would be a refreshing take if you were just some anorexic goth weirdo who cut herself for attention, scared shitless of actually going down the road and finishing the job; (OH! Show us your SCARS, Becky!) and just pretended to be a werewolf princess to escape your shitty life. But no, you had to go full-on 'The W.B.' 1-til-5a.m. programming lineup type of garbage and actually show us all something that nobody has any interest in having on except for background noise while they sleep.

Why should anyone be invested in your bullshit? Why should I care about anything else that you do or say? At least Geri and Ash provide the intrigue of watching two gullible bimbos selling themselves out to some homeless shelter conman in a cringey manipulation shtick that's so obvious, even the ghost of Charles Manson is getting triggered watching:



But you, Lycana? Fuck! You were already fist deep in this boring ass grift weren't you? You were already sooooo brutally deep, and dressed in every supernatural darkness trope known to man before throwing in your lot with The Left Hand. So you know what that tells me? A few of things:

Firstly, again, you catfished us. Shame on me though for expecting something that didn't absolutely suck balls.

Secondly, you knew that your version "the darkness" sucked balls. Why else would someone with your background need to link up with a human-sized widows peak in a trench coat? I mean you already have a full on entourage of werewolves who write-off your foray into professional wrestling as child's-play. I guess you knew that crap you're peddling couldn't stand alone.

Or could it be....

The thirdly? That you're an idiot? Because either way- if you're this "wise" pain lusting entity whose fed on blood (or whatever cliché nonsense we'll soon find out about) for a millennia and you're now using, of all of the actually talented people in the XWF, The BaphometChris Chaos 2.0, to hatch some eye-rolling "sinister plot", then you have failed miserably at proving a point. And if it ain't that, and he's actually running your shit!

HAHA!

God forbid if, Alister? Or was it Dante? Whatever the fuck that werewolf who was fondling himself in front of you is named, if he finds out that you're a fraud? You might not be invited to the swanky Monster Ball in Mystic Falls. What a shame.

See, while you've got some explaining to do, me? I'm a pretty simple guy. I'm here to win and to prove to myself, and to my family, that I belong in that ring. Prove that I can use this opportunity to start pulling up on the rungs of the jagged ladder that is the XWF.

Unlike your glib attitude towards it, getting punched in the mouth doesn't make my dick hard, sweetheart. The shit hurts, so I'm going to do my best to avoid that in this match, but I don't think it's going to be a problem. Because while you're not even coaching up your incoherent, rambling partner who is in even more desperate need of guidance than I am, you haven't even begun to take the shots that we all know won't land.

And one last thing, Barf? Or, Marf? I think you're being catfished too, and I think you deserve better then only getting the left hand. All hands matter, bruh.

Peace.

Former:
1x Hart Champion
1x Federweight Champion
April 2021 RP Of The Month Still Waters Run Deep