Make way for Doc D’Ville
Say hey, it's Doc D’Ville
Hey! Clear the way in the old Bazaar
Hey you, let us through
It's Continuum’s top star
Oh, come
Be the first on your block to meet his eye

A symphonic orchestra and choir burst out into song with no notice. Their music blasts through the grand doors of the banquet hall. The singers and instrument players waltz into the room, continuing to play in perfect harmony as they disrupt the party. A line of tap dancers follows closely behind them, tippy tapping on the marble floor. Behind them a pair of oxen carry a gold plated chariot with purple banners into the hall.

Make way, here he comes
Ring bells, bang the drums
You're contractually obligated to love this guy
Doc D’Ville, fabulous he, Ali Ababwa
Show some respect, boy, genuflect
Down on one knee
Now, try your best to stay calm
Brush up your Friday salaam
Then come and meet his spectacular coterie

The curtains of the chariot open and reveal Doc D’Ville’s surrogates to the crowd. Pasha Prcye, Emperor Lane, Corey “The Golden Child” Smith, and Lionheart Duke wave to the crowd with proud smiles on their faces. The audience goes crazy as Lionheart holds up the tag team championship belts.

Doc D’Ville, mighty is he, Ali Ababwa
Strong as ten regular men, definitely
He's faced the galloping hordes
A hundred bad guys with swords
Who sent those goons to their lords?
Why, Doc D’Ville
Fellas, he's got
(Long ass championship reigns)
Uh-huh, now the ladies, what he got?
(Long ass dick all day)
Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh

A man slowly follows along the epic ensemble. He is hunched over and walking with a cane in one hand. In his other hand he holds the handle to the oxygen tank rolling alongside him. A large dark cloak covers the man from head to toe making his features impossible to distinguish...until he pulls back his hood.

Doc D’Ville, handsome is he, Ali Ababwa
That physique! How can I speak?
Weak at my knees! You yummy boy




“Does he have a vagina on his face?”

“I don’t think so, my liege…”

The crowd goes absolutely fucking bonkers as Doc D’Ville pulls back his hood. Betsy Granger stops in the middle of her gogo dancing to get down on her knees and start blowing kisses at her childhood icon. Notorious Ned Kaye claps enthusiastically with a stupid, childlike smile plastered across his face. The coterie hops out of their chariot and greets Doc D’Ville with handshakes, high fives, and immediate dick sucking.

“This is disgusting….”

“It kind of turns me on, to be honest…”

Demos stares judgmentally at the servant girl carrying a tray full of beers.

“This depravity makes a mockery of the entire tournament. Parading a living zombie around like he’s some sort of elite fighter. Kissing the ground he walks on. This worship of expired milk reeks of impoverished imagination.”

“But Demos, didn’t you lose to him in the first round?”

“But I’ve beaten everyone else that’s here!”

Demos turns away as he waves off his servant in disgust. Demos lets his empty rum bottle drop to the floor as he clumsily pushes himself to his feet. As Demos begins to walk towards the exit of the hall, presumably to get away from the constant dickriding, Pasha Pryce picks up a microphone and begins to speak over the loudspeakers.



“During the course of this tournament we have lost many brave warriors. Please, everyone, a moment of silence for all those who fell in combat and were not able to re-enter the tournament through the battle royale on account of their untimely deaths.

*AHEM* Here we go…”

Pasha Prcye pulls some reading glasses and a small piece of paper out of his robes. He notches his glasses atop his nose. He inspects the paper closely as he speaks.

“Jenny Myst, ripped through in truly entertaining fashion.

Kris Von Bonn, the blacksmith.

Melanie Childs, Emperor Lane’s misaborted fetus.

Ned Kaye, oh wait a moment….”

Pasha Pryce scans the crowd searchingly.

“Oh, there you are! My apologies. I wrote these notes before the tournament. Anyways, let me see who’s next...oh dear. It seems someone spilled applesauce on my notes…”

Doc D’Ville innocently laps up leftover applesauce from his chin as Pasha shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.

“Well that’s enough about those losers. You’re all here today because you have made it to the grand showcase! Tomorrow night you all will fight until you fall, for my entertainment!

Some of you may die.

In fact, I’m hoping that a lot of you do! That would make this the greatest showcase ever!

Anywho, I’d just like you to take a moment to applaud our wonderful PREMIERE sponsors for this showcase! Lionheart Duke and Corey Smith!”

The partygoers give a standing ovation to the sponsors, hooting and hollering as Corey and Lionheart wave to the crowd. The cheers crescendo when Lionheart holds the championship belts up again. Demos looks down at his own championship belt in disgust.

Why don’t I get that treatment? I’m a champion the same as them!

Demos shook his head free of the intrusive thoughts as he pushed open the door to the backyard. Just before Demos was able to move through the open doorway he was confronted by a hysterical bitch. Champagne the stripper with tiny tits and no ass hollered at Demos as she stomped her high heel into the ground and crossed her arms over her washboard chest.

“No one’s tipping me anything! I had this exact same problem in the casinos in Vegas, god damn it! You’re in charge of the party, make them pay me attention!”

Demos rubbed the temple of his forehead with his hand as he sighed softly. His hand returned to his waist as he went to respond to the terse sex worker.

“No one is tipping you because nobody thinks you’re interesting. You haven’t done anything worthy of getting anyone’s attention. You just trip and stumble around on your platform. Anytime you execute a move correctly it was on accident. You look awkward, out of shape, and frankly, like you’re in the wrong profession. You just don’t have the assets that you need to succeed in your line of work.

You should stick to your day job. This industry just isn’t for you. Surely you have talents elsewhere. Just...not in this field of work. I’m sorry sweetie, but this is too competitive for you. There are so many superior choices to feast upon, why would anyone pay you the slightest mind? You are bland and vanilla, something everyone has seen before and no one wants anymore.

If you stay in this line of work your life will be worse off for it. No man will want to settle down with you when you degrade yourself on a nightly basis. You better wisen up, buttercup. This world will chew you up and spit you out.”

“Well I don’t give a rat’s ass about your opinion! You’re just a big fat paper champion! You don’t even defend that worthless belt you have!”

Demos chuckled softly as he rubbed his masked chin.

“They don’t even tip you enough for you to pay the cable bill, do they? How pitiful.”

Demos playfully tapped his championship gold.

“Little girlie, I’ve defended this championship belt against Azrael Erebus. I’ve defended this championship belt against Barney Green. I’ve defended this championship belt against Jenny Myst. I took this precious gold from Thunder Knuckles.”

“So? That doesn’t mean anything to me!”

“Of course not. If you can’t afford cable, you certainly don’t make enough to subscribe to the newsletter. Let me tell you something darling: that right there racks up to wins against the 11th, 24th, and 44th best wrestlers of all time per the sanctioned rankings. Throw in a pin against the longest reigning shooting star champion of all time and I’m not sure what more could you possibly ask a man to do to prove his championship caliber.”

“Well….you could fight Big D!”

“Oh, you poor girl. You’re not dancing to pay for university courses, are you?”

Champagne threw her hands up in frustration before stomping away from Demos with angry little steps. Her nonexistent feminine features did not jiggle as she left. Pasha’s voice continued to blare out over the loudspeakers.

“Now back in my day every single fight was to the death. You see, as a frontines soldier during the Opium Sand Wars I had fights to the death everyday and I came out a better man for it. In the war you never knew who was a civilian and who was an enemy combatant. You had to treat everyone as a threat. I had six, seven, eight, nine, ten kids a day coming to my humvee! Now I don’t know if they have a suicide vest on or if they’re just coming up to give me a plate of cookies. And to be honest, my wife would kill me if I waited around to find out! So I had to gun them down one by one, two by two, and thank god that I was able to win those bloody fights to the death.

See, just like this tournament……”

Demos stepped out of the banquet hall as the door slammed shut behind him. Demos never did hear the full story of how Pasha Prcye’s war crimes related to the march madness tournament. A wave of relief washed over Demos. The gentle gusts of wind kissed his suntouched skin, drying his flesh as beads of sweat got carried away by the breeze. Tall grass brushed against the man’s bare calves, waving up and down his leg with the wind. He closed his eyes and touched his championship gold as he tried to soak in the peace of the moment.

The peace did not come to him.

He clutched his championship belt tighter while clenching his eyes. He waited for the peaceful bliss of the moment to sweep him off his feet.

The peace did not come to him.

“Is something troubling you, comrade?”

The whispers of a familiar voice traveled along the wind. Demos opened his eyes and turned his head to the side.



A series of partially eroded hieroglyphic walls lined the foreground of the night sky.

“Some stories have been lost to time, but if you look closely enough you will see the liberating truth.”

Demos looked from side to side as the familiar voice whipped around him. The disembodied whispers came and went with the wind. Demos turned a curious eye back towards the crumbling walls. The proud champion approached the walls with hesitance in his step. Out of an abundance of caution he kept his distance, eyeing the ancient etchings from afar.

“Come, Demos. Your true destiny awaits you.”

The ghost of Kim Jong-il appears alongside the television champion. Standing at just a few hairs above five feet, the ghost almost seems to be a dwarf when compared to the towering Demos.

“There is nothing to be afraid of. The proletariat needs it’s warriors to be clear eyed and grounded in history if they are going to reign supreme in the struggle. Now go on.”

Kim Jong-il beckons for Demos to approach the wall. With an appreciative nod the champion confidently walks to the wall. Demos stands before the wall, his eyes scanning what remains of the hieroglyphs. The moon rolls through the sky and the party rages on inside the hall as Demos slowly traverses the ancient text. He brings his finger up to clear the dust from the remaining writing, swiftly sweeping the dirt off of the wall so as to not lose his place in the story. Kim Jong-il looked on approvingly as his Juche disciple studied the history of the belt he had held for so long.

Demos learned the history of his championship belt, the timeline of it’s origins to it’s placement around his very waist. Formed nearly a decade ago from the merger of a bunch of mostly irrelevant championship belts, the longest reigning television champion ever was a literal alien who was sent to earth after being voted the worst wrestler of the Gamma Gamma Quadrant. Demos learned that the belt he was so committed to used to be passed around like a common whore, never staying with one man for too long before he lost interest.

Demos learned that the one time someone reigned over the television division with similar dominance to Demos, the division was quickly shut down after the champion lost interest. The man holding the precious gold every night eventually grew bored of her and tossed her to the side, vacating his right to her glory.

The belt was never resuscitated until Dolly Waters breathed life into the division, only to have her flame stomped out by the now semi-retired Michael McBride. McBride, known across the world for his access to whatever woman he wants, jumped out of bed with the television championship at the first opportunity. The precious gold was once again vacated.

Since that moment the television championship became a cheap escort passing through the harems of every young up and comer who would eventually flame out. Such prestigious figures as Calypso and a literal nazi held the championship belt at one point. The federation would put anyone in a match for the television belt just to sell out a colosseum, no rank or pedigree required.

Demos read the hieroglyphs in wonder as he learned of the golden plate’s true purpose in the world. It became clear to Demos that the television championship had been created as yet another circus with which to distract the people. Created by the capitalists as a cheap carnival attraction, the television division was a creative method for keeping the people constantly entertained and enthralled with cheap tricks and short lived draws. It was never meant to remain around one waist for so long.

“What you thought was anchoring you to the masses has in fact been driving a wedge between you and your higher calling.”

Demos read along the wall until it trailed off, it’s more recent history lost to the harsh desert storms of the past. Demos turned back to face the ghost of Kim Jong-il with shame on his tired face.

“You have let the imperialists pull the wool over your eyes. Hoarding gold? Keeping an entire division buried beneath your thumb? Ordering servants around like some kind of dictator? You have not behaved like the Demos I know you can be. You have not acted like the Demos the starving masses are begging for you to be.

You have let the fame and accolades blind you. Main eventing shows, holding gold mined by slaves in Africa up over your head for rednecks and hillbillies to adore. That television championship has a purpose, but it’s purpose is not to devour you. You are being consumed by the vanity of gold. Your potential is being shackled to the very chalice you hold so dear.”

Demos dropped to his knees as a solitary tear slid down his cheek. The sprinkle of sadness sat atop the leather of the man’s mask before soaking into his beard. Demos had always wondered why he was never taken seriously. He never could understand why people weren’t as impressed by the man in the mirror as he was. Now it finally clicked. While Demos was an ancient warrior he was still relatively new to the XWF’s decades long history. What Demos thought was a precious metal was in fact nothing more than pyrite. Fool’s gold. A running gag gift that got passed around the locker room as a cheap prop to help give a limping star a boost for a show or two.

Demos had never felt more humiliated in his life. He reached around his back and unclipped the championship belt, letting it fall roughly to the ground below.

“But how….supreme leader….how can I beat Doc D’Ville? If all my accomplishments are nothing but grains of sand in the deserts of history...how can I ever hope to pin him?”

“By letting go.”

Demos sat silently as the words passed through the wind.

“Do not let the doctor play games with your mind. History washes away every preconceived notion and metaphysical barrier. Chairman Mao faced 30 years of defeat, setback, and retreat before he finally captured China and raised the communist banner. Huge Chavez failed when he first went to seize the capitol building in Caracas, only to return years later and raise the banner of the worker.

These men could only accomplish their great deeds by letting go and letting themselves float along the tides of history. What was Castro before the Cuban revolution? The son of a rich man and training lawyer? Whoever would have thought he could lead 50 some odd man in a revolution that would forever haunt the southern coast of the great dragon?

You have greatness inside of you, Demos. I’ve seen it before. I know you can stir it again.

The masses are waiting in anguish hoping for someone to end the madness.

Now is the time of revolutions, Demos.

Let go of all your personal baggage, let go off all the slights, brush off all the chips on your shoulder.

This is about something so much bigger than you.”

“What must I do?”

Demos asked pleadingly.

“Go. Prepare your armor and sharpen your blades. Leave your golden cows behind, for they will only slow you down. The workers of the world depend on you to put an end to this march of madness.”

Kim Jong-il evaporated into smoke as he spoke his final words. Demos slowly rose to his feet with fire in his eyes and determination in his heart. He left the championship belt laying in front of the wall as he walked towards the moonlight, prepared to fight for his destiny.