War games?

Pffft you can make like one of Derrick’s bought off referees and count me out.

Charlie Nickles raises his lowered gaze to meet the camera dead-on. The frame of the camera is almost entirely filled with Charlie Nickles upper body. Behind the grizzled figure an aged eggshell wall sits solemnly. Charlie’s hair is cut close to his scalp and his bushy beard is littered with streaks of gray.

I didn’t come back to this shithole to play hopscotch and butt-touch with you bitches and queers. You see, that’s the problem with the lot of you. You’re all competitors and performers and athletes. It’s no wonder you all want to play games with each other. But I don’t have a nintendo. I don’t even own a sega genesis. The only playstation I know is tucked away inside the cabin that I’m going to lock Rel Dixon in.

But look here, fuckers, just because I’m not going to be playing any games with you doesn’t mean you can start counting your chickens and popping your champagne corks.

Charlie chuckles for a short moment as he caresses his surprisingly well kept beard. Charlie lowers his hand as his demeanor hardens once more.

I’ll never say no to a good war.

I’ve got a list of scores to settle that’s longer than Barack HUSSEIN Osama’s drone strike list. Just ask Theo, I’m sure he’s had a gander at em’ both.

You see cunts, the Nickleman is back and I’m not taking a damn prisoner. Mercy was never on the menu. You fuckers ever hear of Sherman’s March? Pillaging, looting, desecration, murder all across the treacherous south. THAT’S what WAR means to Ohio boys, you hear me? When it ends there are no hands to be shook, only bodies to be buried. Isn’t that right, Knucks? He knows what I’m talking about.

But maybe we’re just built different up in Ohio. We don’t have those liberal sensitivities and polite demeanors drilled into us in fancy private schools. Pffft.

Charlie briefly rolls his eyes dismissively before making eye contact with the camera once more.

The XWF has lost touch with its roots. These sassy twinks and barbie bimbos have all but taken the combat out of our sport. What good are concussion causing chair shots and legendary title reigns when greatness is measured by comedic comebacks and ironic meta commentaries?

Thaddeus Duke can cosplay for the camera as much as he wants, the truth of the matter is he hasn’t seen a second of war in his life. His writers script it well and the actors play their part, but the only one shooting anything in those promos is the cinematographer. I’m revealing industry secrets, I know. How controversial.

Charlie rolls his eyes in the other direction before returning his gaze to the camera.

Becky Granger? Same shit, different toilet. James Raven’s toilet, to be exact. She fights in intergalactic wars, huh? Look, I’m not an idiot: I know alien life is out there, somewhere. Plotting our destruction. I’ve seen enough midnight runs of Alien vs Predator to know exactly what type of shit the government is keeping in Area 51.

But Becky Butt-Fucking Granger? Becky Raven-Sucking Granger? Becky with the muddy bush?

Well, it was muddy the last time I saw it…..heh.

Charlie winks at the camera as a perverted grin stretches across his face. A brief camera flare is caused by the reveal of Charlie’s full set of pearly white teeth.

Becky’s never had to fight for her life. Not once. Don’t believe the hype. She probably thinks she has, but trust me, she hasn’t. I wasn’t trying to kill her the last time I savaged her. I was just trying to get a feel. And trust me, I felt.

Becky’s neck felt so soft and frail in between my hands.

Charlie lifts his hands up in front of the camera and imitates the motion of a choke.

I could feel the blood constricting inside her throat. The same blood that has been inside her breasts, her bottom, her feet. I could feel the oxygen caught in her throat, unable to go any further. I could feel her fear.

She may well have been afraid for her life the last time I defeated her, but make no mistake about it, that trekkie has never known war. She has never known the true meaning of life or death.

Her war stories, much like Cotton Hill’s, are complete fabrications.

Charlie tilts his head towards the camera before quickly looking off camera as he lowers his hands. A few moments later Charlie returns his gaze to the camera and speaks in a hushed tone.

Am I doing this right, Corey Smith? Am I burying their characters enough? Am I granting their themes and their stories too much credit still? I’ll do my best not to buy into anyone else’s hype, in fact, I’ll try to undercut everyone’s gimmick straight from the gate.

Thanks for the advice, Champ!

Charlie winks at the camera and throws up an ok sign before leaning back and resuming his normal vocal patterns.

Now, who else needs a few feet of undeserved dirt thrown on their names?

Corey Smith. He’s so phoney. Did you folks know he’s not even gay? What a farce.

Miss Fury. Pfft, she doesn’t really have billions of dollars at her disposal. She’s obviously not a super villain. And matter of fact, while we’re at it, Ruby isn’t even a real superhero. At best she’s like that goofy guy from Kick Ass, lime suit and everything. By the way, Centurion isn’t even really a hundred years old OR a roman legionnaire. Total bullshit.

And while I’m on a roll…..Dick Powers? He actually IS gay. Never touched a pussy in his life, unless you count the time he lost to perpetual punching bag Reggie Estrada.

Charlie leans back in towards the camera and speaks in a hushed tone again.

You see Corey, we’ve got the playbook. Look, neither of us is as big and famous as we once were, but with enough pettiness we can keep all the newcomers out so that our star is never eclipsed! It’s smart shit! You can definitely win the game with these plays on your calling card! The game is all yours….

Charlie raises a playful eyebrow at the camera before leaning back and speaking with his usual angst.

But don’t expect to see any athletes, performers, or competitors suiting up beneath my banner. I’m not drafting team players, superstars, or so-called legends when bitch-boy Pryce calls for my pick.

I’m drafting warriors.

When my dogs roll up on Bethel Woods, we’re not coming to play….we’re coming to wage war and bring hell upon our enemies! We’re not leaving you wounded and we’re damn sure not taking your pride….we’re taking your lives.

A sinister snarl spreads across Charlie’s face as he tilts his head forward in the classic Kubrick fashion.

I’ve thought the whole thing through. With a handful of foul mother fuckers, the plausible deniability is damn near palpable. Who’s fist caused the contusion? Who’s boot made them bite the bucket? When blood is on everyone’s hands, how can they convict even one of us?

It was all just an accident, wasn’t it? Just a performance that got out of hand. People die in sports all the time. Boys drop dead from dehydration in football practice. Wrestlers break their necks in the ring. Super dicks get staked through the goddamned foreskin on national television. No one ever gets charged so long as it seems accidental.

I’m taking a band of outlaws and criminals with me to the competition. Whatever happens, happens.

Charlie leans back with a satisfied smirk stretched across his face.

Conspiracy? What conspiracy?

This is all just a performance after all.

Just

A

Friendly

Little

Game.