Our promo opens on a close cropped shot of Corey Smith’s face. His expression is, well, it’s tough to read. But let’s go with nonplussed. That’s a good word. We like that word.

Hey all. Corey Smith here. The very, very retired Corey Smith. So you may be wondering why I’m cutting a promo for, of all things, the…Cannabis Cup…

Corey rolls his eyes right the fuck out his head.

And it’s simple really. It’s because I’m stupid. It’s because the last time I reupped my XWF contract, I failed to note that I was contractually obligated to participate in at least one interpromotional event. And that, if I failed to participate in said interpromotional event, I could get sued lots and lots of money for breach of contract. This is something Vinnie Lane reminded me of in a voicemail that despite being all of 37 seconds, managed to utilize the word “dude” 14 times.

Now, I do have a lot of money. But as many of you know I pledge quite a bit of that money to helping people. So me not sucking it up and takesy-backing my retirement for one event would be pretty selfish because it would result in me helping less people. So what they hey, I’ll just abide by the terms of my contract. Even if it means participating in the…

Sigh. Even bigger eye roll.

…Cannabis Cup.

Corey looks askance and then back at the camera, almost as if he’s gamely considering saying something controversial.

Full disclosure. I don’t “get” cannabis culture. I mean, I use to do drugs. Like, the really REALLY bad kind. I alienated people who loved me. I acted like a jerk. And I became a living conduit for a despotic rogue artificial intelligence who just wanted to watch the world burn. Yikes.

But even all that not withstanding, I STILL don’t get cannabis culture. Part of me suspects that, for people like Chris Page, basing so much of your life around a recreational narcotic is just a cheap way of trying to hide the fact that you’re almost completely devoid of a personality. But then another part of me decided “well maybe that’s just not fair”. Granted, Chris Page IS almost completely devoid of a personality, and what little personality he did have came at the expense of that poor schlub Robert Main. But still, maybe I’m being hasty. Which brings me to…

The shot abruptly pulls back to reveal Corey standing outside a small squat building whose only defining feature is a neon pot leaf sign in the window.

Dr. Fielgud’s Cannabis Clinic. My local medical marijuana dispensary. Yes folks, your good buddy Corey Smith has decided he’s going to try the wacky tabacky to gain some added insight into this shindig. And while this would seem to stand in defiance of my sobriety, I’ve come to realize that marijuana has become so harmless and ubitiquitous in our society that I stand almost no chance of this having any undue negative effect on me whatsoever. He smiles earnestly.

Ruh Roh.

Marijuana is basically on par now with chugging a Four Loco at a frat house kegger, though with even less propensity for latent dude bro homoeroticism. Unless you’re Chris Page. So what the hell. Let’s give it a go. Let’s take a journey to…

THE HEART OF CANNABIS.

With a casual shrug Corey opens the door. A bell jingles overhead and Corey is quickly met by a 20-something young woman wearing a Harley Quinn t-shirt and a fashionable green streak in her hair.

Hi! I’m here for some medical marijuana.

Well you’re in the right place. You got a script?

Corey looks at her blankly.

You mean I actually needed one?

A beat passes. And then they both collapse into laughter.

Oh gosh no! We just have to say that.

Oh ok! Heh, that’s what I thought. So why don’t you tell me what you got here.

Sure. She starts to gesture to each nug under the display case in turn as she rattles off the names.

We’ve got specials on Thunderpussy 69, Purple Nurple, Slap and Tickle, “Bud” Bundy, Hindu CanDo, Chunklight Tuna, Death Star, Blue Waffle, My “Bud”dy, and Michelle Tanner.

Corey strokes his chin. Hmmmm. This is my first encounter with marijuana, so I’m not looking for anything too strong. Kinda just want to dip my toe in the kiddy pool, ya know?

Completely understand. I think what you’re looking for is Doctor Facefuck.

Doctor Facefuck?! That sounds pretty extreme!

Oh, it’s not. I promise! It’s a light gentle buzz with an aftertaste of apricot and ginger.

I like ginger!

Don’t we all. So whaddya think?

Corey sighs. Well, so long as you promise this won’t completely rock my face off…

It won’t completely rock your face off.

After a moment’s hesitation, the fomer XWF superstar nods. Alright, ring me up.

The clerk bags Corey’s purchases and cashes him out efficiently. Corey departs, but he’s not gone long when an older man wearing a Jerry Garcia tie dye shirt rushes into the room, looking frantic.

We have a problem!

What?!

It’s Doctor Facefuck! Turns out it’s really fucking faces!

The clerk looks shocked. But I thought it was just a gentle high with hints of apricot and ginger!

Oh no, it FUCKS FACES! We need to remove this from the inventory. Then, as an afterthought. You didn’t sell any, did you?

The clerk looks towards the door. Shit.

LATER!

Corey is now seated in his car, bag of marijuana product seated in his lap. He shakes his head. The things I do for a promo! Then, turning his attention to the camera. So before I tear into this fatty, let’s talk about my first opponent at the Cannabis Cup, Michael Graves.

HE SUCKS.

Wait, let’s back up. Chris? What the evermclovin’ hell man, you’re gonna tell me that with all those fresh faces you suckered into this thing, the opponent I draw is a guy that has been in the XWF since the dawn of goddamned time?! Think of how many brand new, never before seen, bitchin’ matches could have happened here. We could have had Corey Smith versus Dickie Watson “Child Star”, we could have had Corey Smith versus Apathy, actually scratch that because I’m not wrestling somebody who’s concentrated level of “give a shit” is so low they call themselves fucking APTHY. Have fun with that one, Bobb-o. Or hey, we could have seen Corey Smith versus a GUY NAMED CHOLO. CHOLO!

But no! Flush all that down the stinker, because I have to face dumb boring old Michael Graves. Emphasis on DUMB and OLD. Although I suppose it all boils down to which Graves we’re getting. I mean, are we getting Old Man Graves? Not So Old Man Graves? Molesty Graves? Lady Gravy? Pull the parking brake, they all BLOW.

Michael Graves has been in the XWF since the dawn of time, and the only thing he has to show for it is a string of atrocious gimmicks, and a spot on multiple sex offender lists nationwide. He’s been a constant on XWF programming for years, and literally all he has to show for it is a couple weeks worth of Xtreme championship reigns and a dull as dishwater, blink and you’ll miss it, tag title run with Cadryn “Ashamed To Count Him As a Fellow Homo” Tiberius. The point is this folks, despite his tenure, nobody counts on Michael Graves to do shit. And he’s damn sure not gonna do shit in an event stacked up against 31 other competitors, including multiple other XWF competitors ALONE whose careers dwarf his. And yes, that was a compliment for Thunder Knuckles. You can take that to the bank but don’t get used to it.

Nobody’s got money ridin’ on Graves. Nobody smart anyway. And it’s for damn sure that nobody’s got money ridin’ on Graves to beat me.

Now, the worst/best argument you could make against the Core-meister is that I don’t care about the outcome of this tournament. That I’m retired and therefore my give a fuck meter is irreperably broken. But those people, those foolish, foolish people, don’t understand a principal thing about Corey Smith.

I don’t half ass anything. I don’t know how.

Corey Smith’s only gear is WHOLE ASS. Insert gay joke here. It’s okay. You can. I hit the assist.

Call it ego. Call it a burning drive to succeed. Call it whatever you wish. But even in this contractually obligated afterthought of a tournament, I have a burning desire to WIN. And why not? Why not have my last act be going over an assassin’s array of some of the best in the business?

Corey reaches into the bag and pulls out a pre-wrapped doob chock full of Doctor Facefuck. He eyes it warily before proceeding.

Not to mention the fact that Michael, I just don’t like you. I don’t like you because of the shit you pulled on my good friend Dolly Waters. And fine, FINE, maybe the last time you kidnapped her you guys just ended up getting high and playing Parcheesi or whatever. The fact remains you’re a Grade A creep and a wasted roster slot. And, as I’ve already shown, you’ve proven time and time again you have the motivation of a sloth dropping down a k-hole on a lazy Sunday. You’ve hardly done ANYTHING of note. But, what? We’re supposed to believe NOW is the time Michael Graves grabs destiny by the throat and drives all the way to the endzone? Please. This is going to be the exact same thing as the rest of your sleazy, mediocre career. It will amount to NOTHING.

Returning his attention to this fatty, and considering it with a resigned “here goes nothing” countenance, he brings a lighter up to it, lights it, and then takes a drag. Naturally he coughs a couple times, bucking in his seat, as he lets out some of the smoke through his nostrils. Eyes watering, he pulls the spliff away.

Well, I’m not gonna say that was “pleasant”, but…

He shakes his head.

Anyhoo! Look, I don’t know what kind of restrictions Page has put on this. Ya know, sometimes this shit has rules where we’re like, not directly allowed to respond to our opponents. Like the psychic damage of such a response would render us unfit to fight or some shit. It’s pretty dumb. But at any rate, I’m waiving any such rules. Page, I don’t care what the book says, I want Graves to respond to this. Directly.

Mikey, I want you to muster up as much goddamn audacity as you can and finish the sentence “My victory against Corey Smith is preordained by God, Jesus, Yahweh, Buddha, and Alias/Space Jesus because…” Use those exact words. Finish the thought. Because I want to entertain myself with the wholescale flagrant horse shit that’s going to follow. Because you and I both know there is no way in heaven or hell you can complete that sentence and have it sound remotely convincing. None. Now…

Corey pauses, blinking a few times.

I think I’m starting to feel it. Feels kinda pleasant actually. No ginger yet though. He takes another drag. Where was I….? Oh yeah, Graves….

You rang?

Quite suddenly, a miniature Michael Graves is seen poking out from behind the steering column. Corey narrows his eyes at it. He blinks, runs his palm over his face, and then narrows his eyes some more.

You ra-...?

AHHHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHH!

Corey screeches some more as he goes to roll down his window to throw the spliff away, but when he looks down at the recess where the button is, there is another little Michael Graves resting in the cranny.

AHHHHHHHH!

Corey drops the blunt in his lap and furiously starts patting his crotch as it starts to smolder its way through the fabric.

AHHHHHHHHH!

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! Both little Graves scream in unison.

Corey, panting furiously, looks about in a daze before retraining his sights on the little Mikes. What the fuck, man? WHAT THE FUCK?! What do you want with me?!

And then, the shot cuts to look out the front windshield, where we see even more little Graves’ squeezing themselves out from under the hood.

GET OUTTA MY CAR YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!

The Graves on the steering column ignores this order however, and pulls some swimming goggles down over his eyes. And then, sticking his rear out and giving it a little wiggle, he dives back behind the steering column. Corey, a moment too slow, goes to catch him and fumbles. So he turns his attention to the Graves that was hanging out near the door handle, only to find that he is now affixed to the window with little suction cups on his hands and knees, and banging at the glass with a tiny hammer.

STOP THAT!

The window shatters, and with a titter of laughter, the mini Graves falls with the rest of the shards onto the ground.

LITTLE FUCKER! Whoa…hold on Corey…hold on….what is going on here?! He takes a deep breath. Is this the weed? That girl said it was just going to be a gentle high! Corey rubs the bridge of his nose. I just need to focus. Just need to focus and…

A clanking sound can be heard now from behind the steering column, and the wheel shifts and plunges into Corey’s lap. Corey jerks backwards as far as his seat will allow, and we hear the tittering laughter of multiple little Graves’ from within the car.

This isn’t happening! This isn’t real! DAMN YOU MEDICAL MARIJUANA! AND DAMN YOU TOO CHRIS PAGE! UGH! Gotta focus…gotta focus on this promo…gotta..

And then, the whole car shudders. A little Graves tears through the cushioning on the passenger side seat, followed by another. Followed up by a crash as the rear window explodes inwards.

I cannot fucking…! The car jolts violently. The two Graves’ that appeared on the passenger seat hold hands and dance gaily. Corey looks frightened as the car bucks and hops all around him before finally…



The car disintegrates into it’s component parts all around him! Corey gives a shout and unfastens his seat belt, but the momentum of this causes his seat to topple backwards, sending him tumbling into a backwards somersault ass over tea kettle.

How is this…?!

Suddenly, despite all odds and properties of mechanics, the radio starts to play.



Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ haunting lyrics serve as an eerie counterpoint to the abrupt decimation of Corey’s car. Corey stands erect in the midst of the ruination as a parade of mini Graves’ flee in terror. Enraged, Corey makes a move to stomp on one. It squelches beneath his sneaker, and when he picks his foot up to look at the blood and guts, he’s instead quite shocked to find that there is nothing but a black void at the bottom of his shoe.

What the….?

Before he can say anymore, Corey suddenly finds himself being sucked into the vacuum that has developed in the sole of his Keds. With a howl of terror and confusion, he’s drawn bodily into his own shoe and disappears with naught but a comedic “pop” sound.



With a start, Corey awakens to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He sits up, head on a rapid swivel as he tries to take in as much information as he can. He finds some relief in the realization that he’s in a hospital room. Drawing his elbows up behind him and propping himself up on them, he breathes out a hearty sigh.

It’s okay. Somebody must have found me tripping balls on the street and called an ambulance.

Corey belatedly notices a figure in the corner of the room. Judging from the scrubs, it seems to be a nurse.

Oh, hey, excuse me. Can you….?

The nurse turns about, and it’s immediately evident that something’s not quite right. Her hair is done up in long dreads, her eyes bear a piercing and sardonic aura. By the time she slips her mask down below her chin, it’s clear who the “nurse” truly is.

Madison Dyson! Corey belts out, tossing his covers aside and preparing to leap out of bed. And that’s when a yawning chasm opens up all around the bed, tiled floor dropping away into an opaque nothingness. Corey jerks back away from the precipice of the mattress and returns his attention to Madison, whose face has inexplicably burst out in sores.

I’m still in it…I’m still hallucinating…

Well DUH! Madison jeers. But the words don’t emanate from her mouth. Her lips stay locked shut, as though sewn that way. Instead, the rapidly growing cluster of angry sores on her face explode in sequence, and with each pop and gout of greenish pus, a word is punctuated. You never left twinkletoes! POP, POP, POP with each word.

Corey grimaces in revulsion. You know what, I don’t sweat you. I got you sorted in the real, and I got you sorted here too. He peeks over at the chasm at his bedside. I bet this isn’t even here.

Oh, bet, bitch! POP POP POP. By now the pus is running rivulets onto the floor. How you gonna beat Michael Graves if I… she theatrically produces an empty syringe…loaded you up with C.Diff while you slept?

As she mentions it, Corey does become aware of a deep rumble in his colon. He glances at the bathroom, which is quite suddenly not a bathroom at all, but a cobweb made of barbed chains. Madison’s limbs pop and contort, joints jutting in a direction contrary to what human biology could and should dictate. She skitters over to the chain web, face still drooling pus as she goes. She mounts the web, clambering up into the far corner of the room and jostling back and forth ever so slightly like a perverse Black Widow jonesing for a meal. You’re gonna shit your pants, flyboy! POP POP POP POP!

Like hell! Corey casts a glance down at the abyss for a third time, and then boldly swings his legs over the side of the bed. He scoots off the mattress, and promptly tumbles into the pit.

FUUUUUUUUCK!~!!!!!

Toooooooo-POP-llllld yooooooo-POP-uuuuuuuu!

Corey falls for what feels like a solid minute, before a thick briny sea rushes up to meet him. He plunges into the depths in slow motion, eyes immediately seeking daylight and fresh air above. Corey sets in on swimming in the direction he assumes is up, but by the time he breaks the crest, his stomach is in searing agony.

Oh God, what if it is C.Diff? *Pause* What am I saying? None of this is real! None of it! But, Corey can’t deny that the clawing in his guts certainly feels real. He desperately searches about, looking for land, for salvation, for SOMETHING. But there’s nothing. In desperation, he does the only thing he can thing to do,. HELP! CAN SOMEONE HELP?! He frowns deep when he’s met with nothing but silence. What do I do…?

Then, as if on cue, the sky above him is rent asunder! Corey gasps in shock as a giant hand parts the cerulean skies. What the hell?! He debates going beneath the waves, but knows he can only find futility there. It soon becomes clear that the hand is reaching for him. No,no,no,NO! Corey starts swimming, pumping his limbs furiously despite the burning and clutching in his insides. But the massive hand is dogged. It scoops up and under Corey, lifing him up along with a gallon of the water that sieves through the giant fingers. Corey falls against the enormous ringfinger, clasping onto it for dear life even as the hand serves as a source of terror. WHO ARE YOU?! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!

But the hand offers no reply. Instead, the fingers close around Corey, rending his environs black as pitch and stiffling. Corey cries out again, and is abruptly silenced.



However, Corey doesn’t have to suffer the darkness for long. Soon, the fingers unclench, allowing the light back in. And what does Corey behold when this happens?

Heh…hands. Of course. It could only be you, man.



Alias. The Universal Champion.

Hello, Corey.

You don’t sound like yourself.

You’re right. But you already know I’m not the real Alias.

So are you here to tell me what this all means?

Heh. What am I but a stand in for profundity? Alias shakes his head, causing some of the rapidly shifting colors to fall from his hair like leaves in autumn time. I’m not the main event here, Corey.

What do you mean?

It’s the creator. Your hand.

My….huh…? Corey rubs his aching stomach.

The one who made you. They want to talk to you.

The one who made me? Like…my mother?

No. The one who made you. He repeats the same phrase, placing careful emphasis on each word. Behold. A door now stands behind Alias. For the first time, Corey realizes he never noticed where he was, and a discomfiting thought occurs to him. He didn’t realize it because it didn’t matter. It was never supposed to matter. But this door matters, hence him noticing it. Alias steps aside and gestures towards the door. Your move, Corey.

With a series of measured steps, Corey finds himself closing the gap between himself and the door. Then, with a final look of reassurance from Alias, Corey’s own hand clasps the knob, and he pulls it open….