John Madison still had the taste of defeat eating him up inside from that pitiful loss at Border Lines. That seems to be the popular theory going around anyway. No, John Madison hadn't been swimming in self-pity. Yes, his team lost at Border Lines, but wasn't that the plan anyway? Did he not come out every week and tell the XWF locker room that he was going to intentionally "throw" the match? Sure, John didn't quite pull off the dream team that he had hoped for, but that didn't stop some of the XWF's top tier talent from failing miserably anyway. In the end, his message was delivered, and his mission was accomplished.

Where is the WGWF now? And why is it that the XWF seems to be coming up short on star power lately? All of it is gone-- all thanks to John Madison.

Tax? Dead.

Joseph Page? Dead.

Miyoko? Dead.

Karl Cross? Dead.

Tyler Decker? Dead.

Tristan Slater? Dead.

Scorpio? Dead.

WGWF? Gone.

Yes, Johnny deserves all of the credit for wiping out the entire upper echelon of the XWF roster. The XWF went from a lively rain forest to an empty desert. He took out an entire animal kingdom that once thrived with competition, and left nothing but bugs scattered in the dirt.

Why wouldn't John pick up and leave?

The man was just ready to sit back for a month, and watch the madness unfold. He wanted to watch the machine that he built with his own hands function as he intended. And so he did. He flipped the switch on the machine, and watched as it mowed down every tree and animal in the rain forest. John loved every minute of it.





I looked around the interview room that they were holding me in. No way of escaping this one. The walls were bare, and they had a camera overseeing the entire room. Too bad, I'd really like to go poke Feder around some more. But I guess I'll have to answer some questions after one of Shane 's goons decided to send over the entire police station to pick me up. I guess bomb threats are a serious issue these days.


“I was just trying to save a friend," I tell the officer as I stare down at my bound wrists.


My wrists were in pain as the metal cuff link dug into my skin. This must be how it feels for every XWF inmate who’s inked into a contract these days. They sit as still as patiently as they can while the federation just cuts the circulation from their wrists. They bow their heads down, and take it from men like Wallace Witasick and Randall Cross who walk around with their badges flashing. Men like Sid Feder, Cyren, and Peter Gilmour let Shane and his syndicate control their lives, and their freedom. These men only exist to swing a pickaxe for and his appointed staff. And it all works out so well for the executive powers. Shane and his staff will work whatever left of his pathetic roster until their arms rot from their shoulders, and then he'll carry out their death sentence. Too bad John had sped up that process when he executed any worthy talent that the XWF had to offer. It was only a month ago when we had three "Egomaniacs," pissing on every inch of XWF territory. Now all three of these men are just piles of meat locked away in the morgue.


I stared across the table at the black, middle aged, male police detective. The detective is slouched over the table with his pen and paper as I spill out whatever story it is that I decided to pull out of my ass. My hands are still cuffed due to my resistant nature. They roughed me up pretty good back at my house. My shirt is nearly ripped into two pieces, and I'm pretty sure I'm missing a handful of hair.


“I will never, ever—EVER—bite one of your officers in the arm again. It was an honest mistake. I’m sure you guys have to deal with this kind of thing on a daily basis. It comes with the job, right?”


“What?” the detective exclaims as he shakes his head in frustration. “We’re not pest control, John! The way you acted was completely out of line. You put an officer’s safety at risk, and your life as well.”


I plead with the man, “Can we take these cuffs off at least? I can’t feel my hands.”


“Fuck no,” answers the detective. “You go ahead and get comfortable because you’re staying in those for a good while.”


“I deserve better treatment than this. You people abuse your power!”


I lift my bloodied fingers off the table and point at the detective’s badge hanging from his lanyard.


“Since when does having a shiny badge give you the authority to treat me like an animal? You and your police force should be pointing your weapons at Wallace's door, not mine!”


“Mr. Witasick has been cooperating with us the entire time. I suggest you do the same before your situation spins out of control."


John finally shuts his mouth as the detective regains his composure. The big man can stand tall over Johnny and shout, but he still remains a powerless, little man. He's just another Sid Feder roaming the streets, making threats, and swinging his gun around. And just like this pathetic excuse of a peace keeper, Sid Feder is just as powerless against John Madison. Ah sure, he's more of the chaotic, rebel type, but he has the same look and trigger finger. Look at Sid Feder; examine him for three minutes if you will. It isn't difficult to see that the man is all noise and no action. John would love to sit in a small room with him so that he could ask Sid Feder three times how many Money in the Bank briefcases he owns. How many is it now, Feder? Two? Three? Listening to Feder's answer would be like music to the ears of John Madison. It would be like listening to a man pull the trigger of an empty pistol.


That is who Sid Feder is; a loud, crazy fellow with an empty gun. Sid Feder is a man in possession of a deadly weapon, but is too afraid to use it. That weapon of course is the Money in the Bank briefcase. Why would a man like Sid Feder tread so lightly with such a powerful item in his possession? Why didn't he cash it in on Tristan Slater when he had the chance? And when he did "try" to cash it in, he was sure to do it on a show which Tristan Slater wasn't even scheduled to appear on. Perhaps it's the thought that counts, right Feder?

But as history reads, that passionate thought did not count. The truth is, Sid Feder could have put a bullet in the head of Tristan Slater's title reign on any day of the week. Yet, Sid Feder chose to fire his gun into an empty field. Yes, we all heard the gunshots from miles away, but what was the end result? Bullet holes into a dirt mound. It could have been Sid Feder's mug shot on the front page, but instead it was the performances of Cyren and Tristan Slater that received all of the attention. And now three weeks later, Sid Feder has lowered himself to accepting challenges from Benjamin Crane while ducking Cyren at every cost. It’s like watching a seasoned bank robber go back to robbing elderly women on the sidewalk.

Sid Feder had a chance to take the XWF by the throat, but instead chose to let Wallace grab him by the balls. He could have put a bullet through Tristan Slater, Unknown Soldier, or Cyren, but he chose to just cock his gun instead. Slater is gone, Soldier might as well be gone, and Michael James had the honor of nailing Cyren's coffin shut.

What else can a man in Feder’s position do, but drop to his knees and surrender to an executive power like Wallace Witasick? Feder has to place all of his trust in Wallace because he has no other options. The man could have injected some much needed electricity into Wednesday nights had he accept Cyren’s challenge. He could have put his foot up Tristan's ass back when the XWF Championship mattered. Wallace even guaranteed a shot at the XWF Championship which Feder avoided like it was herpes.

What exactly was Feder's response? Let's put Cyren in the spotlight three more times! I suppose winning the big one is just too much pressure for a weak man like Feder. You see; Feder's whole game is reliant on the contents of that briefcase he clutches onto every night. Feder isn't in a position to agree to big matches. His position is cowering into a corner, and picking on softer talent like Benjamin Crane. We all saw it. Rookie Ben Crane was trying to get his feet wet by making an open challenge, and Sid Feder tried to sink his teeth into his throat.

John Madison simply couldn’t resist. He saw Feder the same way as Feder saw Crane; weak prey to feed on. Of course, it didn’t take too long for Feder to go over his options before accepting John’s challenge. John had made the challenge quite simple to the point where Feder had no choice but to accept. He did what Cyren failed to do; disarming the gun toting lunatic. Cyren could have accomplished what John Madison had, but he chose to drag his feet instead. He allowed Feder to hide in his bedroom. Madison, on the other hand, has successfully smoked the man out of the house. Sid Feder is a man desperate for air at this point while his kingdom is being scorched. He’ll crawl on his hands and knees like an animal, and gasp for air. And as soon as he reaches the window, I’ll be there to greet him.

Sid Feder might as well take that gun and pull the trigger on himself.