The Pariah paces back and forth. Sweat drips from his brow as his lungs heave for air, yet somehow the paint upon his flesh appears perfectly unperturbed. Victorious on the night, the marks of war adorn his body. A busted lip, a bruised eye: a small price to pay for triumph. In truth, this Pariah’s success is built upon the skeleton of a man making far worse sacrifices for a promise yet to be fulfilled.

Pariah pulls a nickel from his pocket and flips it in the air, for old time’s sake. The nickel shimmers with a green tint as it moves through the light, but it lands on the floor of the locker room as Pariah suddenly cocks his head towards the mirror. Pariah smirks as a faint whisper calls to him from beyond the horizon.

Pariah, your woman cries for you….

Pariah approaches the aptly named vanity mirror with a peculiar smugness to his posture. He places his elbows out at his sides as he brings his hands to his chest, slowly inhaling as he raises his hands up to his face. When he exhales he blows a golden mist onto the mirror. He wipes the glass clean, revealing the shocking absence of his reflection. Instead, we see a wrinkled Asian woman in a nightgown.

Pariah spoke with impunity as he stared into the eyes just beyond the horizon.

A look of defiance flashed across Pariah’s face.

Pariah turns towards the camera with a pointed finger. 

 

The Pariah quickly shuffles towards the camera, his golden hand shrouding the lens in darkness as the scene fades to black.

A flickering light. A rickety chair. A deranged man.

“Gold.”

The light flickers on, illuminating the painted Pariah.

“It’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it? It gives life, renews spirit, and inspires courage. That vigor, that never-ending quest: is etched across my flesh.”

Pariah gestures gracefully towards his golden face before the light flickers off.

“Black.”

The suffocating darkness shrouds Pariah in impenetrable shadows.

“This darkness is within us all. You can deny it or try to hide it, but when the lights turn off and the crowd goes home…the darkness is all that’s left. That’s why I wear my darkness proudly upon the flesh, because I made peace with my darkness a long, long time ago.”

The light flickers on, illuminating Pariah’s face as he leans into the camera.

“Fear the reaper when you see his face, for I am the Pariah, I am the vengeance of the outcast, I am the hammer of the forgotten. My fury need not be righteous nor just…it need only be felt.

And Sean Parker, you WILL feel it, when my words turn to crushing blows inside that ring...”

Pariah sneers as he runs his fingers along the top of the chair.

“You’ve been a cheap replacement your whole career. And if you don’t feel that, then Sean, you don’t even know yourself.

You’re the Starry soda of professional wrestlers- not a star in yourself, mind you- but a cheap replacement meant to mimic the taste and aesthetic, without the baggage. Remember, you were never good enough to be drafted into the TRIAD. The top pick of their draft had to be discarded. He was thrown away so that your plastic personality could come in and better fit their mold. TRIAD couldn’t handle his toxic brand, so they traded it in for your cookie-cutter charisma.

I will be the harbinger of his justice.

Centurion, too, will be avenged.

You will never live up to his legacy on Anarchy, to think otherwise is pure Madness. You are no replacement for the former Champion, and you know it: you don’t deserve to hold that golden chalice, you never have. You shoehorned yourself into an open challenge on your first Thursday night appearance, because Sean Parker doesn’t believe in hard-work and earning things the old fashioned way.

But how could he?

This spoiled brat has been treated like a pretty princess everywhere he’s been. From every vantage, he's treated as divine. He’s the XWF’s angled angel. He came into this company on a pampered pillow, treated to top-billing on Monday nights and Thursdays alike.

He’s nothing like the Pariah.

The Pariah earns EVERYTHING he gets. The ridicule, the hatred, the maddening success, all of it: and I’m going to earn it all over again just to prove my point. 

Sean Parker’s angelic soul is already in the furnace….it’s just the human condition. But Sean, what will your tombstone read next Thursday night?”

Pariah places a ponderous finger upon his chin before dismissing the entire notion with a snarl.

“God save the champion, unless God wants me to bring his angel home.”