We are dropped once more into the unbridled chaos that is Madison Dyson’s mind. Thunder rages overhead like twin dragons locked in mortal combat. The winds buffet Madison’s dreadlocks. The rains patter against her clothing. But she feels none of it. After all, this is her world. Her mindscape.

Which makes it such a pisser that Lux has built her own little haven in the thick of it.

The audacity of this bitch. Madison scowls. Because stretching out before her, like an unpopped pimple set amidst the detritus of this bleak landscape, is a verdant oasis covered by a shimmering bubble. Madison walks up to it, placing a hand on the shimmer that looks every bit like a soap bubble with form and substance. Past the barrier are vibrant greens, a peaceful azure sky, and last but certainly not least, Lux herself, sitting cross legged beside a meandering brook, seemingly deep in the throes of meditation.

Grumble, grumble, incoherent grumbling

Madison, summoning her own stores of mental energy, waggles a hand at the shimmering bubble and creates a doorbell inset inside it. With a further spate of incoherent grumbles, she jams her finger in the doorbell.

Nada.

Lux either doesn’t hear the chime or she’s simply paying it no mind.

The AUDACITY. Of this BITCH. Madison pounds on the bubble now, but no sound issues forth. Finally, with a grimace followed suit by a twisted smile, she waves her hands in the air and summons forth two assault rifles, one in each hand.

Spread it on!

Madison lights up the bubble, unloading both magazines directly into the shimmer. It explodes inwardly. With the damage done, Madison raises the smoking weapons in the air and steps over the shards of broken shimmer into Lux’s oasis.

Meanwhile, Lux has leapt to her feet in a fighting stance, chest heaving for the shock of having her little slice of heaven so violently invaded.

Madison tosses the guns to the side and they simply disappear back into her mental ether. She approaches Lux, once again bearing a grimace.

Did you see what happened out there?! I got turned into a human pincushion!

Lux considers Madison warily, but drops her guard nonetheless. Did you truly need to make such a violent entrance?

Did you truly need to completely botch my training so that I looked like an ASSHOLE in front of millions of people on pay per view?! Madison spits back, gesticulating wildly.

Lux sighs. We’ve been over this. It took me a lifetime to learn my fighting skills. How much did you really think I could impart to you in three days?

Enough to beat Autism Supreme that’s for goddamn sure. Madison looks down and finds a log. Is this nature okay to sit on?

It’s a log. Lux deadpans.

Yeah well I’m not used to, ya know, the outdoors. Madison takes a critical look at the log before finally deciding to sit on it. And another thing! How the hell do you know it took you a lifetime to learn your skills?! I thought you knew jack shit about who you are.

Lux lobs a cold look at Madison. And whose fault is that?

Madison holds her hands up placatingly. Okay, point taken. Madison sighs. Maybe it’s time we had some girl talk, ya know? Mind if we change the venue?

I sup-

But before Lux can even finish her statement, their environs ripple like a stone being tossed in a placid pond and they suddenly find themselves in a posh outdoor French cafe. A chair slides up underneath Lux and she lets out a small yelp of surprise as she falls into it. Madison’s log has changed into another seat, now positioned across a small circular table from Lux. In an instant, a tall dark and handsome waiter wearing nothing but a banana hammock is waiting to take their order. Lux looks on at the shameless sexuality on display and resists the urge to roll her eyes. Madison, naturally, leans in towards the waiter.

I’ll have a chai latte please.

Und für deinen Freund?

It takes Lux a moment to realize she’s being addressed. Oh. A water. Thanks.

The waiter turns sharply and trods away. Madison admires his taut asscheeks clapping over the threadbare piece of material. Lux looks around at their sudden change of setting.

This is a French cafe. Why was the waiter speaking German?

Oh, I dunno. The language has just always done something for me, I guess. So! Madison reaches across the table and takes Lux’s hands in hers. I owe you an explanation, no? Girl to girl.

It would be appreciated. Lux replies cooly.

Of course! Madison releases a breath and Lux's hands. But don’t say I didn’t warn you that this is gonna be some seriously heavy shit. Madison takes a moment to collect what she’s going to say. Alright, for starters your name is A.R.I.E.L.

Like…the mermaid?

Madison rolls her eyes. Christ woman you didnt even know your own name but you remember The Little goddamn Mermaid? But fine, yes, like the mermaid. Except your name is an acronym.

Which stands for…?

How should I know? You know those science geeks love to turn everything into acronyms like AIDS, and H20, and L.A.R.G.E. H.A.D.R.O.N. C.O.L.L.I.D.E.R.

Pretty sure those last two aren’t acronyms.

Whatever. I reiterate, not a dork. Alright, but this is where it gets really, REALLY heavy. It’s…it’s about WHAT you are.

Lux, oh, I’m sorry ARIEL, visibly tenses in her seat. Just say it.

Okay, here goes. You, my dear, are an advanced artificial intelligence cooked up by my friend Misty Waters’ crack science team and injected into my brain. You’re designed to teach me advanced fighting arts culled from hundreds of thousands of hours of footage of martial arts masters from around the world.

Ariel’s gaze cants downwards towards the table. So I’m not a real person.

Madison, looking exasperated, leans in and plants her hands on the edge of the table. THAT’S what you took out of all that?! Honey, you’re literally a fighting GOD. How fucking SWEET is that.

But I’m stuck here. In your mind.

Madison’s exasperation dips into a scowl. Oh buck up buttercup. Would you rather not exist at all?

Ariel shakes her head, as if trying to dislodge some mental cobwebs. It’s just…just…

Just, what?

Ariel looks up at Madison, eyes suddenly boring into Madison’s own. It’s just that this feels WRONG. I don’t know how, or why, but it feels like I’m not supposed to be HERE. It feels like I’m supposed to be doing something else! I…I…

Madison sucks her teeth disdainfully. Bitch, you are literally three days old. You’re too young to be having an existential crisis. Look! Madison leans in. You need to face facts. You are here to serve ME. You are here to turn me into a world class athlete. You are here to ensure that that four out of five on the travesty of justice scale at Relentless…

Madison shoots a fourth wall shattering pointed glance at the viewer. How she does this from within her mind? ‘Tis a mystery!

….NEVER happens again. Capiche?

But Ariel doesn’t look placated. Something is still gnawing at her, worrying away at her very soul. And in that moment, she speaks truth to it.

Madison, who is Corey?

Madison’s face tics, a barely perceptible tell. She smiles, but its a veneer. A bulwark against the sudden onset of anxiety deep within. What…uhhh….what makes you ask that?

Ariels eyes narrow. Huh.

What “huh”? Why are you “huh-ing”?

It’s just strange. You didn’t ask me WHO that was. Just why I asked it.

Madison laughs, a nervous laugh making a play for dismissiveness. Well, I have no idea who this “Corey” is. It’s just…phrasing. You know?

Then why would that name, of all names, pop into my head? Madison, who is Corey?

Madison feigns looking at a watch that isn’t there. Well would you look at the time! I bet they’re going to send us the card for Warfare any minute now. Sorry Ariel but mama’s gotta scoot! She stands up. Oh, and you can have the cafe. Soooooo much better than all that outdoorsy crap. You’re welcome. Toodles!

Madison…wait!

But she’s already gone.

Ariel slinks back in her seat, running her hand through her hair in consternation. The name meant something. And Madison knew it.

But what did it mean?

Ah there was the rub.

Because to even begin to try to disentangle the panoply of feelings that name engendered felt nigh impossible.

Safety.
Light.
Angst.
Confusion.
Anger.
Disappointment.
Pride.


…Love.

Ariel found herself catching an errant tear falling from her eye with her finger. She held it up to view it, and for a moment caught a glimpse of Madison’s world through it, all distorted and concave. And then the tear fell, as they are apt to do, and Ariel watched it go. Watched it tumble down onto a manhole cover that had been under her feet the entire time. A manhole that read…


Well if that wasn’t calling for some investigation then nothing was.



Johnny Bacchus it may shock you to learn that anyone, and I do mean anyone, can Google poetry lyrics and philosophy quotes in a self satisfied fart sniffing attempt to sound profound and elitist.  Here I’m gonna do it right now.

Fools,” said I, “You do not know / Silence like a cancer grows / Hear my words that I might teach you / Take my arms that I might reach you, But my words like silent raindrops fell / And echoed in the wells of silence.

Ooops, I lied, those are actually lyrics from the Simon and Garfunkel hit, The Sounds of Silence. But my point still stands.

You see Johnny, you, perish the very thought, represent a certain archetype that I’ve repeatedly stumbled into in my years in this business. The Artist. The Auteur! And as quick as you would no doubt be to decry the accusation, you special, special boy, you…I think a part of you, deep down in your breast, must on some level acknowledge that you, sir….

…are an insufferable pretentious twat.

And hey, there’s nothing illegal about being a pretentious twat. In fact, nowadays, the wrestling world seems chock full of them. But that’s exactly my point. You, Johnny, think you are something truly special. And why shouldn’t you. UC Berkley right out of high school? Suckling on the teat of all those left wing firebrands drunk on Rage Against the Machine liner notes and their own effete predilections? Having a boyfriend named Cookie…fucking COOKIE…I….

Madison scoops a hand up to her mouth to stifle her laughter.

What a special, special boy you are! So unique! Such a paragon! And by God does he just NEEEEED you to know it too. I mean, it’s right there in his bio on the XWF roster. A veritable who’s who of wrestling stars and starlets talking about, who else, Johnny Bacchus. And don’t let the self effacing mockery of some of the comments fool you. By posting this list Johnny has accomplished the grown up version of collecting the most popular kid signatures in his high school year book.

And let’s think about that for a moment, shall we? Let’s ponder its significance. Why would a man, who let’s not forget, is a verifiable GENIUS (and how CAN we forget when his predisposition to reminding us of that fact is as vital to him as sucking oxygen) feel the need to embrace this kind of child-like popularity contest drudgery?

Well, it’s because, despite his vast quantity of Mary-sue’isms, Johnny Bacchus is still deeply, deeply insecure. I mean, Johnny Bacchus is literally EVERYTHING. A queer, radical non-conformist, genius, journalist, master wrestling superstar my GOD STOP THE RIDE I’M GONNA VOMIT….

Madison delicately clears her throat before proceeding.

…ah ha hem.

Despite being alllll of that, he still needs to point out the plethora of famous names that know him. Because he needs YOU to think he’s special too. He NEEDS you to. Pop the top baby, it’s like a DRUG.

And that’s how all these new fuckers are. From their endless, self absorbed spats on X, to their grotesque cliquish hobnobbery, they all just need you to acknowledge how terminally UNIQUE they are.

Well fuck you Johnny Bacchus.

And while we’re fucking you (not in the fun way, I assure you), answer me a question, sweetest? How is it that you first inked an XWF contract over a year ago, and in that time, don’t have a single championship to your name? Were you too busy multi-tasking in other, shall we say, less competitive promotions? I mean, you certainly have an alphabet soup of titles from OTHER places. Why not one here, Johnny? Why did it take you so goddamn long to even DO SOMETHING….DO ANYTHING….right here in the XWF? And when you finally did do ANYTHING here, why was a man of your “clearly superior” talents facing the likes of….Cadryn Tiberius and Tommy Gunn? Why was a UC BERKLEY (!!) alum who dresses like a Naruto villain caught dead….losing Leap of Faith?

Ruh roh. 

Yeah, turns out that huffing your own product to the tune of the works of Kierkegaard does not a 24/7 briefcase holder make. *Sigh* All that work perusing prominent philosophers on Wikipedia and for what Johnny, for what?! For you to expose yourself as a pseudo-intellectual twat waffle with naught but a strong Google Fu game and come away with NOTHING! That’s WHAT.

But let’s take a step back for a moment shall we? Because this match is about oh so much more than protecting the ego of some Prius driving alphabet person who can’t wait to breathlessly tell you all about his pronouns (which change weekly).

So what is this match, you ask?

This match is actually the mastermind creation of a braintrust of talented XWF bookers looking to create a memorable X-Treme division title match and give its dominant champion Misty Waters a true test of her mettle in hopes of driving viewership numbers and pleasing our promotion’s notoriously hard to pacify fanbase.

…..


Okay, okay….I’m just fucking with you! OF COURSE it’s an attempt by a cabal of progressive Deep State kiddy diddlers to destroy the MAGA Powers! Like, DUH!

I mean, Jesus people, just look at what’s happening here! Misty Waters is being pitted against me, her own partner, in what just might be the most important match of her entire career! Could they have made this shit fuckery any more obvious? Oh, it turns out they could! By adding some over-refined LGBTQIA2TDOUBLEPLUSALPHA ultra-liberal egomaniac WANKER to the mix to try to capitalize on the dissension they hope to create between me and Misty!

Well FUCK OFF Deep State! Because the MAGA Powers are on to you!

And I know what you’re all thinking!

“Madison Dyson can’t be trusted.”

“Madison Dyson is gonna stab Misty in the back.”

“Madison Dyson has an ass that just won’t quit.”

And while one of those IS true, the others are demonstrably false. Because I, Madison Dyson, am 100% loyal to Misty Waters. I respect the hell out of what she’s done with that Xtreme championship. And I am going to do everything in my power to make sure she comes out of this match with a 24/7 briefcase!

Why?

Because this match represents the very nexus of the culture war this nation is embroiled in. On one side, we have true Americans! The MAGA Powers! Two self made women who represent the common clay of this fine nation. The type of people the average American wants to have a beer and a home cooked meal with. The type of people who RESPECT what America is really about.

And on the other side?

A man, and I use that term VERY lightly, who wouldn’t be caught dead with the common American! A man who’d rather wax poetic about the supposed ills of this nation and deride what it means to be a real American. A man who spits in the face of Jesus Christ and common decency all the while opening wide for a snowball from his boyfriend Cookie….fucking COOKIE….I just can’t….

Madison again has to withhold a torrent of laughter. When she finally composes herself, she continues.

XWF, the culture war has reached your shores! And it’s time to pick a side. Will it be some insecure, Ivory tower panty waist who’ll sneer at you and yours? Or the MAGA Powers, who are willing to bleed, red, white and blue for your right to kick your feet up, pump some diesel in your pick-up, and drink that Natty Ice!

I think the answer is clear.

And, last but not least, a message to you my dear Misty.

If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be back in my original body again.

If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have Ariel.

If it wasn’t for you, I probably would not have been Anarchy champion.

People can shit talk me all they want. And hell, I’ll even admit, some of it’s founded.

But God damnit Madison Dyson knows what loyalty is! And I’m going to show the world, and you Misty, just how much I mean that.

And never forget what we’re up against. Some liberal patsy trying to tear us asunder! You and I both know what the Deep State is capable of. But in this match, they’ve overplayed their hand. Because this isn’t the three’s company clusterfuck they’re imagining. Oh no, no, no. This is going to be the two on one DECIMATION of the lamb they’ve proffered up for slaughter.

But in order for it to work that way, Misty, you have to hold true to our cause. Because every time you look at me askew, the Deep State wins. Every time you question my motives, the Deep State wins. Everytime you catch yourself wishing you had eyes in the back of your head, wondering just what the hell I’m up to, the Deep State wins again!

Misty, for this to work, and for you to come up triumphant, you MUST trust me! It’s the only way!

I’m not about to shit on all the hard work you’ve put into defending the XTreme championship. Hell, you’ve earned this 24/7 briefcase even faster than Mark Flynn did which gives me no small amount of satisfaction. You think I want to ruin that for you?

At Warfare, Madison Dyson’s career takes a backseat. And not for the first time. After all, I broke into the XWF as a manager. And this weekend, I take up that mantle yet again. Except with the bonus of being able to cave Johnny Bacchus smug face in in the process.

Ain’t no war like a culture war, baby. And ain’t no Xtreme champion like Misty goddamn Waters. My partner. My client.

And my friend.

Ariel considered the strange sight beneath her feet and sensed how sorely out of place it was given the environs of the cafe. Something was decidedly off about it. Perhaps this was an inroads of sorts, a way to learn more about this Madison Dyson. A woman who was both a stranger and yet oddly familiar.

Ariel set aside her chair and crouched down at the lip of the manhole. Grasping it tight, she tried to wedge her fingers in the crevice but found it was to no avail. But, Ariel had already discovered she had a limited sort of control in the confines of Madison’s mind. So, she summoned a crowbar, jammed it against the lip, and popped open the manhole. A ladder descended deep into a foreboding darkness, but nonetheless Ariel opted to take the plunge. When the ladder reached terra firma, she found herself not in a sewer, but in a strange hallway. 



It was like something ripped straight from the mind of Lewis Carroll. I think I’m through the looking glass. Ariel muttered to herself as she continued on down the sloping hall. The oddly proportioned doors on either side of her were labeled, but the words were often smudged or made otherwise illegible. It reminded her of the notion that you were unable to read in dreams. Now whether that chestnut was true or not, Ariel was unsure. But this all felt so suitably dreamlike-

-and then there it was. A door with a sign on it she could actually read.


The childlike sign mounted on the door drew Ariel’s attention for more than it’s (relative) legibility. Might as well start here. Ariel spoke to herself again, raising her hand and landing three quick knocks to the door. At first, there was no reply. But then, a rustling could be heard on the other side of the door, and then, it irised open. A child’s face, blond haired and blue eyed, could be seen in the slit uncovered by the open door.

Um, hello there, I’m…

The boy’s hand shoots out and taps the sign.

No girls!

Ariel fumbled for what to say for a moment before settling on an approach. Well, I’m not just any girl. I’m a ninja master!

The boy scowled.

Ninjas?! So your a for’ner too?! He taps the second missive on the sign. No liberals! And then he shut the door in Ariel’s face. It was Ariel’s turn to scowl now. She cast another glance at the sign and knocked again.

Go away!

I promise I’m not a liberal!

But you’re still a girl!

Well, I guess I can’t change that. But hey, do me a solid here, kid. I have no idea where I am. And I really do know karate! So maybe I can show you some moves if you show me around a bit. Ariel waited for a response, hopeful that the child bought what she was selling.

And, finally, the door opened wide. With the boy in full view, Ariel could ascertain more details. He looked to be about 6 or 7 years old. And he was clad in Donald Trump footie pajamas. His coif wasn’t done up like his idols, but his hair was long and somewhat wavy.

You promise to teach me some karate?

Cross my heart.

Hope to die. The boy finished, with a hint of a malicious grin which Ariel chose to ignore.

Instead, she had a look in the room beyond, and saw that instead of posters of Power Rangers and other such childlike ephemera, the wall was covered in right wing sloganeering and images of famous Republicans. Of course, it was all Greek to Ariel. With her memory loss, she had no idea who any of these figures were. But it still struck her as highly unusual content for a little boy’s room. At any rate, she pressed on.

It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ariel.

The boy glanced at her with some suspicion before agreeing to drop his guard long enough to volunteer his name. Samael. But people call me Sammy.

Samael is certainly an interesting name.

My mother gave it to me.

And who might your mother be, Samael?

You should know, lady. You’re in her head.

My mother’s name is Madison Dyson.