David Farley sat in the middle of the packed community center, a sour look plastered all over his face as the fifth match of the night dragged ooooooooooooooooooooooooooon. 

The show had been a disaster. 

Ropes sagging, canvas laced with duct tape and stains, it matched the quality of the talent he'd seen so far. This was supposed to be a scouting trip, but it was starting to feel like a slow and agonizing death.

The latest disaster in the ring was a guy named "Dumpster Dan." 

His gimmick? 

He carried a trash can to the ring and used it as a weapon. 

Yeah, not even an actual dumpster in the gimmick... So, of course, David didn't even bother writing his name down as Dan racked up the win over a somehow less impressive guy who David had already forgotten the name of, but would forever remember him trying to cut an in-ring promo mid-match and taking a trash can lid to the grill for it.

*sigh* "Another waste of time." 

David shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried to ignore the rowdy fan sitting next to him, a guy in his mid-40s wearing a faded t-shirt that read Wrestling is Real, People are Fake.

"Yo, my guy! What’d you think of Dumpster Dan? Banger of a match, right?" The fan asked before shoving a fistful of popcorn into his mouth.

David forced a polite shrug. "He’s… something alright."

The guys eyes lit up. "Right? Dude’s got, like a silent charisma about him, which is a good thing since he can't really talk for shit (*snicker*), but that trash can spot? Fucking WOW, right?!"

David blinked. "He hit a guy in the face with a trash can lid. That’s not charisma, or wow... it's garbage... Literally."

"Hmmm? Not a fan of Hardcore wrestling, huh? Well, it IS an artform that most casuals can't comprehend."

"...right," David muttered, flipping through his notes that were filled with half hearted notes on wrestlers he’d already forgotten. Most of them were underlined with big question marks. He begrudgingly scribbled 'Dumpster Dan' on to the page, only to cross it out a second later... they all sucked!

The fan raised an eyebrow as he leaned closer. "Say. what, are you writing, a blog or something?"

David smirked and snapped his notebook shut. "Not exactly. I’m a talent scout for the XWF."

The fan froze mid popcorn, staring at him like he’d just announced he was the President of the United States. "No way. You? You work for the XWF?!"

David shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Yeah, that’s me. I watch shows like this and try to find the next big thing. Not that tonight’s given me much to work with...”

The fan’s jaw dropped. “Dude! You’re, like, the guy who brings in the future stars! You got anybody from tonight lined up?”

David snorted, reopening his notebook and flipping through the pages. "Let’s just say I haven’t seen anything worth writing home about. These guys are more 'future Walmart greeter' than 'future champion.'"

The fan looked a little offended. "What about Dumpster Dan? Or that girl from earlier, Umbra Malice? She had the crowd going!"

"Umbra Malice?" David scoffed. "The girl who tripped on her entrance and wrestled in a $20 Halloween costume? Come on, man. This isn’t a high school talent show, I'm looking for pros."

"But wait, she's a champion!"

David snorted. "Not where it matters!"

The fan narrowed his eyes. "Alright, smart guy, who’s your favorite in the XWF then?"

David hesitated. "Hard to say." He gestured vaguely toward the ring. "I’m more into finding new talent, you know?"

"Oh, if you like new guys, then you must love Enigma and Gorgo! I bet you're even the guy who brought them in, huh?"

David nearly choked on the stale and musty air of the gym. “Enigma and Gorgo? That team that tripped all over their feet in their debut against the MAGA Powers? Nope, not me, but I'm curious why you thought I might've?”

"Because they’re cool," the fan said, as if that explained everything.

"Right. Cool," David repeated flatly. He flipped to a blank page in his notebook and doodled a tombstone with his own name on it. 






Suddenly, the announcer’s voice boomed over the crackling PA system. "Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for your MAIN EVENT!"

David sighed, not even looking up as the next competitor emerged from the curtain. The guy was flabby, wearing mismatched and ill fitting gear. He was clearly out of his depth.

"Another nobody," David muttered. "This night’s been a bust."

But then it happened. 

The lights dimmed, and a sharp, pulsating beat rattled through the PA. 


The crowd instantly came to life as strobes and multicolored lasers exploded into a dazzling light show.

David looked up as the fan beside him pointed toward the curtain.

"Whoa! This guy’s got an entrance!"

David squinted toward the curtain as the music played. 

• A tall, lean, muscular figure stepped out into the neon glow of the stage lights. 
  

• His gear sparkled with a custom design that actually looked professional. 
  

• He demanded the crowd's attention.
  

"Who is this?" David whispered, sitting up straighter. His pencil hovered over his notebook, waiting for a name. For the first time all night, he felt a flicker of hope.

The announcer’s voice roared over the speakers. "Introducing, from Los Angeles California... L-A BLAAAAAAAAAAAADE!!!"

The crowd erupted as LA Blade made his way to the ring. 

David leaned forward. 

This was it. 

Finally, someone worth scouting!

As LA Blade climbed into the ring, David’s pen nearly cut the page scrawling notes. "Charisma. Presence. Potential."

Maybe, just maybe, his luck was about to change.

LA Blade took the center of the ring with microphone in hand, but before he spoke, he paced the ring, peering into the crowd with the swagger of someone who owned it.

"Is this it? Is this the best they could scrape together for me tonight? Some bargain bin brawler who, by the looks of him, can't even afford a matching gear, much less a gym membership?!"

The crowd laughed, and Blade smirked as he turned, pointing towards the entrance ramp. "Hey, BIG MAN, you might as well go on back there now and save yourself the embarrassment! Go on now, GET!"

The audience popped and Blade fed off of their energy. "You're still here? Er... What’s your name again? Brickhead Bob? Fatback Frank? Doesn't matter! You're a nobody today, and you'll be a crippled nobody tomorrow if you don't go ahead and vamoose! YEAH!”

The camera panned across the ring to Big Jake Slater who was fuming. Slater yelled inaudible threats as Blade pretended to shiver in fear.

"Oh, look, everyone! Fatback's mad! You gonna cry, Frank? You don't like what I'm saying? How about you do something about it instead of just standing there like a BIG bitch baby!?"

The crowd began to chant;


That was the final straw. 

Slater charged across the ring and swung wildly at Blade, but Blade ducked under and slipped out of his jacket in one smooth motion, tossing it to the corner. 

The referee frantically called for the bell as Slater turned and charged again.

Blade sidestepped, and shoved Slater, who crashed chest first into the turnbuckle. The crowd roared as Blade capitalized, landing kick after kick to the back of Slater's leg, causing the big man to stumble to one knee.

David Farley, watching from the crowd, couldn’t hide his excitement. He scribbled furiously in his notebook. "Quick thinking. Agile. Crowd control. My God, he's got it!"

The crowd roared as Blade launched himself off the ropes with a picture-perfect crossbody, crashing into Slater and taking the larger man to the mat.

David leaned forward in his seat, pencil furiously scribbling notes. "Crossbody is clean. Timing’s great. This guy’s got the tools."

Slater struggled to get back to his feet, but Blade was already on him. He grabbed Slater by the wrist, whipped him into the corner, and followed up with a running clothesline. 

Slater stumbled forward, dazed, and Blade caught him with a twisting neckbreaker that left the big man laying on the mat motionless.

The crowd was on fire as Blade popped to his feet. He glanced out at the fans, gesturing towards Slater and pointing to himself. The message was clear: "He's not in my league!"

David’s pencil paused mid-note. "He’s got the crowd eating out of his hand, but don’t lose focus, kid. Stay on him."

Blade climbed the ropes facing the crowd. He spread his arms wide, taking in the admiration before finally launching into what proved to be a beautiful corkscrew moonsault.

...Slater barely rolled out of the way.

Blade hit the mat hard, clutching his ribs as the crowd groaned in disappointment. 

Slater used the ropes to drag himself back to his feet as Blade struggled to recover.

David winced, jotting a quick note. "Unnecessary risk and way too soon. Needs better ring awareness."

Slater didn’t waste a second stomping over to Blade and yanking him up by his hair. 

He whipped Blade into the ropes and caught him on the rebound with a devastating spinebuster that felt as though it shook the foundations of the building.

Slater stood over Blade and flexed his arms. The crowd jeered, but Slater didn’t care as he picked Blade up again, looking for a powerbomb.

Farley’s eyes darted between his notebook and the action. "Let’s see what you’ve got, Blade. Time to show me you can dig deep."

Slater slammed him to the canvas like a sack of wet laundry. 

Slater wasn’t done, though. He grabbed Blade’s leg and twisted him over into a single-leg Boston crab, sitting down hard to really crank up the pressure.

Blade’s face twisted in agony as he clawed at the mat, trying to drag himself to the ropes and in response, Slater leaned back even further, putting his full weight into the hold.

"This is it," David muttered, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "The kid’s toast."

The annoying fan jumped up, popcorn flying everywhere. "Come on, Blade! Don’t tap! Fight out of it!"

Blade was still struggling, his arms shaking as he pushed himself up slightly. 

The rest of the crowd began to rally behind him too.

Blade grit his teeth, planted one hand firmly on the mat, and twisted his body just enough to throw Slater off balance.

Slater stumbled forward, losing his grip for a split second, and Blade scrambled free, both clutching his leg and gasping for air.

David raised an eyebrow and made a note. "Tough little bastard."

Slater turned, looking pissed, and went to grab Blade again, but this time, Blade was ready and lunged forward with a hard punch right into Slater’s gut. 

The big man grunted and staggered back a step.

Blade didn’t stop. He followed up with another punch, and another, each one hitting harder than the last. Slater tried to block, but Blade slipped through his defenses, landing a clean right hook square on the jaw that rocked him hard.

David smirked. "Alright, kid. Now you’re cooking."

Slater staggered into the ropes, dazed, but Blade didn’t give him a second to recover. He sprinted across the ring and leaped, hitting Slater with a flying forearm that knocked him into the corner.

The crowd was on their feet, screaming as Blade stepped back and pointed at Slater. "Time to end this? ... YEAH!"

Slater stumbled out of the corner, still dazed, and Blade impressively hoisted Slater into his arms.

The crowd exploded as Blade yelled, "YEAH", and dropped Slater with his back-to-belly DDT known as 'The Gravy Train'!

The big man went limp and Blade hooked the leg!

The referee slid into position.

ONE! TWO!! THREE!!!

The bell rang, and the crowd lost their shit. 

Blade rolled onto his back, staring up at the lights and trying to catch his breath.

David stood up, notebook in hand, watching as the announcer shouted, "YOUR WINNER: L-A BLAAAAAAAAADE!"

Blade slowly got to his feet, raising his arms as the crowd cheered him on. He climbed the turnbuckle, pointing to the fans and yelling something David couldn’t quite make out.

David tucked his notebook under his arm and headed for the exit. "The kid’s rough," he muttered, shaking his head, "but he’s sure got something."

---

---

We open with LA Blade standing in front of a flashy, neon-lit backdrop featuring his name in bold sharp letters. He's rocking a silver jacket with a glimmering reflective glow and sunglasses.

Blade leans forward with a cocky smirk already on his face. He points directly at the lens.

"Let me set the record straight, right here, right now!

My name is LA Blade, and contrary to what you've been told, I’m not making my debut at Snow Holds Barred... 

What I'm making is BIG problems for WHOEVER walks out of Snow Holds Barred as the TV champ!”

He stepped back, spreading his arms out like he owned the whole world.

"YEAH!

James Shark, The 'Trash Talk King'?

Man, the only thing you're ruling is your own dumpster fire of a career. 

You're out here throwing words like they’re haymakers, but your game? That’s the real trash. 

You got dumped on your head by Adam Garcia, and let's be real, everyone saw it coming. He put you out like yesterday’s leftovers. 

How’s it feel to go from ‘Xtreme Champ’ to the guy begging for that TV title back like it’s your last meal ticket?

Then we've got Charlie Nickles, the self-proclaimed Family Man. The guy who lost everything, then somehow found his calling as wrestling's favorite midlife crisis? You’ve got the nickname game locked down.

'Demos', 'Charlie Dimes', 'The Nickleman'.

But how many names does it take to distract from your eternal career nosedive? Spoiler: it’s not working. You’re like a coin tossed into a wishing well, always falling short and sinking to the bottom. Why don't you go find another offspring to murder? Maybe it'll work to distract us all from how much you suck this time, cause it sure didn't the first!

YEAH!

Tatiana Jolee Greymore: FORTY-ONE! That’s in woman years too, so she’s like 70-something! And that crusty bitch is still pretending her stale technical style is groundbreaking too! She parades her "integrity” like anyone cares, whining about off camera drama while broadcasting it to the world. Too scared to swing a bat in an Xtreme match, she’s a relic who’d rather monologue about her self righteousness than adapt to a world that’s passed her by. Sheeesh, just call yourself 'Less Interesting Ruby-Clone'!

Face it, Tatiana: You're not special, you're just another washed up journeyman in a sea of superior talent.

You know, like ME!

YEAH!”

He leaned in again, pointing at the camera like he was delivering the holy testament of LA Blade.

"Listen, let me make one thing crystal clear.

I’m not scared of any of those clowns who might walk out of Snow Holds Barred with the TV Title.

Shark, Nickles, Jolee—call it what it is: a lineup of placeholders. Transitional champions. Paper champs keeping that belt warm for someone REAL. 

Someone like ME!

YEAH!

Let me ask you this: if I ain't worried about the so-called championship level talent, the alleged 'best of the best'.

Then why the hell would I break a sweat over this little pack of LOSERS I have to go through to get there? Huh?

Solomon Kline. Yelena Gorgo. Enigma.”

He stopped suddenly and tilted his head like he couldn’t believe he even had to say this.

"Three dumb as hell names. Zero threats."

He let out a quick laugh, shaking his head as if the idea of these three being competition was too ridiculous to take seriously.

"Kline? The dude’s about as exciting as warm milk. Gorgo? Yeah, she’s tough, but so am I, and Enigma? Bro, your whole gimmicks a question mark.

Fitting, I guess, since nobody knows or cares what the hell you’re all about anyway!"

Blade flicked his sunglasses up onto his head, locking eyes with the camera.

"Let’s dig a little deeper into these losers, shall we?

Beginning with Solomon Kline: the golden boy with the daddy complex, trying to ride into greatness on on a skateboard and the coattails of nostalgia. Who the fuck is Crimson Kline? Beats the hell out of me, I never even heard the name before I came across your ass. 

But I CAN see why you wouldn't want to ride those coattails, since you know, they only lead to prison and obscurity. 

YEAH!

You might be good at flipping boards, but I’ll flip your entire world upside down. You talk about following in your dad’s footsteps? That’s cute. Real cute. 

If you want to be forgotten before anyone has a chance to know you like Pops, then all you got to do it BRING IT!

I’m not as forgiving as a ramp. You’re jumping into the deep end with sharks, kid, and instead of swimming, you’re gonna sink faster than your losing streak. Speaking of which, how long has that streak been going? Longer than your skateboards last, right? From losing all those XBux to Aurora, to getting clowned by Latoya, you’ve racked up more L’s than a Scrabble board. 

But hey, Bright side: it's just your chance to you do what you do best at the first big show of 2025...

Crash, burn, AND STAY THE HELL OUT OF MY SPOTLIGHT!

And it is MY spotlight, because who else's could it possibly be? 

Gorgo and Enigma? 

You two had your shot at greatness and you choked!

Gorgo, your whole ‘mind games and dark vibes’ shtick might’ve worked on some weak minded morons, but let me break it to you like this: It didn't work for you against the MAGA Powers, and it won't work for you against ME! 

I’m not entertaining your twisted fantasies, and the only thing mind games will earn you in this match, is a one-way ticket to ‘Outsville’ when I plant you with the Gravy Train!

YEAH!

Trust me, when that bell rings, all that spooky bullshit won’t save you from getting your brains scrambled!

YEAH!"

Blade glared into the camera with an energy that made it feel as though he had already won.

"Enigma, you’re supposed to be this ‘unstoppable force’, right?

Funny, because it looks like Dolly and Madison stopped you dead in your tracks.

They exposed you for the overhyped fraud you are, and now you’re thinking you’ve got something to prove at Snow Holds Barred. The only thing you’ll prove is that no matter how big you talk, you hit the mat just like everyone else!

Let’s get one thing straight.

I’m not walking into a wrestling match on January 26th.

This isn’t a competition.

What I’m walking into is a parade of losers. Solomon, Gorgo, Enigma… Nobody cares what you accomplished in IIW, AAW, OVW, or any other shithole you came from. 

HERE, in the XWF, you three are becoming the poster children for failure, and I’m the guy who’s about to turn your misery into my own personal masterpiece!

You’re all trying to bounce back and make a statement in an attempt to claw your way out of irrelevance.

Me? 

I’m not clawing at anything, I AM THE STATMENT!

The highlight of this match won’t be any of you. 

It won’t be your underdog stories, or your tired excuses. 

It’ll be me, leaving you all in the dust while I carve out my path straight to the TV Title.

I've watched you all lose, stumble, and fail. Now, I get to be the one to put the final nail in the coffin of three dead-end careers at once!

You clowns ain't nothing more than stepping stones on my path to the top, and after Snow Holds Barred, you’ll simply be remembered as footnotes in the rise of LA BLADE!

YEAH!!!"

LA Blade stares into the lens with a smirk, then walks off as the camera fades to black.

---

---

David caught up with LA Blade in the cramped hallway backstage. Blade was leaning against a wall, guzzling a bottle of water like his life depended on it.

"Hey,” David called out, waving his notebook. “Blade, right?"

Blade straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, that’s me. What’s up? You wanna autograph or something?"

David extended a hand. "David Farley. I’m a scout for the XWF. I saw your match out there, and... well, I liked what I saw."

Blade blinked, then grinned like a kid who just got the last piece of cake. "No way! You’re with the XWF? That’s crazy! You here to find your next Universal champion? Well, HELLO!"

David smirked. "Let's not get carried away, you’ve got some rough edges, kid. Hell, you’ve got a lot of rough edges, but you’ve got a lot of potential too, and that’s what I’m looking for."

"That’s awesome, man! What does this mean though? Am I, like, in the big time now?"

David pulled a folded piece of paper out of his notebook and handed it to Blade. "It means we’re offering you a developmental contract. It’s not a tin of money... Think gas money and ramen, but it’ll get your foot in the door. Plus, you’ll debut at our next pay-per-view, Snow Holds Barred, up in Alberta, Canada."

Blade’s eyes widened. "A pay-per-view? Holy shit, are you serious?"

David nodded. "Completely. But before you get too excited, let me ask you something. How many matches have you had?"

Blade hesitated, scratching the back of his head. "Uh... three. Including tonight."

David’s face fell for a split second, but he quickly covered it with a cough. "Three, huh? Well... you held your own pretty well tonight. Guess you’re a fast learner."

Blade grinned sheepishly. "Nah man, I'm just a natural. For whatever reason, this all comes easy to me.”

"I'd say so." David chuckled and handed Blade a pen. "Alright, kid. Sign here, and you’re officially on the XWF roster. Just remember, this is your shot, so don’t blow it."

Blade scribbled his name on the contract while grinning ear to ear. "Aw man, big time here I come!"

David folded the contract and tucked it back into his notebook. "Now, about getting you up to Alberta..."

Blade’s smile faded a little. "Uh, yeah. About that. I might have... uh, some trouble getting into Canada."

David frowned. "Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

Blade shifted uncomfortably. "I don’t exactly have papers."

David raised an eyebrow. "Papers? Wait—are you telling me you’re an illegal?"

Blade held up his hands defensively. "No, no! I mean... kind of? Look, it’s complicated."

David stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "You know what? Doesn’t matter. We’ll get you what you need. We used to do it for the luchadores all the time... when we had them."

Blade blinked. David smirked and patted him on the shoulder. "Don’t worry about it, kid. Just show up ready to go. I’ll handle the rest."

Blade laughed nervously but nodded. "Alright, man. Thanks for this opportunity. I won’t let you down."

David gave him a nod, already wondering what he’d just gotten himself into. "You’d better not. See you in Alberta, Blade."

As he walked away, David shook his head muttering to himself. "Third match, no papers, and I’m getting him into Canada. This kid better be worth it."