Madison’s back hugged the outer wall of the Staples Center as she brought the cigarette to her mouth for a puff. It was well after Anarchy had ended, but Madison wasn’t ready to return to her hotel. She had a bone to pick. Barking into her cell phone, Madison had a rebuttal for someone on the other end.

This fucking training was supposed to make me, like, unbeatable. So why the hell did I just make an ass of myself out there, Lux?

Lux could be heard sighing deeply before responding. Number one, I never claimed to make you unbeatable. Number two, you went for a low blow on a forward facing skilled opponent. You fucked up, Maddy. Bottom line.

Madison’s mouth set into a firm line, but before she could muster up another reply she caught sight of movement on the periphery of her vision. Turning warily, she saw a shambling mass of humanity being birthed from the inky blackness behind the arena. As it drew closer, Madison took stock of this person’s shabby well worn clothes. And the stink? Ye Gods, like a combination of piss and flesh that had gone unwashed for weeks. To Madison’s consternation, the figure continued to move in closer.

Madison Dyson. The figures voice was like a croak.

I’ll talk to you later, Lux. Madison hung up the call. I don’t do autographs and I don’t have any spare change!

I require neither. I come as an emissary from your son!

Madison’s blood ran cold. Her hand went to her purse, to the comfort of the handgun within. I want nothing to do with him.

But still the figure drew closer, and once under the illumination of the arena’s exterior lighting, Madison saw that instead of eyes the thing had nothing but formless pits. Madison gasped and withdrew the gun.

Fuck off!

Such a gift he gave me! He put the great wurm inside of me such that I could see your face FOR HIM.

Madison’s finger tensed on the trigger as the emissary kept walking, not heeding the firearm at all. And then, suddenly, with a squeal that was a perverse admixture of pleasure and pain it pitched forward onto the cement.

Oh please master, not yet…*hysterical laughter*....not yet!

What the…. Madison breathed.

The figure squealed again, and great gouts of black ichor spilled forth from the empty sockets. Madison wanted to turn away in revulsion but was strangely transfixed by the horror. Another gout sprayed forth, and then a black worm wriggled out of the left eye socket and set to squirming on the cement. The figure groaned and rolled onto it’s back to die.

With a trembling hand, Madison dialed Lux again.

Hey, I think I might need your help with something…

Well, if it isn’t Chucky Nickles again.

Hey folks, did ya’all catch that loud sucking sound?

Yeah, that was the sound of Chuck’s scrotum retreating into his torso when he saw my name across from his on the card.

And hey, I’m feeling a little artsy fartsy lately. Maybe all these pretentious assholes that are dropping into the fed talking like they’re the second coming of fucking Shakespeare are rubbing off on me.

Because when I think of Chuck, a particular literary figure springs to mind: Sisyphus. You know, that guy doomed for all eternity to roll a boulder up a hill only for it to fall back down again? That’s Chuck to a “T”. After all, what was it you said? That you were “raising the bar and reaching new heights”?

Ha!

Bitch please! You’re holding the same title you were holding back in 2020! You’re stagnant, Chuck! You’re looking once more at that boulder that rolled down the hill. And your body and mind are BROKEN for that unending struggle. These past five years you’ve spent with that boulder, up and down, up and down….it’s taken it’s toll, hasn’t it Chuck? Your brains are mush. You’re hallucinating. The siren song of the crack pipe is as strong as ever. Shit son, you’ve sunk so low Jim Jimson is the only locus of stability in your entire life. JIM. JIMSON.

And sure, you reached the top of the hill with your burden a couple times recently. But ah, so, so fleeting! The combined spoils of your XTreme championship runs? TWELVE DAYS! Back down the hill you go and into the warm inviting arms of the TV title division and that ceiling you can’t stop bashing your head against. Maybe that’s why you’re so brain damaged lately, eh?

Oh, Chucky, Chucky, Chuck Boy. How tired you must be. How spent! In this evidentiary proceeding, I present item A: Warfare. Where a wholly pathetic Charlie Nickles necros his Demos persona only to get his shit pushed in by a pseudo-revolutionary twink tapping on the same glass ceiling he is.

Now as of this taping we still haven’t seen Savage, but I’m willing to bet you get killed by Enigma too. You’re so down and out I can’t even fathom you getting one over on him, not even 24 hours after you destroyed your body even more in a no holds barred match.

All that’s left is the inevitable hat trick of failure, Chuck. You and me. And I’ve already beaten you once. You need this win so, so bad. But it’ll forever be out of reach. Roll on, Sisyphus. Roll on.

Roll on into oblivion.

But I’m a gentle angel of death, Chuck. I’ll make it quick and relatively painless, putting you out of our misery. Maybe one last chair shot. One last blow to the ol’ noggin and those scrambled eggs you got rollin’ around in there finally get fully cooked.

Let down your burden, Chuck. Hold your head high. And for once in your skeezy, ill spent, waste of a life, except the inevitability of the end with pride and dignity.

She IS waiting for you, after all.