Extinction 3: Extinction's Back, and This Time It's Pissed

Voice-This assembly is now in session! All rise for the honorable Orlandouglas, magistrate and arbiter!

[The scene is a dark, brooding room. The walls and floor are built of cold, unbending steel girders that stretch vertically, beyond the extent of the feeble, dim lights shining throughout. An abomination walks out on an elevated stage, revealed by the illumination to have skin halved between light and dark pigments, dressed in a crimson robe. This figure stalks across his platform to a tall-backed chair, turning and standing in front of it and staring down below at five television monitors. Each monitor has a black outline of a person staring out from it, and above each is a single letter: C for one, P for another, R, K, and J for the third, fourth, and fifth respectively. Orlandouglas turns towards the assembled and speaks, his voice a blend of the company’s management team.]

Orlandouglas-Are the plaintiffs prepared to present their case?

[The monitors each speak an affirmation.]

Orlandouglas-Then this Court of Public Opinion is now in session. Bring forth the accused!

[The arrival of the prisoner is heralded by the ominous rhythm of his boots clanging against the steel floor. He steps forth from a doorway at the very back of the scene, stepping up onto a slightly raised dais and looking up into the shadowy faces of his accusers. A spotlight beams on from overhead, shining down cruelly upon AWOL’s features as he stands, manacled, in the center of the room. The light is a glaring white fluorescent, picking out and magnifying any flaws visible to those who are actively attempting to look for them. Orlandouglas, however, seems only confused.]

Orlandouglas-The entirety of the Empire stands accused, Mr. AWOL. Why are you standing here alone?

AWOL-Throughout the last several weeks I have faced these charges on my own. I see no reason why that should change now simply because the zero hour is approaching.

Orlandouglas-Very well. You and your organization stand charged with being mediocre, bland, and inferior to the Five Star Society. How do you plead?

AWOL-I object.

[Consternation breaks out! The voices from the television monitors shout out at once!]

R-You can’t object!

P-That’s breaking the rules don’t you know how courtrooms work! You’re an idiot! And a tool!

K-…

C-He broke the rules! Clearly that means I’ve won, before we even start! Case dismissed!

[Orlandouglas slams his gavel home repeatedly, shouting for order. As the voices on the monitors blissfully drop back to silence, albeit temporary, the hybrid horror fixes a baleful eye upon the defendant.]

Orlandouglas-Mr. AWOL, am I to understand that you are objecting to entering a plea?

AWOL-You are.

Orlandouglas-Under what precedent?

AWOL-Under the precedent that I object to the term “plea.” The word has more than one definition, but it’s primary meaning is to humbly seek aid from someone who is in a position of authority. To be honest, I object to the implication that this courtroom has any authority over me.

Orlandouglas-This is the Court of Public Opinion Mr. AWOL! This is the highest court in the land! Our authority is all encompassing, and I assure you it includes you as well.

AWOL-I object all the same.

Orlandouglas-Then your objection is overruled. Continue with these courtroom theatrics, Mr. AWOL, and I will hold you in contempt.

AWOL-Which would be appropriate, given the fact that I hold everyone involved in this case in a similar fashion.

[Orlandouglas fumes silently for a moment before carrying on.]

Orlandouglas-As defendant, you are granted the right to offer an opening statement before the trial begins.

J-Actually, wouldn’t this be more of a tribunal?

R-I thought trials had juries.

K-…

P-I thought it was a council but then again it could be a tribunal or a trial. What do you think?

C-Actually, I prefer to think of it as a crucible.

[There is a muttering of approval and pride from the other plaintiffs at this last.]

Orlandouglas-Good show, Savior! Three whole syllables! You truly are a master of oratory.

[C sticks out a shadowy tongue at the defendant]

C-You see, I told you I knew big words.

[AWOL sighs in irritation, the chains of his handcuffs clanking.]

AWOL-Can we get on with this, please?

Orlandouglas-Right, I have to get back to brainstorming new ways to make the IWC product unwatchable anyways. On with your opening statement!

[AWOL takes a moment to gather himself, looking from each shadowed face to the next in turn.]

AWOL-As many of you have observed and, for some reason, chosen to mock, my preferred style of communication is blunt and to the point, so I shall endeavor to do the same here. I consider these entire proceedings to have been farcical to an extreme. You stand my associates and I up and accuse the lot of us of somehow being inferior without offering a shred of evidence to actually back up these statements. You imply that we are in some way mediocre despite the fact that, when it comes to the upper echelons of competition in this or any wrestling federation, we have competed against and in point of fact been victorious against the lot of you, as well as against competitors who were very much your superiors. At no point has a convincing argument been made that in any way indicates that your group is anything besides a collection of rag-tag misfits who were unable to get the job done on their own and, thus, have banded together for mutual protection. This, however, does not demonstrate any form of ability on your part besides an ability to recognize your own weaknesses, a trait which, while admirable, does not make you a threat. You are, in truth, non-threatening. Thus, if I am guilty of anything, it is simply that I have created the appearance of being dismissive of your chances of defeating us at Extinction. If it appears that way, it is because I have in fact dismissed them completely. You are not a better team than us. You are a much worse team. You are…

[AWOL drifts off as the sound of snoring issues forth from C and P’s monitors.]

Orlandouglas-Plaintiff C and P, are you even listening to what the defendant has to say?

P-No. I’m not. It’s boring and stupid and besides Robin will tell me about it later so I don’t need to actually pay attention.

C-Besides, we’ve heard all of this before, your honor. Frankly, I know what AWOL’s going to say before he even says it and the only thing different about it this time is he’s doing it here rather than inside the broom closet in his apartment. Can we perhaps skip ahead to the questioning?

Orlandouglas-Do you object to this, Mr. AWOL?

AWOL-No.

Orlandouglas-Then the plaintiffs may proceed.

[A lengthy pause, as silence fills the room.]

Orlandouglas-Hello? Did the monitors stop working again? Someone check in the production truck. I heard some vandal has been in there writing on the screens and smashing televisions, maybe they damaged the sound equipment as well.

AWOL-No, your honor, they’re just waiting for me to say something.

Orlandouglas-I’m sorry?

AWOL-The Society members don’t actually have anything meaningful or constructive to contribute on their own. Their rhetorical ability lies entirely in rebuttal. If I don’t say anything, they are essentially left with no material and would have to sit in silence.

Orlandouglas-Very well. Now that the defendant has said something, are the plaintiffs ready to proceed?

Collective-Yes.

Orlandouglas-Good. Then for Christ’s sake do so.

R-Fine, I’ll start things off.

[All attention shifts to R’s monitor.]

R-AWOL…to be honest I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to say to you. In point of fact, I have actually not even mentioned you in any of my promos from the previous week, or in fact even mentioned the match at all outside of a brief three paragraph letter direct address in Robin Brooks promo number one.

AWOL-Which begs the question of why you’re even here, but go on.

R-I have, in fact, spent the majority of my time torturing you and the audience by making you watch as I reenact a Maury Povich episode about my Hurse Baby-Daddy drama. So, for you Mr. AWOL, I have only one question.

AWOL-And that is?

R-Dude, can you totally believe that Hurse wanted to see me naked? I mean, I get that I’m super hot and all even though I’m totally preggo right now, but the nerve! What a jerk!

AWOL-Alright, so that pretty much sums up how this trial-

C-Crucible!

AWOL-right, crucible, is going to go. Alright then, R, let’s put aside your sudden, bizarre need to both force Hurse to claim responsibility for your baby and simultaneously snub him and push him away, which by the way are signs that you probably need to seek treatment for borderline personality disorder.

[Check it out! A new insult!]

AWOL-I am forced, yet again,to object to your even being here.

Orlandouglas-On what grounds?

AWOL-Relevance.

Orlandouglas-We’ve already established that R’s promos have nothing resembling match relevance in them. That is not grounds for dismissing her.

AWOL-No, I mean the fact that either she is competing in an athletic competition while in mid to late term pregnancy, making her the most irresponsible mother since the Octo-Mom, or the more likely outcome which is that she’s going to be replaced during the match by a stand-in. Thus, she is not actually competing in this competition, making anything she says irrelevant.

Orlandouglas-We allowed Hurse to promo, even though he is clearly not competing either.

AWOL-Your choice, not mine. Were I in the Five Star Society, I would be ignoring his promos the same way I am ignoring Robin’s. If they are choosing to treat him as a legitimate opponent, that’s their mistake.

[Orlandouglas mulls this over, before reaching forward to press a button on the stand in front of him. R’s screen immediately goes blank.]

Orlandouglas-Objection sustained. The next plaintiff may continue with the questioning.

J-Good, I’ll go next, because I’ve got a bone to pick with you, pal. Where do you get off treating me like I’m some kind of junior member in your little group? I’ve done just as much to earn my place here as you have! And another goddamn thing, I’m tired of you and Kingdom talking down to me like somehow you’re better than me. I’ve been out there fighting the Five Star Society on my own for weeks now while you were both hiding out in the back sitting on your asses!

AWOL-Would you be referring to last week’s Riot!, when I fought my way through Miho Miyazaki and Paris to get to Christian Savior and defeat him?

J-Ye…Uh I mean…no.

AWOL-Aren’t you on my team, Jackson?

J-Yes.

AWOL-Then why are you helping the other team?

J-I’m not sure. Maybe I think it’ll make me stand out more if I play the “Rebel Without a Cause” card and act like I don’t actually want to team with you. It worked for Steve Austin!

[Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Savior, that wasn’t a shot at you. Oh, well I suppose it was, but mostly at your sad attempt at anticipating the rebuttal.]

AWOL-Well, as far as I can see, you’ve spent the majority of your promotional material bashing your own teammates rather than your opponents. This is acceptable, I suppose, given that they have in turn chosen to basically ignore you. However, I have to insist that you do us a favor and maybe get in line? It’s going to be hard enough to get this win without you dragging us down in the process by supporting the other side.

J-…yes sir.

[With another blip, Jackson’s screen also goes blank.]

AWOL-How about you, K? Anything to contribute?

K-…

AWOL-Are you sure?

K-…

AWOL-Last chance!

K-…Did you see Robin chasing me around the house? Man, that totally shows how I’m going to win this match.

AWOL-Right.

[Yet another blip and K is no more. Three down. Suddenly, the sounds of grunting and moaning issue forth from P’s monitor.]

Orlandouglas-What the? P? What are you doing in there?

P-Fucking some chick.

Orlandouglas-Who?

P-Ur mom! Oh, what’s up! Up top!

[Sound of a high-five, presumably with the person P is fornicating with.]

Orlandouglas-Right, middle school jokes aside, do you have anything to ask the defendant?

P-You bet I do! Man how can you insult me for my grammar it’s unbelievable? And stupid! I’m clearly the greatest competitor in this match even if you and everybody else won’t admit it. Obviously. This is obvious because I win. All the time. Even when I’m losing I win because I’m the best. How can you deny this when you lose all the time and you suck?

AWOL-Are you finished?

P-Nearly, though I’m thinking about baseball to try and make this last longer.

AWOL-I meant with your rambling.

P-Unfortunately not I still have time to put up another promo for the match.

[Tragic.]

AWOL-Be that as it may, I think it’s safe to assume that I’ve faced the brunt of the counter-arguments you’re going to throw my way. Admittedly, you still seem to be under the delusion that I am an incompetent technical wrestler despite the fact that I more or less blew that argument out of the water. It appears you’re electing to ignore this fact and try to pretend that it didn’t happen, which admittedly is probably the only hope you have of saving face on this topic, but ultimately doesn’t remove the gorilla from the room.

P-Are you talking about yourself because you totally look like a shaved ape with that bald head! Oh yeah another zinger! High five me!

[More skin slapping, other than the obvious sound of uglies bumping.]

AWOL-Ugh, why do I bother? Look, you want to know why I make fun of the way you talk? Because you somehow are trying to convince the world that you have the ability to be a front man for this company, that’s why. You want the spotlight. You want to be the man out front, to be the man by beating the man, as you put it. Well, there’s a problem there, PL, and it doesn’t have anything to do with your ring abilities which, you’ve claimed, are stellar. Part of this job is communication that has to be done in the form of promotional material. You have to be able to talk to succeed here. What you’re doing in your promos constitutes a failure to achieve this objective. You get one chance at making a first impression, Porno Lad, and my first impression of you came from your ridiculous name and your cretinous inability to express yourself verbally.

[Another big word! You can almost feel C seething!]

AWOL-You are not a draw, Porno Lad. You are not main event material. The only quality you bring to this match is the ability to get in front of a microphone three times and spew indecipherable gibberish. Now yes, as you put it, once we step through the ropes at Extinction the talking ends and the wrestling begins, but will anyone actually be watching it? As you put it, you want to help the company and drive up buy rates. Do you think that turning in this garbage actually does that? No! It makes people want to change the channel! It makes people think “Jesus, this guy’s a moron. Why am I watching him again?” In your case, Porno Lad, I’m not actually convinced that beating the man will be enough to help you be the man. I think you may want to go beat a basic Junior High English equivalency exam first.

P-Oh, dude, I just blew my load all over this chick’s hair. Awesome!

AWOL-Sigh, your honor, please?

Orlandouglas-With pleasure.

[Another button press. Another one bites the dust.]

C-Well.

AWOL-Well.

C-I should have known it would come down to the two of us. After all, you’ve clearly recognized my ability based on the fact that you keep talking about me.

AWOL-Either that, or you’re the only one from your team who’s said anything remotely match-related or decipherable as words up to this point.

C-Be that as it may, you and I both know who the superior competitor in this match-up is.

AWOL-Yes, though I doubt we have the same person in mind.

C-Indeed. Question number one, sir, do you admit that you use single sentence dialogue when creating your promos?

AWOL-I do.

C-Excellent! Then you admit that they are bad, since this clearly indicates that you can’t come up with anything entertaining for the subjects to say!

AWOL-Actually, I was having a conversation with someone. It’s what happens when two people talk to each other and actually listen to what the other person is saying rather than just looking for points to pull out and pick apart later. People don’t typically break out into a five-paragraph essay when they’re talking in real life, that only happens if you’re talking to Hurse.

[Zing!]

C-So you admit it?

AWOL-What, that I was talking to someone and actually letting them respond, then responding to their response, creating a dialogue?

C-Yes.

AWOL-Um, then I suppose so.

C-Splendid! A point for me then. Question number 2: Do you admit to using big words when you talk in your promos?

AWOL-Uh, yes. I suppose.

C-And do you, in fact, rely on logic when creating arguments, holding it up like extravagant jewelry, rather than ignoring facts that disprove what you’re trying to say and making things up when the truth doesn’t actually support your side?

Orlandouglas-Nice line there, with the extravagant jewelry thing.

C-Thank you.

AWOL-Wait, hold on, are you honestly trying to imply that the fact that I have a large vocabulary and construct logical arguments is somehow a hindrance?

C-Yes.

AWOL-Despite the fact that we’re competing in a medium wherein we essentially are required to engage in rhetorical debate with each other and simultaneously entertain fans, thus creating a requirement for the aforementioned logic and vocabulary to be successful?

C-Of course.

AWOL-Well…that’s…wow. Just wow, Savior. I don’t even know how to respond to that. I’m honestly at a loss for words. Next you’re going to tell me that somehow one should try to win wrestling matches by allowing themselves to be pinned to the mat for a three-count.

C-Actually, I was planning on saving that for the next time we face each other.

AWOL-Naturally.

C-Be that as it may, Question number three-Do you admit to using the same bland, generic settings for all of your promos where you may or may not be sitting in your kitchen staring at a camera?

AWOL-I suppose I do from time to time, yes.

C-And do you admit that this makes them an inherently bad product, since the setting and background of a promo is clearly far more important than its actual content?

AWOL-Um, no, I don’t admit that.

C-I remind you you’re under oath!

AWOL-I remind you that you’re an idiot. I do my promos without arbitrarily elbowing an exotic setting into them because, in most cases, the setting of my promos has nothing to do with what I have to say. I could stand in front of a green screen and project images of Honolulu Hawaii behind me while I’m talking if you wanted, but it wouldn’t matter unless, somehow, being in Hawaii actually had something to do with what I had to say. I’m not mocking your silly little “drawing on the TV screens” setting because I just inherently have something against putting in a backdrop. I’m mocking it because it doesn’t actually contribute to your message. It’s a shtick, and a transparent one at that, which ultimately just wastes everyone’s time and adds length to your promo. Now, admittedly, that seems to be one of the more important determining factors of supposed “quality” in this kangaroo court, but nevertheless this insistence of yours that somehow I live in an underground bunker and that I’m severely agoraphobic doesn’t prove anything besides the fact that you’re pin-wheeling your arms wildly right now and just hoping that something will connect.

C-Specifically the fact that I taunted you into doing a promo outside your base setting? Because I totally did.

AWOL-Let me just cut that line of bullshit off right the hell now. First of all, I’m sure you’re congratulating yourself on that even as you’re watching this, but I’ve seen that particular Catch-22 trick thrown out before and it was as obvious then as it is now. You challenge me to do a promo with an interesting setting, and now I supposedly have two options. Either I turn around and just keep doing what I was doing and you say “Look, see, he can’t do it” or, if I do turn around and crawl, wide eyed and terrified out of my little hole to do a promo outside, you can say “Oh, look, I made you do that. Dance on my string puppet, for I am the puppet master!”

[C quickly sets down the marionette handles he was about to lift up onto the screen quickly, hoping no one noticed.]

AWOL-It’s bullshit. It was bullshit when Cruze did it to Kingdom, and it is bullshit now. Trying to think that you’re very clever for coming up with it is like flipping a coin, calling both heads and tails, and then congratulating yourself on being right.

C-But you just said you don’t care about setting, and yet here we are standing in a mock court room conducting a trial-

AWOL-Crucible?

C-Whatever.

AWOL-We’re here because there’s a point to being here. I’ve spent all week getting grilled by your crew in front of the public for the entire world to see. I’ve been defending myself against asinine attacks and doing a fairly convincing job of it, and I wanted to create a metaphor to represent that, thus the court of public opinion where I’m, at last, given the opportunity to face my accusers and attack them head on. Also, it gave me a way to make a mockery of the sad excuse for courtroom drama that you put out in that parody of yours.

C-A parody which, I’ll point out, you are currently ripping off as we speak.

AWOL-Hardly. First of all, if anybody was getting ripped off, it was Rob Reiner, who I feel you owe an apology. Since you brought it up and I did promise to get back to mocking your attempts at parody, lets take a brief examination of this effort of yours. What exactly was your purpose in using “A Few Good Men?”

C-It had enough names, represented the fact that Kingdumb (get it? Kingdum?) wasn’t promoing, and let me make you look like a blithering idiot.

AWOL-But what was the point? Did you mean to imply that Hurse, Jackson, and I had somehow killed him?

C-Well, no, that would be stupid. He’s on your team.

AWOL-See, but in the story you put forth it was somehow implied that I was responsible for him not promoing. Does that make any sort of narrative sense?

C-Well…I mean…

AWOL-No, it doesn’t. See, this is what we keep going on about, Savior. When you do a parody, part of what makes them work is the fact that the story you’re telling has some relationship to the point you’re trying to prove. As an example, the court of public opinions where I’m constantly being tried is full of idiots that can’t actually make effective points. This is the idea behind this promo. You’ll note how I’ve executed it as the story has gone along, and am currently doing so with regards to you. You, on the other hand, seem to just pull DVDs down off of the shelf until you find one that has the right number of characters in it and then wedge the rest of the storyline in until it fits, plot coherency be damned!

C-Actually, it was on HBO…

AWOL-This is, in essence, the same thing I was deriding with the “sitting in a room drawing on TVs” segment as, yet again, you were just elbowing a setting into your promo because, to you at least, this somehow makes it better. I have news, Savior, it doesn’t. It’s a blatant attempt at adding fluff and trying to disguise it as content, and I am frankly sick of it.

C-Well, you have to admit that I am better than you at coming up with silly names “Awalrus.”

[AWOL simply points at Orlandouglas, and the criticism silences.]

AWOL-But to at least drag something meaningful out of that atrocity you made us sit through, of the two of us, Savior, the one who can’t handle the truth is you.

[Ooh, do I smell quote of the week?]

AWOL-I’ve beaten you twice, Christian, not once. Both of us were in the ring at the OBE. I was in with you. I pinned you. One, two, three, your team is eliminated. Trying to imply that somehow that isn’t the most primal, elementary representation imaginable for me beating you is just you being pedantic.

C-I didn’t get to the questions about the win loss record yet-

AWOL-I DON’T FUCKING CARE. I am tired of your voice, so I’m going to do the talking for you. You want to match up title belt histories? First off, you’re going to try and get on my case for not having my facts straight about you and Johnny’s win-loss record, but then you’re going to turn around and make a point based on which stable has held the most belts based off of, what, your best guess as to how many belts we’ve won? What if we had more than eight? Wouldn’t that pretty much throw any of your nit-picks on this subject straight out the window? I’m pretty sure it would.

C-But-

AWOL-I don’t deal in exaggerated sentiments of skill and ability, I deal in fact, Savior. The fact of the matter is, every match where the two of us have been in the ring together I’ve pinned you and eliminated you. No amount of spinning and revisionist history changes this. You are not better than me, and you are not better than Johnny. And what the hell is this shit about me trying to steal the Cartel Title from Axl Evermore? I had one match with the guy, it was non-title, and I haven’t given him a second thought since then. You are literally just making shit up, aren’t you?

C-No, you were trying to get the Cartel title from me, so clearly you want it.

AWOL-Wrong. Clearly, what I wanted was to make your possession of the belt illegitimate, a criticism you’ve completely failed to address, much like any of the other things I’ve said to you. Face it Savior, you’ve lost the debate. No one outside of the people you pay to team up with you believes you. Continuing the little jabs just makes you look sad, or in any case sadder than you already do. And that is, I’m afraid, the only thing I have left to say to you.

C-Well…you’re wrong.

AWOL-Based on what?

C-…the fact that I said so?

[With a final, authoritative blip, Savior’s screen goes blank as well. AWOL’s gaze turns up to the divided arbiter.]

AWOL-I guess he was right about one thing. People really do go to any lengths to get the last word.

Orlandouglas-Do you have any closing remarks before I render judgment?

AWOL-Yes. The implication was made by Christian Savior that the advancement of his team from obscurity to infamy is, in some way, the product of natural selection. First of all, I hardly need to point out that a man who uses the sentence “Natural selection is the natural survival tactic of nature,” can not actually be looked to as an authority on the subject. However, to just completely batter the metaphor into the ground, I would like to postulate that a type of selection was involved in bringing the Five Star Society to prominence, just not natural selection. The guilty party was, in fact, a phenomenon more akin to genetic drift. Essentially, the IWC was isolated, cut off from a large, more robust gene pool for an extended period of time. Myself and Johnny Kingdom were not here. Equalizing factors were absent, and random chance was allowed to ensue and, in the process, a trait which would otherwise be found to be unfavorable, in this case I’m referring essentially to the entirety of what defines Christian Savior, was allowed to flourish. The same phenomenon can be seen in populations like the Amish, which are so inbred now that traits like dwarfism are highly overexpressed. Random chance, not natural selection, is responsible for the current state of affairs, but the thing about drift is that it doesn’t make organisms faster, stronger, or better. If anything, it eliminates diversity, creating a world where everything is the same, rigid, unbending form that can’t respond to new challenges from the environment. And when a new challenge finally does arrive, in this case in the form of the Empire, they find themselves so trapped by this that they fail to adapt. They suffer. They struggle. And ultimately, there is only one final outcome for this sick, sad, wretched little mistake from Mother Nature’s great plan: Extinction.

[AWOL pauses, looking up at the judge, waiting for the verdict. However, the plaintiff screens instead reactivate.]

Orlandouglas-Are the plaintiffs ready to make their case?

Plaintiffs-Yes.

[AWOL looks justifiably upset.]

AWOL-I’m sorry, I was pretty sure that I just verbally kicked their asses. Shouldn't I be exonerated now?

Orlandouglas-You are wrong, sir. This is the court of public opinion. Trials never end here. You will find yourself, from this point on, continually making these same arguments to these same people over and over again with no obvious effect. I should have thought that during your lengthy career you would have figured that out by now.

AWOL-Yes, I suppose I should have.

[He bows his head, fatigue clearly setting into his massive frame. It lasts only a moment, however, as he quickly looks back up at the accusers, expression resolute as ever.]

AWOL-Fine, let’s get back to me telling you all how wrong you are about every thought you’ve ever had…

Extinction 2: Electric Boogaloo

“So then he was talking about how he met a girl at random in the park and then started banging her on a bench with the dog watching.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, ridiculous. But then, to make matters worse, he actually was surprised that his girlfriend was upset about it. What fucking world does this guy live in?”

The door to the IWC production truck opens and two techs enter, both carrying new cups of steaming coffee from Starbucks (Look kids, product placement!). One shakes his head in incredulity.

“I mean, seriously, I think the guy is from Mars, or some other kind of planet where apparently they just screw all the time. I don’t know how we ever get the douchebag’s stuff past the censors.”

The other one laughs, setting his coffee down on his desk. “You’re lucky, you don’t have to edit the dialogue.”

“That shit is edited? I thought you just threw it up on the screen!” The first takes a big sip. “I mean, it’s barely recognizable as English.”

“That was after hours of work, dude.” The second tech shakes his head, ruefully. “I swear, if there’s ever a hostage situation here in the building, I’ll just pipe in a few hours of his incoherent rants through the PA. That’ll make anyone want to kill thems-“

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

The second tech spills his coffee down the front of his shirt at his coworker’s exclamation. “Jesus, what’s your problem?”

“Somebody drew all over my monitor!”

The camera pans to the back of the production truck, revealing a scene oddly reminiscent of the Christian Savior promo. Tech number two stands up and walks to join his companion.

“What the..?” he says, looking at the paused image of AWOL with X’s drawn on its eyes. “Jesus, that’s permanent marker!”

“What sort of asshole draws on a TV screen?”

Somewhere, someplace, it is likely that the asshole in question is laughing. Either that, or he’s falling on his ass while he’s ice skating and making us watch, because for some reason he thinks that interests us.

***

“Here you go madam,” the maitre d’ says, pulling the chair out for Maya. The lines of her black dress twist with the curves of her body as she deposits herself in the chair. I wonder idly if she even knows how beautifully graceful her every movement is as she flashes a grateful smile. The reddish gold candlelight of the restaurant flickers playfully amongst the locks of her blonde hair as the maitre d’ slides her seat into place. “The specials tonight are…”

“Oh, don’t worry about the specials,” she interrupts him, placing a perfectly manicured hand over his, “We’re actually just here for dessert. I have to be at work in an hour, and I don’t really like dancing on a full stomach.”

As I settle into a seat across from her, I can see from his eyes that he’s helpless, trapped by her spell just like dozens of other men every night. I unfold my napkin and drop it into my lap, reaching for my glass of water.

“Oh? Are you with the ballet, madam?”

She smiles innocently at him. “No, I’m a stripper. Plus I do a little escort work on the side when business is slow.”

I nearly spit my drink onto the table trying to hold laughter back at the Maitre d’s horrified look.

As he mumbles an apology and hurries away from the table, she turns back to me, an impish smile lighting up her features. “You’re right,” she says, “This is going to be fun.”

“I told you.”

I watch the way her eyes nearly close behind the lenses of her glasses while the musical notes of her laughter echo out from the table. For a moment I’m content, and all of the ridiculous insanity that makes up the rest of my life fade away. I’m in a world of Maya. There’s no IWC, no Five Star Society, and no alimony payments to be made. There’s just this place, this moment in time, and her beautiful laughter. But, alas, such things are by their nature ephemeral, and far too soon, she’s reaching for the menu and looking through it. I follow suit.

“So what’s good here?” she says, looking down at the various confections available for purchase.

“Couldn’t tell you,” I say, equally engrossed. “I’ve never been here before. I just looked for the highest rated place in the city with a French name. I was looking for the atmosphere, not the food.”

“Expensive atmosphere,” she says, looking down at the shocking prices on the menu in front of her. “You sure you want to drop all this cash? Paying all those people for the pay-per-view refunds is going to be expensive.”

“I’m not too worried about it,” I answer, “Sometimes it’s worth splurging on the little things, and like you said we’re just getting some dessert. Speaking of which, this cheesecake doesn’t look half bad.”

“Hmm, no can do. I’m lactose intolerant.” She looks out of the corner of her eye at the people across the aisle from us, waiting for her moment. On cue, the fifty-something blue-hair lifts her wine glass to her mouth and the impish smile returns. “Nothing spoils any chance of a good tip like dropping a wet, smelly milk fart on some guy right in the middle of a lap dance.”

Neither of us bothers to conceal our laughter as she sprays red wine all over the bald man sitting across from her.

***

“Ok, Porno Lad, let’s start with you.”

AWOL is standing at the front of a whiteboard, which he is essentially ignoring and simply staring into the camera, presumably searching its reflective depths for the self-proclaimed Original Prankster’s glassy, dull-eyed face.

“First of all, I want to admit that, yes, you actually have managed to upset me going into this match. You have made me mad. Congratulations. However, I’m afraid that the reason I’m angry is not your little stunt with the taser, it’s the simple fact that as a result of facing you I’m forced to sit through some of your promos. Jesus Christ, man, what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you aware that every time you put one of those god awful insults to the English language out for public consumption, somewhere your junior high writing teacher has to feel a little bit of her soul die, since she obviously failed completely to even convey basic sentence structure to you. Subject and predicate are not suggestions, PL, they’re rules. Unlike what you’re doing in the ring, ignoring these rules don’t make you look dangerous or edgy, they just make you look mentally retarded. Think of Mrs. Johnson, Porno Lad, and spare us any more of your incoherent babbling.”

“Second, I need to get something across to you that appears to have escaped your sieve-like memory. I suppose I’m not entirely surprised your nervous system is somewhat faulty, given the almost one-hundred percent certainty that your sexual promiscuity has caused you to contract syphilis. Still, a brief history lesson seems to be in order. I’m not telling people to avoid buying Extinction as some kind of publicity stunt to drive up the ratings. I’m doing it because it amuses me to watch this place reap what it sews. If the IWC management, specifically Dan Douglas, is stupid enough to put together a group as terrible as your little Society and then somehow, despite your repeated failure to accomplish anything meaningful in the ring, push you into the main event with legitimate competitors, then they deserve to have the show fail. They DESERVE to have the buy-rate plummet. That being said, the simple fact of the matter is that this match has yours truly and Johnny Kingdom in it, two men who, despite your group’s delusions, have in fact been headlining and main-eventing and building this place from nothing for years now. In the parlance of this industry, we are what you call draws. You and your friends, however, are not. Can you honestly, in your heart of hearts, imagine the average IWC aficionado sitting in their house and thinking to themselves ‘You know what, I could use this fifty-nine bucks to buy a big Christmas present for my wife or feed a starving child in Africa, but instead I’m gonna plunk it down and watch an STD ridden nymphomaniac with a ridiculous name, some bitch from the IWC minor leagues, a guy whose wife apparently truly believes that the mall Santa Claus has magical powers to read her mind, and a pregnant chick.’? Even I have more respect for the fans than that, and that’s saying something.”

“And another thing you arrogant little shit,” he continues, building momentum. “I personally find this affirmation of yours that somehow you know more about technical wrestling than me to be insulting. Here’s another quick lesson for you, son, I was one of the first Submissions Champions this company ever had, and I held the belt for six months, defending it continuously, and only losing it when I was roped into a triple threat match and Hurse made Psycho tap out while his crew attacked me on the outside of the ring. You know a ton of counters to the Daisy Cutter? What a fabulous achievement! Of course, my opponents probably all average about 3 counters per match to the pump-handle slam, but seriously, bravo. You are truly the ring general we all imagine you to be. But really, I’m not sure how much time I would waste on bragging about being able to reverse a chokeslam, since even children know how to get out of a maneuver that literally consists of me grabbing someone by the throat, lifting them into the air, and dropping them. This is not impressive.”

“’But AWOL,’ I hear you saying, ‘If you’re so great at technical wrestling, why do you look like you’re just ripping off the Undertaker and Samoa Joe every time you get in the ring?’ Well, ok, I don’t actually hear you saying that. If I heard you say it, it would sound more like ‘But AWOL. You suck at wrestling. And life. Why don’t you DIAF that means die in a fire I’m so awesome and teh seckz. PWN.’ But I digress, the point is a valid one, I have been getting away from any sort of mat wrestling recently as a conscious choice. However, let’s think about this point for a moment. What do I have to deal with every week? Is it just possible that, between Psycho and Riggs, the Motherfuckers, and your crew of rejects from the land of misfit toys, I pretty much have a standing guarantee that there will be at least one run-in during every one of my goddamn matches? I mean, Christ, I conned Psycho and Riggs into fighting Too Mag on the loading dock for me last week and I still had some asshole in the black flipping off the lights in the middle of my match with Savior. And thus, would it not behoove me as a thinking man’s wrestler to take any opportunity I can get to end matches as quickly as possible? So, if you were built like I am and facing opponents where I have a size advantage and, in the interest of self-preservation, it was necessary to end matches quickly and efficiently, would you employ ring psychology and pick an opponent apart with a deliberate and cerebral assault on an enemy’s weakness? No. You would walk into the ring, punch people in the mouth, go for the highest spots and most impacting maneuvers in your arsenal at the first opening you see, and try to get the win before it all goes to hell in a big, flaming, shit covered hand-basket. You see, kid, this’ll shock you, but this isn’t the first faction fight I’ve been in by any stretch of the imagination. I’ve done this before. If you want to see me take you apart one joint at a time, I’ll be glad to run a wrestling clinic on you the next time we find a venue where I can be sure I won’t have Miho Miyazaki, Rick Rohl, three IWC officials, and the offensive line of the ’05 New York Jets crawling out of the woodwork to interfere. Until then, I’m going to go for my chokeslams, Daisy Cutters, and face washes, and when you crack out all of these dazzling counters to my maneuvers that you’ve thought of, I’ll be sure to show you that, in fact, I’ve seen the ‘I push off of your shoulders and land in front of you’ counter before and, in fact, I happen to know three or four response moves to chain into it.”

He pauses, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Then again, maybe I don’t want to get into an extended technical match with you. I don’t know if Gonorrhea is transmissible by perspiration.”

***

“I had a thought,” Maya says, looking over the table at me. She pauses, as if trying to make up her mind to continue, but quickly forges ahead. “I want you to use me in your promos.”

“I do use you in my promos. You’re in one right now.” I point at the camera set up to the side.

“Well, yeah, but all you’ve ever shown is me grinding you in the club or us in bed after we just finished screwing.” I can feel the paint peeling off the walls from the withering glances the other restaurant patrons are shooting our way. I wonder for a moment if generating this kind of uncomfortable outrage from the public is why Porno Lad insists on showing us the legions of women he is supposedly copulating with every week, but immediately dismiss the notion. It would require entirely too much forethought than I’m willing to credit him with.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well I know you guys like to put together those parody promos. I like to act! You could cast me!”

I tap a finger against the table thoughtfully for a moment before responding. “Actually, most of us have spent the past few months mocking the others’ efforts at doing parodies, so now suddenly all of us seem to be avoiding them like a five-hundred pound furious gorilla with leprosy and an inferiority complex.”

“That was…an overly elaborate description.”

“Sorry, I’ve been spending too much time with Hurse.”

“Fair enough,” she twists her lip thoughtfully, “Well, speaking of him, maybe you could make me the focus of your promos like he did with all of his exes. We could go out to nice restaurants or to the doctor’s office like any other day, and I could act like I’m a total airhead nymphomaniac, and in the middle of our normal conversations you could start dropping into complete non-sequiturs where you bash on your opponents.”

“Well, I suppose that’s sort of what we’re doing now, minus the airhead part.”

“Uh, Hurse is on your team, though.”

“Oh, right,” I shake my head. “It’s easy to forget that sometimes. Besides, mocking him is actually kind of endearing. He does it to himself, after all.” I continue thoughtfully tapping, “Also, it should be noted that I don’t actually like him. Remind me to tell you later about the time he ran me over with a truck. Besides, it doesn’t matter, we appear to be working some kind of ‘double last minute substitution’ thing where Robin Brooks and Hurse get replaced right before the match. Very exciting, I’m sure.”

“Huh,” she sips at the glass of red wine. “I guess I could be a valet. You know, a ring girl? It worked for that Stacy Kiebler chick. I could come out in some kind of short skirt and shake my ass to distract the refs when you’re getting pinned or jiggle my tits at your opponents when they’re setting up for their finishing move. I coul-“

“No.”

“No?”

I shake my head definitively. “Absolutely not. Do you know how many of those chicks I’ve seen get kidnapped? I actually saw one of the guys in the ULW dangle somebody’s significant other over a vat of acid.”

“Hmm, very Adam West Batman,” she sets the glass down, frustrated. “Did they at least punish him?”

“I think they gave him a title shot, actually.”

“Well screw that. I broke out in hives once from taking a single out of the mouth of a guy who just put on too much after-shave.”

“Oh man, on your chest?”

“Um, aheh,” she smiles, bashfully. I’m struck by how out of place the expression is. “Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

“Forget I asked.”

“Well shit, this is harder than I thought it was going to be,” she takes her glasses off, chewing on the ends. “I guess we could start just publicizing anything and everything we do. Maybe we could use the drama to try and humanize you, make you more relatable to the public.”

“That’s what most competitors do. I don’t know, it just seems played out. Do you think anybody really cares to watch us go to the mall? It seems a little counterproductive, really. We spend all this energy in one breath trying to make ourselves out to be this unbeatable, unstoppable force in the ring, but then we just turn around the next second and start countering it with this human interest garbage. Not to mention the hyped up drama.”

“Huh?”

“Oh right, you weren’t around when Cruze was wrestling,” I try not to let my inflection curl too much with disgust. “That guy had the personal life drama strategy copyrighted. Every week was a new catastrophe. I eventually just gave up on keeping track of his girlfriends, to say nothing of the dead children.”

“Plural? That’s awful!”

“Eh, frankly he had played the tragedy card so many times that it became obvious he was just trying to top himself week after week. I was almost numb to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the kid’s still alive out there somewhere and Cruze is just hiding him to protect the angle.”

“Well, that was one gu-“

“No, he was just the most flagrant violator. They all do it, to one extent or the other. Savior’s apparently got two in the ground. I wonder sometimes if there is some condition that wrestlers contract where they lose the ability to generate offspring that are able to survive past their first couple of birthdays. Hell, I’m even kind of guilty of it for dragging out the divorce stuff, although at least nobody had to die to make my promos possible. No, sorry Maya, but I just can’t do that. I’d have to shoot myself three weeks in, or Johnny would see them and have to go all Lee Harvey Oswald in the book depository on us.”

“Hmm, well son of a bitch. I want to help you. What can I do?” She leans forward, dropping her hands onto mine.

I wrap my hands around the outside of hers, looking deeply into her eyes. “If you want to help me out, just keep being you. Some of these weeks you’re the only thing that keeps me sane and grounded.”

We hold each other’s gaze, our expression loving and warm, for all of about thirty seconds. Then we start laughing and drop back into our seats.

“Oh Christ, that was just awful,” she says, lifting her wine back to her lips, before having to set it back down as another laughing fit takes hold of her.

***

AWOL’s back in front of the whiteboard. He picks up the marker but pauses, turning back to the camera.

“I’m basically ignoring you, Robin, because I have it from a reliable source that you’re not actually competing in this match. Also, in a statement I want to be sure you understand I am in no way relating to my previous sentence, Porno Lad said that you aren’t competing in this match. I’m at a loss as to why you keep putting promos together for it, so I’m choosing to ignore them and concentrate on my actual opponents. By the way, if the bait and switch was supposed to be a secret (which, given that you are promoing like you are going to be participating, it appears to have been) you might want to have a chat with loveable ‘Ethan.’ Loose lips sink ships, and all that.

“Also, Katie Steward is participating in this match…supposedly. In any case, it is evidence that there is at least SOMEONE in the 5SS who can think, since adding the mute Katie Steward at least prevents you from having Katelyn Buehler actively dragging your team down and making you worse. So kudos for that, I suppose.”

As he speaks, he turns to the left and starts writing on the board. He begins with the sentence “What is the purpose of writing or drawing pictures in the background while doing a direct address?”

“Speaking of this name, Ethan, what is the deal with you people throwing out our first names? I thought that Porno Lad was an unintimidating name, but there is literally no one on this planet who is afraid of somebody named ‘Ethan.’ And why do you guys do it anyways? Do you think it makes you sound like you’re in some kind of insider clique? Because, I have unfortunate news for you: this does not work. You know who else uses wrestlers’ real names? Ring rats. You know, those wrestler groupies that follow promotions around from city to city and try to sleep with the talent? They rush home afterwards to their little blogs and post about how “Paul is a gentle and delicate lover” after they let Triple H smash them with his sledgehammer. This is the parallel you’re creating for yourself. Consider yourself warned.

“Yes, Savior, I just compared you to a ring rat. Be thankful. It’s probably the kindest comparison I’m going to make with regards to you.”

Another sentence on the whiteboard: “Does drawing a picture or writing one-liners in some way make the words I’m saying more meaningful?”

“Glad to see I’ve finally earned your notice, by the way. Apparently losing to me twice was enough to finally get the job done, so I’m grateful for that. What I am less grateful, however, is the extreme mischaracterization you have attempted to create from my words. Allow me to clarify a few points for you that seemed to have escaped your comprehension.”

Again, on the board: “It certainly doesn’t seem to be adding any new insights. They’re not even really matching up with what I’m saying.”

“First off, I would like to address this idea of me ‘dominating’ you on the last Riot! Let me be clear about something, I am well aware that the match ended in a shady fashion. Putting aside for a moment the incredible irony of you, of all people, somehow managing to take exception to outside interference in a match, let’s be very clear for a moment what I truly meant by my statement of ‘domination.’ I do not mean that the ending was without controversy. I was certainly set up nicely for whatever finisher move du jour you were prepared to render upon my form, potentially resulting in my being stunned long enough for you to earn a win over me. This I do not deny, though I do strain to point out that I have survived far more devastating finishers than your much-vaunted Blasé of Glory. However, I see two very glaring flaws in your reasoning that I need to address. Number 1: the assertion that Johnny and I cannot defeat you cleanly in a match is patently absurd because it is by your very own DOING that none of us can ever find out its truth. Every match we have with you involves your stooges running in from the outside to interfere. By rule those matches are disqualification victories in our favor from that point onward in any sort of sane and rational world where the rules are carried out by competent officials. Tragically, we don’t live in that world, we live in one ruled by IWC referees. When I say that I dominated you, however, I mean it very literally. Our two talent bases were pitted against each other at the last Riot! My ring abilities, toughness, size, and power were put into that ring to face what you had to offer, namely a run-in before the match from two of your hench-people, and two, count them, TWO shots to my head delivered BY YOU with a steel pipe. By your own admission, any of those things should have earned ME a victory by disqualification, but unlike you, I don’t need to whine like some kind of wet behind the ears rookie BITCH about it. I know that these sorts of shenanigans are just a part of your game plan, that this is where your only actual hopes of achieving a win against anyone in the ring springs from, and I don’t hold it against you. Instead, I took your best shots, I faced the by-the-book Christian Savior gameplan, and I survived. Do you understand that, Savior? I took your best shots, and I persevered. I hung on, and I waited for an opening, and then I took advantage of it. And oh, by the by, while I sympathize with your difficulties in recovering from the oh-so-devastating ‘Somebody put a shirt on me when I wasn’t looking’ attack, I doubt you’re going to get many people to cut you much slack for claiming to lose as a result of it. You didn’t lose by having a referee shirt put on you, you lost because I hit you twice with the Daisy Cutter when you lost focus on the match and then pinned your ass for a three count.”

More whiteboard: “Well if I’m not contributing content, what could I be doing?”

“Which brings me to point number two: the measuring of superiority. I consider myself superior to you Savior because every time we’ve been in the ring together, I’ve ‘WON’ (and I hate to be childish about the spelling thing, but frankly you started it.’ By pretty much every metric ever created in the history of sports, the universal determinant for which competitor is better or worse is victory or defeat. There is no spinning this. No amount of belly-aching about the vicious clothing assault you endured can change reality. In the record book it says ‘2-0’ when it comes to competitions where I’ve faced you. There is no other way to put it, no other way to describe the situation. Anything else is whining, bitching, and pissing into the wind, activities that, admittedly, I can see you are thoroughly adept at.”

More: “Is it possible I just don’t have anything interesting to put in the background? If so, why have I bothered putting in a background in the first place?”

“I was a bit confused on this championship situation, I’ll admit, so I went to the IWC rules committees for a clarification. They were, as is typical, unhelpful. Apparently, despite the fact that Porno Lad is the one who made the actual pinfall to acquire the Cartel Championship, he relinquished the belt to you, and so all of a sudden you are now the reigning Cartel Champ. Ok, this I can accept, especially in light of how pathetic I consider Porno Lad to truly be. However, subsequent to this event, I pinned you at the Overbooked Extravaganza, at a time when you were supposedly the champion, which by the rules of the match should have resulted in my becoming the new champ. Now, frankly, I could give two shits about this mid-card title that you’re holding up in the air and trumpeting like some kind of grand achievement, but you’ve made it an issue so let’s break this down. There were exactly two outcomes that make any sort of rules sense from that match: either A) I beat you, the Cartel Champ, and now I’m actually the champ and you’re holding my stolen property or B) You were never the Cartel Champion and you’re holding Porno Lad’s title belt illegitimately. Either way, your argument that you are in some way champion of anything other than the magical fantasy land that your attempts at logic trickle out from is patently ridiculous, much like your appearance, personality, and name.”

Yet More: “Or is it just that I’m so handcuffed by my lack of creativity and ability that I can’t conceive of a promo with no background, so I insert this hackneyed prop into the promo as a way of giving me something to do other than stand staring at the camera. Clearly since this is a promo I HAVE to be doing something, otherwise I would have to design my dialogue in such a way as to have natural breaks rather than artificial ones I fill by drawing silly pictures on a TV screen. Hey, how’d I write all this so quickly?”

AWOL then turns away from the extremely full whiteboard, putting a cap back on the marker and then plunking it off of the lens of the camera.

“I wondered who would be the first one to throw out the ‘We’re going to make you extinct at Extinction’ cliché and, while I lost five bucks to Hurse over the deal (my money was on Jackson Adams,) you did not disappoint. In your attempt at wit, however, you have failed to grasp the basic concepts of evolution that are at work here. Two opposing forces, two species if you’ll allow me to stretch the metaphor, are at competition at this pay-per-view. Two different ideals, two different methods, two completely, diametrically opposed factions go into combat on the main stage of this show, with nothing less than survival at stake from this point on. After this week, in any subsequent matches, this adds just more weight to every single promo where we can point back and say ‘Look, we won the match at Extinction, check the scoreboard,’ despite the fact that apparently Christian Savior doesn’t believe in such things. But there is a basic principle of evolution you’re conveniently overlooking here, that of survival of the fittest. No right-thinking person can possibly look at this match-up and believe that your team has any sort of advantage in strength, experience, cunning, or even flat out savagery. The only thing the Society has going for it is numbers, and that basically counts for nothing when our strength is located in one place. This is a no-win scenario for your group, and no amount of denial on your part will change that. This is not the musical Chicago. No amount of the old razzle dazzle will keep Mother Nature from catching wise and eliminating you by natural selection. We are simply better than you. This is fact, albeit a fact that you and yours seem completely unable to accept. I am, however, waiting in exquisite anticipation for this Sunday, when I and mine will be given the opportunity to demonstrate this truth to you in inescapable, painful, and very real terms.”

***

“So, I suppose this is the part where something meaningful happens to make all of this character development somehow match-relevant?” Maya smirks, swirling the last dusky-rose remnants of her wine in the bottom of her glass.

“I don’t see that as being necessary,” I answer, wiping my mouth on the restaurant’s monogrammed napkin. “Unless somehow you think Christian Savior falling and hitting his head on some ice or Porno Lad not being able to avoid humping everything with a hole within five blocks of him as being somehow ‘match relevant.’”

She sighs, a look of frustrated confusion on her features. “His name is really Porno Lad?”

“I know, I know.”

“I mean, they hire marketing people at the IWC don’t they?”

“Supposedly.”

“Fuck, I let sweaty fat guys rub their face in my tits five nights a week, and even I think that’s embarrassing.”

We pause for a moment as the seventy-somethings at the table behind us stand up and march towards the door, the old man muttering “Really, the nerve of some people,” under his breath.

“So, if nothing about this date/promo thing is relevant to your match…why are we doing it?” she asks. The question hangs in the air between us for a moment, two, seeming to cling to us like an uncomfortable haze of steam.

“You’re not enjoying yourself?” I answer, stalling.

“I am,” she quickly adds, setting her glass down and grabbing my hand. “I really am. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I had a night like this. But…I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like your style.”

Irritation flames in my chest as I stare down at the table top with a sigh. “Maybe I’m tired of my fucking style.” I look up, capturing her eyes with mine. “Maybe I just wanted people to see how lucky I am to have found you.”

She squirms, uncomfortable. “I thought we already did the awkward romantic bit,” she finally answers. She chuckles, half-heartedly, but stops as she sees the deadly serious look on my face. The moment stretches on, seeming to last for minutes rather than the ten seconds it actually occupies, before with a cough she looks down and gathers up her purse.

“I’ve got to get to work,” she says, “The pole waits for no woman.”

We both stand. I awkwardly help her slide her coat back over her shoulders. As she turns to leave, however, she pauses, stepping forward brushing her lips lightly against mine. I can see the words, I can hear them boiling in her mind, and I find myself trying to will them out of her with every cell in my body. Finally, she opens her mouth to speak.

“You’ve already got me in bed, tiger. You can stop trying so hard.”

I blink, once, twice, and with a final squeeze of my hand she turns to leave. I watch her elegant form recede towards the entrance to the restaurant and out through the swinging glass doors. I find myself frozen, unable to move, trapped by her, and wondering to myself how I could have been stupid enough to let this happen again. I only just manage to muster up the energy to scowl at the waiter as he mutters “Finally, good riddance,” at her as he walks past.

I barely notice my hand reach down to pick up the highball glass, the image of it shattering against the back of the wiry man’s skull already congealing in the back of my mind.

Extinction Promo

You see, this is what I’m talking about.

Let’s look at what we have here. No offense to the title “match” with Cagero and Riggs, but this is the marquis match of Extinction. The two main stables are squaring off. Three former world champions are participating. The culmination of all the storyline work we’ve done on Riot! since the last ppv pays off in this big, ultimate, final confrontation with…well ok, with nothing really on the line. In any case, the point is, this is the big match, the piece de resistance, the ultimate finale between the two titanic forces that have fought over this company for weeks.

And it’s completely fucking lame.

Johnny and I are the only watchable wrestlers in this match. There, I said it. I’ll be expecting a fine from the IWC discipline office any moment now, but the truth is the truth. This is the most ridiculous joke of an athletic competition I’ve ever heard of. This would be like sending the New Orleans Saints to play football against a high school team. It’s laughable. Do you understand me, Brat Pack? YOU are laughable. The talent mismatch is such that I would feel comfortable fighting you without Hurse even without the looming threat of Cruze’s returning “legend” (and, let’s face it, given Cruze’s ability to gauge “talent” it may end up being basically a handicap match anyways.)

I’m not trying to hurt the company here, believe it or not. I’m just incredulous, frankly, that this made it out of the booking office without someone, ANYONE, saying “hold on, wait a minute, maybe this isn’t such a hot idea.” I mean, let’s recap. You’ve got probably the best legitimate wrestler on the opposition team in Christian Savior. What do we know about this man? What have we learned in recent weeks? Well, we’ve learned that his abilities in this company essentially stop being valid the minute he steps through the ropes. He is a talented politician. He brought together the disenfranchised better than the Obama campaign, I can’t deny, and unlike the current president he’s actually delivered on one of his campaign promises. Johnny Kingdom is currently no longer world champion. Christian Savior played a large part in seeing this happen. Based on these lines of reasoning alone, we would say that his efforts as leader of the 5SS have been successful. However, this is not a Fox News Special Report, this is an AWOL promo, so we’re going to look a bit closer. True, Kingdom is no longer champion. However, Savior isn’t champion, either. In fact, he isn’t champion of anything right now, and that is due in large part to yours truly pinning and eliminating him from the Overbooked Extravaganza. Yes, I’m aware we’ve covered this ground before, Christian, but it bears repeating and given your in ring performance, I can barely conclude that you even showed up at the arena last week, let alone bothered to watch my last promo. You aren’t Cartel Champion. You aren’t World Champion. You aren’t Tag Champion. You are, in point of fact, currently champion of nothing. You “hand picked” Savior to win the World Title, as you put it, but it appears that Cagero’s not on board, so you in fact have simply transferred the belt from one man who despises you to another one. Admittedly, this is not a terribly difficult feat to accomplish given that most of the roster would gladly throw you off of a cliff given the opportunity, but the point remains. Your regime is long on talk and very, very short on delivering on its promises. I, on the other hand, am doing just fine at delivering in both areas. I beat you last week, and along the way I managed to survive having basically your entire stable thrown at me and still got the job done. To put it bluntly, that match was not evenly waged by both of us. It was domination. It was a clear mismatch, and I’m the number two man on my team. Kingdom’s history with you shows an even longer stretch of domination, to the point now where he’s frankly just sick of you. Not irritated or furious, just tired of talking about you. You’re not that good. Your superstar of the year award merely serves as evidence that the masses are asses. It means about as much as when athletes like Manny Ramirez or Tracy McGrady win in on-line votes for spots in the All-Star game of their respective sports despite not actually even playing in the particular season they’re being rewarded for. You have name recognition. That is all. You’re all smoke and mirrors with no substance. No amount of embarrassingly ordinary efforts at composing “parody” promos (which, believe me, is a topic we’ll be revisiting later this week) can change this fact.

And then there’s Porno Lad. Somehow I managed to ruffle his feathers just by showing up here and having the audacity to point out that his name was ridiculous, and it’s just gone downhill from there. Well, I’m sorry son, but your name IS ridiculous. How does that strike fear into an opponent? How does that drive up buy-rates? It doesn’t, PL, it in fact probably has the opposite effect. The irony of your group’s situation is that they want to be taken seriously and given what they consider to be their fair spot in the company, when in turn the best threat they can level against us is “You better look out, Empire, or we’ll sick Porno Lad on you.”

Is that a joke?

Who came up with the idea to make you the muscle of your stable? I really want to know. Was it Savior? It sounds like one of his ideas, I’ll admit, and requires about as much intellectual fortitude as his vaunted Alice in Wonderland promo, but to be honest I would have expected it to be more a result of your continual overestimation of your abilities. One of these days, PL, someone is going to come along and demonstrate just how incredibly ordinary your truly are. There is very little that is special about you or the effort you put out week to week. The only thing remarkable about you is the fact that you don’t see this as the truth yet. Your one true talent, as far as I can see, is simply the fact that you are able to remain so continually, blissfully ignorant to the fact that you are just flat-out not good. Your promos aren’t entertaining, they’re dribble. Your in-ring performances are not remarkable, they are completely average. The successes you’ve seen thus far are simply a result of your being paired up with equally mediocre competition week after week. Well, that stops now. You’ve put yourself in an untenable position by setting yourself opposite to us. Now, you don’t have the option of matching up against the Too Magnificents and the Rick Rohls of the world week after week, you have to face legitimate competition, and now you’re going to be revealed for the run-of-the-mill, bottom-of-the-barrel competitor that you truly are. Take the tazer out of your hands in my match against Too Magnificent and you will have accomplished exactly nothing since joining the 5SS a few weeks ago. Do not expect this tendency to change. And as for your being the muscle, the enforcer of your stable, well, watch and learn kid. I’m the model for who you want to be. If you ever want people to fear you, you’re going to need to figure out some way to distinguish yourself because, I gotta tell you, right now I’m more afraid of Miho Miyazaki than I am of you.

Of course, that’s more a mixture of horror and dreadful fascination than actual fear, but I digress.

As for Katie Steward…who the fuck are you again? I’m assuming you’re a part of the SCW component of the Brat Pack, which means that I can basically write you off as a factor in this match, so I suppose that’s a relief. SCW is like double A ball compared the IWC, no matter what I think of the company’s state these days, so if you can’t even cut it to compete here then I’m officially relieved of any obligation to take you seriously as a threat. However, I can’t help but wonder what the people in your group are thinking by making this move. There’s about a million of you Five Star Society plebes available on the IWC payroll, and you guys have to look outside the company for your fourth member? Wow, just, wow. I think that pretty much speaks for itself.

Which brings me to you, Robin. Your presence in this match is, I have to say, the most embarrassingly terrible thing I’ve seen in my time in this business. I want you to really understand what I’m saying here. I’m taking off the Kay-Fabe hat here and just speaking to you as a fellow human being. I was once drug out of a hospital bed, supposedly in a coma, and forced to wrestle a match, and THIS is the most embarrassing and irresponsible thing I’ve ever seen. I’m not being abrasive here, Robin, and I’m not insulting your abilities in the ring. Frankly, I’ve done that enough times. The bottom line here, Robin, is you are pregnant. Assuming that this isn’t just some sort of stupid ruse (and, frankly, I hope it is for everyone’s sake) you are making possibly the MOST irresponsible decision imaginable by putting yourself in the ring at Extinction. As a mother, as a HUMAN BEING, how can you POSSIBLY think that this is a good idea? It is beyond conception that anyone in the IWC competition office is even allowing you to show up in the arena, given some of the lunatics in this place and their preference for kidnapping and otherwise harming peoples’ families. So Robin, please, I’m begging you, as one person to another, all kidding aside, do not come out to the match at Extinction. Find a replacement, find anybody, and send them out in your place. I don’t want to be responsible for the safety of your child in the ring and, to be honest, your team’s performance should be the only abortion the fans are forced to watch next Sunday.

None of this makes any sense for you, Five Star Society. This is a lose-lose. Even If you manage to come up with enough ridiculous shenanigans to squeak out a win, the rest of the match will be so one-sided that even a victory will be more like a defeat for your group in terms of the court of public opinion which, we both know, is the real prize we’re competing for here. And, to be honest, any of the sort of bullshit you’ll have to use to get the win will likely just make us even more pissed off at you and even more determined to see you fail than we were going in. You can’t scare us. You can’t intimidate us. We’re not going anywhere until we see your group fall apart. So what do you really hope to accomplish at Extinction?

Your advantage thus far against us has been your superior numbers and the element of surprise. This match takes both of those away from you because it forces you to concentrate your strength in one place where we can see you coming and where you don’t have any sort of meaningful assistance available to you from outside the match. You see, unlike most of the folks you’ve run into thus far, we in the Empire know how the game you’re running right now works. Most of us have been there and run the same game some time in the past. You have no cards available to you come Extinction. There are no tricks left. The best you can hope for is to have a weapon hidden somewhere near the ring, and that’s a gamble because it’s possible we could get hold of it and use it against you. You can’t use a run-in, since the presence of Katie Steward means you’ve given up entirely on the rest of your stable to contribute in any sort of meaningful way to this match. So all you have left is a match-up by match-up test of talent in the ring, and whether you’ll admit it or not, you’re going to lose in that comparison every time. We are just better than you. There’s no other way to put it. On a one-to-one basis I would take any member of my side against any member of your side any day. Hurse with a broken neck is a better wrestler than Porno Lad. Even Jackson Adams could probably squeak a win out against most of you. So how can you delude yourself into thinking you have any kind of chance?

This is why I apologize to the fans. This match is a stinker, no doubt about it. If it were a football game, it would be so one-sided that Vegas wouldn’t even put a line on it. I’ve spent all week trying to come up with anything creative or entertaining to try and do for a promo to salvage it, and all I could come up with was sitting down and composing a twenty-three hundred word dissertation on your group’s complete failure to even make this competitive. Thus, I’ve come to a conclusion. If I can’t even be bothered to get interested in this match, a ppv match that I’m competing in, then how the hell can I expect the fans to care about this? Consequently, I’m extending a one-time offer to the people who buy Extinction on ppv. If you are as unsatisfied with the product on display as I think you likely will be, mail me your cable bill and I’ll refund your money. That, and my humble apologies on behalf of the booking office for putting together such a farcical contest are all I can really offer as compensation for your wasted time.

If this doesn't make you smile...

...you, in fact, have no soul. Perhaps you're Hitler? Not sure.

Thanksgiving

Thursday Nov. 26th.

AWOL is walking down the freezer aisle of a grocery store. The fluorescent lights overhead shine down balefully upon the shopping cart he pushes in front of him, seemingly dwarfed by the size of his massive frame. The wheels squeak, irritatingly. He steers constantly to keep it from turning sideways, smashing into the glass of the freezer door. His dagger glare, penetrating down the length of the aisle, informs all present that he is well aware and affected by these irritations.

He pauses the cart next to a particular freezer cabinet, turning towards the door. He throws it open with an irritated twitch. White mist spills out to the floor. He reaches in, pulling out a frozen dinner. The door slams shut with a loud “thwump.” Reaching down, he wipes off the frost, reading the label. A sigh escapes his lips, echoing from somewhere in the bottom of his boots.

The label reads “Turkey Dinner with Mashed Potatoes.”

He throws the dinner into the cart with his other sundries. He turns the cart back straight again, walking towards the checkout counter. He pauses again, however, as a beeping tone comes from the pockets of his pants. He pulls out a cell-phone, flipping open to the cover. The screen blinks back “1 Message.” He presses a button, revealing the words “From: Maya. Hey, where R U? Had a great time last night. Call me.”

He grimaces, flipping the lid shut and shoving the phone back into a pocket.

A man in a cardigan sweater walks past him, pausing at the exhalation and spying the ugly expression on his face. He stops, looking at him with a concerned expression of his own. “Hey man, it’s alright. Life’s not so bad.”

AWOL looks up, fixing the man with a glare.

***

You made a mistake, Christian Savior. Before the Tag Team Gauntlet at the Overbooked Extravaganza you overlooked me. You wrote me off. I believe you may have spray painted the words “Forgettable” on my chest, or at least on the chest of a cardboard cut-out of me. In your place, as someone who was trying to prove how above an opponent I was, I may have gone with irrelevant or inconsequential, but let’s not quibble over diction. You did this to me, a former world champion from a time when this company actually had competitors that were worth a shit. You did this to a founding member of the fucking Empire, one half of the greatest tag team this company has ever seen, and friend and ally to the greatest champion the company has ever known. Oh, and let’s not forget, you did this to a man who has done what you have promised and failed to deliver on, namely defeating Johnny Kingdom. I am bigger than you. I’ve probably been wrestling longer than you (don’t quote me on that, I can’t be assed to go look at your history,) and anything you’ve achieved I’ve achieved then some. The things you don’t know about me could probably about fill a goddamn book, and you wrote me off as forgettable?

Well.

We know how that worked out, don’t we? Specifically, I walked into the tag-team gauntlet and I pinned you, eliminating you and your stooge from the match and, in doing so, denying you the Cartel Title and your chance to win the world heavyweight championship by defeating Johnny Kingdom. So tell me one thing, Christian.

Do I have your attention now?

***

Wednesday Nov. 25th

Dr. Ferraro- I’m concerned about this pattern of behavior you’re establishing for yourself, AWOL.

AWOL-Pattern?

Dr. Ferraro- Every week you come to your appointment, and it seems like you’ve drop to a new low. At first I was very encouraged by your progress, but now you talk about destroying your employers’ company. You’re going back to your old violent release or aggression in the ring. And now this girl, Maya. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re doing it on purpose.

AWOL-I’m at a new low? All I said was that I found a new girlfriend.

Dr. Ferraro- Stripper. You just told me you had a one night stand with a stripper.

AWOL-The term is “exotic dancer.” And what’s your point? Strippers can’t be girlfriends?

Dr. Ferraro- She takes off her clothing for money, and there is every possibility that she is doing basically the same thing with you right now. And more importantly, this is a dangerous time for you to be developing any new connections with members of the opposite sex. You shouldn’t be starting a new relationship right now. Anything you try to create will be afflicted with the emotions you’re carrying from your marriage. You’re not looking for a girlfriend right now, you’re looking for validation.

AWOL-Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?

Dr. Ferraro-Besides your therapist?

AWOL-Yes.

Dr. Ferraro-I’m someone who knows. I have experiences with a number of cases like yours. I know what you’re going through.

AWOL-Wonderful, the books told you all about me. I’m very relieved.

Dr. Ferraro-Your tone is very belittling.

AWOL-Maybe that’s because I want to make you feel small. Maybe that’s because I come in here week after week spilling my goddamn guts out to you, and all you do is answer me back with shit I could have programmed a speak and spell to respond with. All you’ve done is make me feel worse and confuse me, twist me up into knots and make it so I don’t know what I’m thinking from one minute to the next. What the fuck do you know about the real world, anyway? All I ever see you do is sit in this goddamn room every day. Do you ever leave? What the fuck do you know about anything?

*sound of a clipboard being slammed onto the floor*

Dr. Ferraro-I’ve been divorced for three years, you insensitive prick!

*a long pause, sounds of loud breathing.*

Dr. Ferraro-I married a banker. He told me he loved me, that everything would be good while we were together. He told me I could trust him, and three years ago I discovered he was sleeping with a woman ten years younger than me. When I confronted him about it, he couldn’t tell me why he did it, just that he got bored with me and looked for someone new. He left me. He left me for that bimbo and now he’s probably off in a goddamn yacht with her while I’m left here barely scraping by on the copays my patients can manage to bring in every week. So yes, Anthony, yes, I know something about what it’s like to have to put your life back together after a divorce. The only difference is that I didn’t end up in this situation because I was an insensitive ass of a spouse.

*another pause. After a moment the sound of the clipboard being picked back up from the floor. Dr. Ferraro clears her throat.*

Dr. Ferraro-I’m sorry, Mr. Wolworth. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to treat you anymore.

AWOL-It’s…it’s fine. I deserved that. We’ve got it out of the way now, we can restart this. We can-

Dr. Ferraro-No, I’m sorry Anthony, you don’t understand. I have a lot of patients that engage in self-destructive behavior because they don’t know any better or don’t understand what is best for them. With you this is not the case. You are intelligent, and I believe you are aware of your situation. You seem to delight in self-destruction. You choose to take the wrong path BECAUSE it’s the wrong path, and I quite frankly don’t think you have the mental focus required for successful therapy. Since we’re laying our cards on the table, I’m tired of wasting my time on someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

***

I’ve been informed that it is necessary for me to add more direct, match related content to my promotional materials. Thus, the direct address. I apologize if the transitions are abrupt, but I thought this was the easiest way of expressing myself clearly regarding this match. So, to be clear, I detest you Christian.

However, unlike our mutual acquaintance Mr. Johnny Kingdom, this detestation does not prevent me from expressing a degree of admiration for your achievements thus far. I currently find myself amused by the prospect of this company burning to the ground, and an important piece of this objective can be provided by the Five Star Society. Frankly, I can think of few things that would be worse for the long term survival of the IWC than letting your bunch of washed-up never-weres run the place into the ground. You’ve got Dan Douglas’ power backing you now. You have more people in your stable than I can really count. Hell, as far as I can tell you’ve either got the World Champion under your boot or signed on as a card carrying member of your stable. Things are looking pretty good for you right now, I’ve got to say. By all forms of measurement, you have this place on the ropes, ready to topple.

You seem, however, to have made a few mistakes. Allow me to provide some pointers.

First of all, your current master stroke appears to revolve around pinning your plans behind the addition of Porno Lad to your stable. I mean, honestly, it feels ridiculous even saying that. That’s the big reveal? The guy in the Xavier mask was Porno Lad the whole time? That’s it? I mean, clearly a man who hires Katelyn Buehler must have an indescribable ability to judge talent, but I have to question this decision. Have you listened to him talk? Have you watched him in the ring? He’s everything that’s wrong with this place, and that’s what you’re going with? What’s the next step, you pull a rubber mask off Dan Douglas and reveal that he’s actually Dink the Clown?

If you want to look like a legitimate threat, surround yourself with legitimate threats. We tolerated Jackson Adams in the Empire, admittedly, but we didn’t push him into the main event. If you were looking for someone to be the muscle for your group, I’m forced to point out that my services were available at the time you were putting this thing together. No call? Insulting. And to be honest, I am not a man it is wise to insult.

Second, you chose the wrong people to make your statement against. Johnny Kingdom and I are not people who respond to your sorts of threats. Well, that’s not true. Actually, you’re getting a response right now, and you’re going to see even more of a response in the future. You had the drop on us before, Savior, and I will completely admit that. Now, however, the cards are on the table. There is no more mysterious Mister X. Porno Douche is now clearly on your side. The battle lines are drawn, and now all bets are off. It is time to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war. And, frankly, if you think that I am somehow going to be intimidated by your hatchet…lad coming down to the ring and hitting me with a stun-gun, you have another thing coming. I’ve lost more sleep over taking Hurse to a nice restaurant than I will over the threat of Porno Sad coming down to the ring and interfering in my matches. Step one of the dismantling of your group begins on Riot! this week. Sit back and take notes, actually. You might learn something.

Finally, I’m forced to point out to you that you are, despite what I’m sure you think, not unique or special in any way. Mr. Savior, I’ve faced more opponents like you than I care to recall. You are literally a clone of every greased hair, too high opinion of himself, millionaire, power hungry weasel heel I’ve had the misfortune of encountering in my career. I’m not going to score points with either of you by saying so, but it’s ironic that the person you remind me of most is Johnny Kingdom. Specifically, when he came into the ULW initially he played a game not that different from yours: the parody promos, the run-ins, all that shit. The difference is that, where what he did had substance, you are simply a bad imitation. A carbon copy. He didn’t grab everyone he could and put them into Creative Control, he grabbed one protégé with potential and together they shook the company to its knees. And also, please, as someone who actually enjoys a well-done parody, I have to point out that yours basically fail on every meaningful level to be either entertaining or pointed in the slightest. When you do them correctly, they have meaning. They’re not just a spoof, you put something clever together. You form an allegory. You use the story to prove a point about the person you’re mocking. If you characterize someone, it should be for a purpose. You, on the other hand, seemed to pick Alice in Wonderland because it had enough characters to represent everyone in the match and because it let you call Too Mag and Cagero Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb. You called me “A-Wall” for fuck’s sake. What were you thinking? When you initially had that idea, did you honestly sit down and say to yourself “My word, Savior, you’ve done it again. He’ll be quite steamed when he sees that I’m calling him a room divider.” It didn’t even fit with the story. And the Hurse caterpillar? Fuck, I’m not even going to get into that.

You’re a Xerox scan of every stable-leader I’ve ever seen, is what I’m getting at, and frankly I’m just getting tired of it. You’re all the same, and you’re all equally resistant to the idea that this is, in fact, the truth. That’s why it’s time to end this, and quickly, before I get any more bored of you. Step one is to beat you this week. There is nothing else to it.

It’s just business.

***

The ceiling fan spins silently over the top of the bed. AWOL rests on his back, staring up at it with eyes half lidded. A lithe female form is curled up against him, tucked beneath his arm. Her blonde hair cascades down the bedside behind them, and she purs contentedly like a cat, nuzzling her face into his neck and knocking her glasses askew. A smile creeps onto his face.

Maya-That was amazing.

He grunts his agreement, nodding. She reaches over, twirling a long, manicured fingernail in a circle on his chest.

Maya-So who were you thinking about?

AWOL’s eyes open in shock before quickly narrowing in suspicion.

AWOL-What?

Maya-Don’t be mad. You just weren’t all here with me, I could tell.

AWOL-The fuck are you talking about?

Her lips turn out into a pout, one leg moving under the sheets and wrapping playfully around his.

Maya-Don’t be mad. It’s just that I’ve been with enough guys who were trying to get away from somebody, and I want to get the conversation out of the way now. Who is she? Your wife?

He starts to protest before she reaches up, playfully plucking his left hand into the air, waggling it around by the ring finger.

Maya-Don’t worry, it’s cool. It’s not the first time I’ve spotted the mark from a wedding band on one of my lovers.

He looks like he’s going to argue, but finally shrugs.

AWOL-Ex-wife. She’s my ex-wife. We’ve been divorced for a few months now.

Maya rubs her finger slowly in a circle around the base of his ring finger, giving him a smile.

Maya-Aha, I see. And thus the scar has not faded yet.

He nods.

Maya-I understand. Unlucky for her, but lucky for me.

He smiles again, closing his eyes contentedly.

Maya-So, were you imagining that I was her?

Definite irritation now. He starts to rise from the bed, but she wraps her arms around his neck, holding him down.

Maya-I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You don’t have to tell me. Jesus.

He settles back with a sigh and she resumes her position against his side, laying her head against his chest.

Maya-You don’t have to tell me, but know it doesn’t bother me. You’re with me now, that’s all that matters. I just don’t understand why you’re so touchy about it.

She shrugs.

Maya-I mean, it’s not like I was thinking about you.

***

You see, Savior, there’s one thing you haven’t counted on here. This Mafioso, Gestapo crap that you run on the average joes on the roster relies on intimidation. I know, I’ve done it before. If someone has a belt, you take it away from them. If someone has a good place on the roster, you knock them out of it. If they’ve got a family you kidnap them or threaten them and, if the fans love them, you drag the wrestler into the ring and you make them watch while you beat their hero into submission. It’s not complicated.

The problem is, you can’t do it to me.

You can’t do it to me, Christian Savior, because I’ve got nothing for you to take. The tag title doesn’t mean shit to me, and you don’t have two people in your group who could take them off of Johnny and I anyways. Through one of the greatest fucking injustices in the world you’re somehow higher up in the federation than me, so there’s no point in taking away my place. As this promo no doubt demonstrates, my personal life is a god damned train wreck. And the fans? Don’t make me laugh. Most of them wouldn’t notice if I was gone, and the rest would be probably think you did them a favor.

No, Christian, you have walked into the living embodiment of the man who has nothing to lose. All I am is a miserable son of a bitch who has nothing better to do with his free time than to walk into the most violent venue in the world of professional wrestling and bash annoying pricks like you in the skull repeatedly for cash. And I assure you, Christian, I intend to continue with that hobby during our match. This isn’t about winning or losing, it’s about the start of things to come. This is the opening salvo that leads up to this thing’s conclusion at the next pay-per-view. It’s like what Connery said in The Untouchables: you put one of ours in the hospital, now it’s time for us to put one of yours in the morgue. And, unless Cagero has officially signed on the dotted line with your group, there is exactly one Empire versus 5SS match on the card.

So I guess you drew the short straw.

***

Thursday Nov. 26th

“Hey man, it’s alright. Life’s not so bad.”

AWOL reaches up, wringing the bridge of his nose in irritation.

“Do you do that a lot?”

The man looks confused.

“Do I do what a lot?”

“Make stupid statements to random people.”

The man’s jaw drops open.

“Do you know what the problem with telling people ‘Life’s not so bad’ is?”

Without waiting for a response, he reaches out with one hand, snatching the man from the ground by his throat. AWOL steps forward, his sneering face an inch away from that of the man in the cardigan sweater.

His voice is a sinister whisper. “Eventually you meet the guy whose life really is fucked up beyond recognition, and maybe he’s tired of this shit, and maybe he has this tin can of Jolly Green Giant brand green beans in his free hand,” He hefts a one gallon can of the vegetables, holding it up next to the man’s face, “And maybe he loses his fucking mind and bashes your skull in with it because he can’t stand the sound of false fucking pity from a complete stranger who could give a shit anyways.”

His nostrils pulse, rhythmically, as the bystander’s eyes widen in terror. AWOL raises the can, his arm physically twitching. He wants more than anything to swing, to be thrown out of this place, to be arrested and fired and thrown into jail. He can see the spray of blood, picture the brain matter splattering against the frosted glass. It’s sweet. He can taste the coppery warmth of the red gore in his mouth. He wants it, more than anything.

But he doesn’t. He drops the man to the ground, reaches up, and brushes off the front of his sweater. He tosses the can onto the ground and turns back to his cart.

AWOL walks away, snorting in disgust. “Life’s not so bad,” he chuckles.

“How’s your life now, asshole.”

Thank a Virus Today, They Pretty Much Are Responsible for Keeping You Alive

Give it a look. Our view of viruses is built primarily around what we see and experience of them as humans: IE they make you sick, scare the crap out of the media, and perhaps turn you into zombies (ok, not that one. As far as you know...) Still, it's important to keep in mind that we're surrounded by them all the time, and many of them perform important functions. For instance, without some of the viruses discussed in this article, no rain clouds. You know, those aren't important. Who needs rain?

Like we didn't have enough to worry about.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/8361863.stm


This is a story I found through my RSS "Latest Headlines" feed published by the BBC. In case you think this is something new, it isn't. We've been concerned about this possibility for a while now, starting with observations made by organismal biologists that certain animal species (I remember seeing a video about everglades alligators who were being affected by this when I was a freshman), presumably as a result of exposure to these feminizing chemicals from plastics. I wouldn't say stop using anything plastic, by any stretch, but there looks to be something here. Admittedly, a behavior study is sort of sketchy evidence, but if you look up this Dr. Shanna Swan's publications list, she has a lot of material out there with much more quantitative, solid results. There is more work to be done, to be certain, before a conclusion can be made, but maybe give one of these new aluminum water bottles a try, anyway.