The camera opens to a car view of the open road as “The Greatest Showman” Kevin Maverick rides along the I-80 W. From the looks of it, he was somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania, blasting the likes of The Blue Stones and Black Pistol Fire. Maybe there were some Strokes in there with a sprinkle of Interpol. He was in rock kind of mood as the spirit of rebellion welled up from within. He had no plans to leave the promotion; OWA was in complete disarray and he wanted to take advantage of the chaos. It was that time of the year where factions would face off against each other and he wanted a piece of the action. He wanted to show the world what he was made of and why he deserves a seat at the grown folks’ table. There was a new attitude within Kevin, one that wasn’t previously seen before. He was a man on a mission, determined to show the OWA Universe that he wasn’t some kind of a pushover, that he was a future main eventer, the star of the goddamn show. Where this mentality would take him was currently unknown - his only concern in the meantime was total domination of the Three-Way Team Elimination Match. If Olympus was the last team standing then another opportunity would present itself. Maverick had to stay on the hustle and grind. He had to keep his focus and stay on brand. This was a new beginning, a chance for the world to see this new, aggressive side of himself. He wanted the gold and if he had to be a cold-blooded assassin then so be it.

“Three brands, three teams. There can only be one. It practically sells itself, right? Twelve of OWA finest fighting for bragging rights. Heh, bragging rights. Do you want to know my opinion? That’s a cute way of tricking your roster into keeping their minds off the titles. But not me, I’m always seeking out gold. I’m gunning for eight people with the intention of laying them out with my own damn hands. I came to OWA to be the face of a division, but I’m staying to be the face of the promotion itself. Maybe this is what I needed - to aim higher than I was previously. I was so happy being the cruiserweight champion on some shuck and jive shit. But I can’t let that define my career, ya know? I have to keep going forward, no matter who’s standing in my path - be it the four chuckleheads on Kingdom, or the four thots over on Odyssey.”

Kevin shakes his head as he’s driving.

“First we have CM Nas - a guy who hasn’t been relevant since getting his ass beat by Jacob Senn. A man who lives in his own delusions. You see it in wrestling - dudes who walk around thinking they’re over than they actually are. They sit back jerking it to the praise they get from these fanboys on Twitter wishing thewy could be him and the depressed goth chicks wishing they were his wife, Tarah Nova. I’m not saying Nas is trash, I’m just saying he’s not the legend everyone makes him out to be. I mean he got his ass kicked by Keelan Callihan. WHO LETS THEMSELVES GET BEATEN BY KEELAN!? Then you have Stephanie Matsuda’s grandfather, Carlos Rosso. Hey dude - just because you fought in the ACTUAL CIVIL WAR doesn’t mean you have to be in this match, pops. You have Miltiades who could be confused for an extra from the show Vikings. Hell, he’s an extra here in OWA - spending more time at the catering table then he does in the ring. And lastly, for Kingdom, you have another one of Aria Jaxon’s victims, Chris Sabertooth. This man has more abs than he does brain cells. I don’t know if that’s something he should be proud of, but he sure smiles like it.”

Kevin laughs and shakes his head.       

“Then you have Saturday Night Thotdyssey, lead by Dulce de Leche, a LITERAL SNACK. I mean yeah homegirl looks like one, but that’s just about it. Well, at least she has her looks cut out for her. I can’t say the same for Diantha though. She looks like burnt toast - but she has a phatty. She can fly, but not as well as The Greatest Showman. But, I think I can pass on some lessons here and there throughout the match. As for Eris, she’s the only threat from that team I’m worried about. That’s a big bitch who can throw her weight around, that’s for sure. Then you have that steaming pile of Hot Topic Persephone Bane. Besides beating Jessica Rose, there’s not much to her. Wait! I hear she’s a good jogger. That’s just about it.”

Kevin shrugs as he’s focused on the road ahead.

“It’s no coincidence that the aptly named Olympus is going to tower over everyone like gods. It’s who we are, it’s what we do. We are the gods of wrestling after all. We have Gareth Cason, the next big thing in this industry. We have Tarah freaking Nova - quite possibly one of the best female wrestlers in the world. She could solo Odyssey on her own! And then you have The Derelict, the same man who took The Openweight Championship from my very hands. Sure I have some beef with him, but you know what? This is war, and you don’t always get to choose who you fight side by side with. And quite frankly, I couldn’t ask for a better team. We’re all current or former champions in our own right and thus the biggest threat in this match. I don’t have a reason to sweat bullets and once this match is over and we’re victorious, I can turn my attention to cementing my legacy. But my eyes will be looking beyond the Openweight Championship. I’ll be seeking a bigger prize. So let this weekend be the one of the biggest performances of The Greatest Showman’s career. Soldier Stadium will be in awe and so will you.”

Kevin winks at the camera and turns it off.

“I guess you could call this a revolt…”

The camera opens to Stephanie “Cloud” Matsuda sitting in her own home while staring aimlessly at a photo. She’s dressed in a simple blue tank top and gray sweatpants. Her usual blue contacts are replaced with her prescription glasses. She had a relaxed but vulnerable air about her as if she was a woman who had nothing to hide. Maybe that was the point for her - there was no hiding from a man who knew her...so intimately.

“Yes, I would say this is a revolt. Of course, I use that phrase against a man who’s probably triggered by that very word and the marks are probably already losing their minds over on Reddit and whatnot. But, there’s no other way to describe my actions. I am actively revolting against everything that Keelan Callihan stands for. When we talked about putting the band back together, we each had our own reasons: I wanted to fight Aria; Carlos wanted to represent; The Wild Boys chased after tag gold; and Keelan wanted it all. Hell, he still does. And as I’ve learned several months ago, he’s willing to do anything to have it all - even if it means taking something that doesn’t belong to him, that he didn’t rightfully earn. But...that was Mia Matsuda & Killer Keelan back in the old days, right? Riding around the under a west coast summer from town to town, match to match in the Year of Our Lord 2010. You see, my mentor Michael Hunter wanted me to gain some experience as a valet/manager. He knew of a young up and comer - some Aussie - on the indies who was developing quite a name for himself. So from May to the end of August, I was assigned to the “Killer Playboy” Keelan Callihan. He was easier on the eyes back then, a fresh face with an adorable stubble with a heart of gold. Of course, we weren’t the nicest people then - helping each other cheat in our matches and such. Then again it was the indies! Whoever is nice on the indies is either screwing the promoter or naive as hell. Anywho, he and ‘ol blue eyes found ourselves growing closer and...well we did whatever any other pair of young people would do back then. But, we knew it wouldn’t last forever. So I went back to Brooklyn and he went back to Los Angeles before moving back to Australia to open the Brisbane Pro Wrestling Academy. I was so happy for him when I heard the news. This was in 2013, and I just started in JET. In some ways, life was much simpler back then. We weren’t concerned with chasing world titles, we were just happy to be wrestling. Now...it’s about maintaining our legacies. Zaibatsu was formed as a sort of insurance policy to protect the legacies of me, Carlos,  and Keelan. We were getting tired of the rules and wanted to play on our own. At first, it worked! Carlos and I became world champions in the same weekend, and Keelan helped found another wrestling promotion - OWA. The Wild Boys eventually became tag champions there and Carlos obtained the Television Championship. But Keelan...things didn’t go the way he wanted to. So we decided on an offensive - one against The Conquering Messiah himself and one against The Queen herself, Aria Jaxon.”

Stephanie placed down the picture and turned to the camera. 

“That’s where it fell apart. Not because I lost against Aria, but because in actuality Keelan’s truth became evident. I wasn’t viewed as an ally, but a tool to bring the OWA World Championship closer to him. People may disapprove of some of my actions, but I would never steal a championship from someone who earned it. War is conducted in the ring, not after the bell rings. I don’t know what Keelan was thinking when we took the OWA World Championship. You weren’t going to bait Aria into a title match, that wasn’t happening fam. The point of Boiling Point wasn’t just to win titles, it was to remind the world just how dangerous we were. If Scott Oasis wanted Ria and me to fight again, so be it.  But your actions didn’t just make you look bad...it ruined my image as a competitor. It also destroyed what was left of a decade-long friendship. You nearly cost me everything I worked hard to build in this industry because you overplayed your goddamn hand! I gave you the reigns because I thought I could trust you. Well, allow me to put on my clown shoes and a ruby red nose! Maybe I deserve it, ya know? The crazy thing is instead of respecting my decision to give the title back to her, you turn on your own. You air all my dirty laundry, including personal business about my marriage! You attempt to sabotage my marriage with some bullshit revelation that Monica already knew about! What did you think, huh!? That she would divorce me because we fucked a couple of times nine years ago!? You think I would lose my status as an LGBTQ icon because I fucked some dude some time ago!? Everyone knew I was engaged to a whole man - it’s called bi-sexual you dumb cunt! Yes, I put the ‘B’ in LGBT, just like you put the ‘be’ as in ‘being’ a little bitch!”

Stephanie sighs and shakes her head.   

“I think it’s time The Killer gets got, ya know? Maybe it’s up to me to destroy the monster I made with my own hands. I can’t move on until this beef between us is squashed, so yes I place everything on the line in this match! If I can’t beat you, then I belong to you, mind, body, and soul. Because putting the past behind me like other former Elitists means that much to me. My present is so bright - two championships! - and my future’s going to get a lot more luminous. So yes, I have to leave you, Carlos, and The Wild Boys behind. I love them...and you too. Even with this bullshit, I’ll still take a bullet for any of you, but I can’t do it under the Zaibatsu banner. Between this, Sanatorium, Formation, maybe this whole stable thing isn’t made for me. Who knows...maybe it’s not made for you either. You’re one of the biggest names to come out of Australia and you were willing to throw your reputation away because of some Black Girl Magic. The funny thing is if you put your heart into it, you could probably beat Aria fair and square. But, you’re going through me first. Because let’s be frank - if you can’t be The War Queen then you stand no chance against The Queen of Kingdom herself. We may not be talking right now, but I give respect where its due.”

Stephanie stares off into the distance for a moment as a few things run through her mind.

“This is the end of an era in some ways. The last piece of my past catching up with me. Instead of letting it fester like a blister, I’m removing it from my whole body. I’m separating myself from you, Keelan, because you represent the most maladaptive parts of my behavior. My unchecked ambition, that lingering desire to do whatever it takes, no matter how many lives I destroy. You were the side of me that cheated on women I loved, the side that struck with my allies with a chair at PFP IX. You were the words from the shadows that lead me into the darkness of the Sanatorium. You were the rage that made me break Cailin with my own hands, to the point where she can never wrestle again, thus killing her dreams. You’re the lingering jealous that eats at me every time I see Aria raise a title in the air.”

Stephanie looks down for a moment, her eyes nearly wet.

“You’re the worst part of me Keelan Callihan and it’s time I purge myself of you. But, I can’t do it as the woman that you see before you. You’ll see what I mean when you see me this weekend.”

Stephanie gets up.

“Time to fly.”

Apologies, I missed the no double posting rule. I assumed we were going with waiting 24 hours.

We track into the vault of a bank. The large, gold door is wide open and inside is Natalie Cage, sitting on a large stack of money, acting as a makeshift throne. The OWA Women’s World Championship is sitting on her shoulder. She seems indifferent to the vast amount of wealth that surrounds her.

 
You know, there are people who’ll try to say I’m not supposed to be here. And if you live in the past, you wouldn’t be blamed for that. A year ago, I made my Civil War debut. The month prior, I was challenging for this very title that sits on my shoulder against TyAnna Jupiter, Diantha Moreau by my side. We failed. We had essentially a 2-on-1 advantage and we failed. And then, at Civil War, what did I have to do? Was I a part of the Brody Sparks tribute match? Or was I a lumberjack in a Kenny Drake vs. Carlos Rosso match that nobody even fucking remembers? That was my big debut at this show. Some extra in the background, an afterthought so soon after being in contention for a world championship.
 
When you’re not happy with your lot in life, that’s when you make changes. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Just look at my opponents, for example. Last year, Aria Jaxon headlined Civil War, much like she is doing this year. She won WarGames and stood tall at the end of the night. Bull Connors? The world title he’s got right now wouldn’t be in his possession if it wasn’t for Civil War. He beat my own brother in the God of War final to earn his title shot. And then there’s little old me, little old Natalie Cage who didn’t even get a match. In a one-year stretch, I went from afterthought to bona fide main eventer. The first EVER Odyssey roster member to headline an OWA pay-per-view. And after the run I’ve had, who could even deny it?
 
Because my role last year wasn’t the end of the story. I didn’t give up and settle with my lot in life. I grabbed the bull by the fucking horns, didn’t I? I won and I won and I won and I kept on winning until NOBODY could deny what was owed. Clash of the Titans? Done. Final Destination? Done. The greatest OWA Women’s World Title reign of all-time? Done. I’ve took this title and this brand to heights that the likes of TyAnna and Roxy could never even dream of. Trifecta, a show I headlined and beat two other world champions in a triple threat. Sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it? Yeah, I’ve already BEEN in this situation. I have a distinct advantage heading into Civil War, don’t I? I’ve walked into a triple threat with two top dogs before and came out swinging, another victory under my belt. Because while my opponents might be more long in the tooth than I am, it’s me who has them beat when it comes to this type of match.
 
Time to stop beating around the bush…let’s talk about my opponents. The titles they hold indicate they’re the best the other two brands to offer me. But just because someone’s a world champ, doesn’t mean they’re the top guy. Being a franchise player, being the face of a brand, it’s a whole other career from wrestling. It takes a level of dedication and marketability only reserved for the most elite of stars. Which is why Bull Connors is someone who has far more to prove in this match than I do. Bull, you’re not the face of Olympus. I don’t care what title you hold; you are not a threat unless you prove you are. When people talk about Olympus, all I ever hear about is the dominance of Gareth Cason, or the “legendary” Tarah Nova, or even the athletic acumen of Layne Kurobane. And then people remember their joke of a world champion with their joke of a world title. That title’s been held by nothing but hasbeens and nobodies. I’ve said my fair share on the Odyssey roster members who nearly damaged my title beyond repair, but what legacy are you continuing? Jacob Senn is retired. Tarah Nova is about to retire. CM Nas should retire. You stand on the shoulders of dead giants, Connors. Everyone who’s tried to lead the Olympus brand has faded away and you’re the next in a long line. And let’s not forget the elephant in the room that is Gareth Cason. You’re constantly having to look over your shoulder for him cashing in, how are you supposed to focus on the baddest bitch in OWA? Oh sure, Eris has her little trophy that she can cash in on me, but I’ve beat her twice already. Pretty sure Gareth’s had your number at every turn.
 
I mean look at you and look at me and Aria. We’re the faces of brands, you’re just a guy with a belt. There are so many people waiting in line to step into your shoes and it won’t be long before your reign’s just a footnote in history. You’ll join the hallowed halls of forgettable champions who held the least regarded world title in this company. I don’t give a fuck if it was the first, your show went on hiatus multiple times and I started to forget what your belt looked like at points. And now, after the pathetic result of your last match, I’m supposed to see you as a threat? I don’t give a fuck if you beat my brother and I didn’t, I’ve come on leaps and bounds since then. I’ve knocked it out of the park every time I’ve stepped up to the plate and you allowed yourself to be pinned by Harman Ardelean. Way I see it, he shouldn’t even have to take part in the God of War final. He should be next in line for a title shot and I’m sure the filthy little Gypsy would beat you again, because you’ve been nothing short of a disappointment since being given the ball to run with.
 
And then there’s Aria…oh Aria, my friend, my mate, my chum. You let me down, you know that? I’ve had to hear it from a lot of people that I disappointed them with my behaviour, but you? I was really hoping you’d impress me the way you once did. I put you on my fucking shoulders and celebrated as you won the Clash. I mean, we both did. That was a special night for us. We both punched our tickets to Final Destination and we both captured gold that fateful weekend. I’ve always known that we’re the two best this company has to offer and you’ve just been…a let-down since then. You couldn’t beat CM Nas without Zaibatsu’s help and, well, you couldn’t beat Stephanie Matsuda full stop. You took out Sabertooth but let’s be honest, that kid’s never winning a world title at this rate, he fumbles every major opportunity that he’s given. Me? I’ve had to fend off everyone on this fucking roster. My last man standing match with Jessica Rose will go down in Odyssey history, just like my victory at Civil War will. Because I can’t let you have another big moment. You keep having them and you finally got the chance to lead Kingdom and you’ve been crushingly mediocre. I’ve fought tooth and nail to keep Odyssey on the right track and if I’m honest, the most interesting thing happening on your show is how my brother and Kenny plan to fuck each other’s lives up every two weeks. Speaking of my brother, aren’t you the only one in this match he’s pinned? That’s gotta sting, I guess he’s the lineal world champ right now. That’s the kind of shit he’d peddle I suppose, don’t worry though, if he were in this match it wouldn’t even be competitive. Trust me, you belong here, but I’ll be fucked if anyone in here is hungrier than me.
 
I took myself from afterthought to megastar in a year. The best rookie year in history. You think I’m gonna let you two end that? You think I’m just gonna take second place? I have to defeat the gods to exert my will. I have to tear down an empire so my own can keep on being built. Aria, your track record’s pretty fucking solid. You’ve headlined Clash, Final Destination, Boiling Point and Civil War in a calendar year, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your run can’t be parallel to mine. I refuse to allow a lesser champion to share my position. Same goes for you Bull. You shouldn’t even fucking be here. Me and Aria might as well take turns beating the shit out of you so you can run back to your little pissant operation on Friday nights and live in fear of another Brit with an attitude problem. Civil War isn’t just a fun name, it does what it says on the tin. Three brands coming for each other’s throats and if I don’t demonstrate that Odyssey is the best brand, what the fuck is the point? It’s all I’ve been preaching about all year and now I can fulfil my vow to make it a reality. Nobody can touch the run of form I’ve been on. Some may get close, they may get without half an inch, but like death and taxes I can’t be avoided. The inevitability of Natalie Cage keeping her win streak alive is something you should live in fear of.

I’m not here to struggle against someone half my size like you did at Boiling Point, Bull. Aria, I’m not here to fight some old bitch who did nothing to earn a world title shot to a fucking no-contest. I’m here to look the so-called “best” this company has to offer in the eyes and dislocate their jaws while the one true leader of this company makes herself known. I’m not being over-confident; I’m being a realist. If anyone but me wins this weekend, it’s a travesty. If Aria wins it’s the same shit as last year and I can’t be having that. The people deserve a new ruler and it sure as shit can’t be Bull Connors. Because if he wins then I’ll just fucking walk over to LAW and give their fans an actual reason to tune in for once. Because that’s what I do, drum up interest and then fucking deliver on it. This isn’t a hype train, this isn’t a flavour of the month. I’m the greatest Odyssey superstar of all-time. I have been selected by powers from on high to lead the women of the Omega into a new era. You can follow or you can perish, I’m not sharing the driver’s seat. And yeah, I got in good with the boss, wouldn’t anyone with fucking eyes? Viola's fucking hot. And every time she gives me a main event slot, she’s just doing good business. I’m a prized horse that you bet on when you want a certainty. If you wanna back the “Unbreakable” shithead who can’t beat a fucking Pikey, or the blue-haired wonder who can’t beat a senior citizen, I won’t tell you what you can and can’t do with your money. But I can say that you might as well set it on fucking fire.
 
Some people just aren’t compatible with greatness, I wouldn’t know that problem. I’ve had monsters, technical masters, brutes, beauty queens, legends and my best fucking friend put in front of me and nothing even came close to slowing me down. And I’m gonna keep doing what I’m doing because if anyone else even tried to carry the weight that I do, their bodies would crumble to dust. I’m just performing my duties in protecting this company from false idols. One of you doesn’t belong here and one of you has let me down. When all this is over, maybe we can laugh together over a pint, but I’m pretty sure the reality is that I just have to be that much better. Best of luck champs, the Ace Killer’s coming to do her thing. And seeing as I'm the only one who's actually defended their belt overseas, that makes me the onle WORLD champion among our ranks, suck on that, cunts.
 
Natalie rises and nonchalantly throws a wad of cash in the air as she walks through it falling down like confetti.

The Pledge

“Every great magic trick consists of three parts or ‘acts’. The first part is called ‘The Pledge’. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal... but of course, it probably isn’t.”

[A purple caravan of growing notoriety stands in the middle of an open plain at dusk. Outside of it, the flames of a barbecue flicker. Above the smoke and sizzling sausages sways the curvaceous bikini’d torso of a woman whose proportions hover somewhere between cartoon fantasy and Nicki Minaj’s apparently real physique. Upon this glorious frame sits , strangely, a boyishly handsome yet manly face. Be not alarmed. This is not some chimera or Frankenstein’s monster. It is only the perfectly sculpted man, Harman Ardelean, in an apron designed with a humorous optical illusion. Harman turns his hot dogs in complete focus. It is a skill he learned on one of his many great adventures when he dodged parking ticket violations all across the Eastern coast of Oz. The sky is grey but also kinda red for the sunset, and there is a light, drizzling rain.]

They told me I was mad.

[Harman lifts a phallic snag from the grill and places it in a virginal white bun. Make of that what you will. He then opens a jar labeled “Muraturi”, takes a whiff and shudders in strange delight.]

They told me that I was crazy. They said it couldn’t be done. That it SHOULDN’T be done...

[Taking a spoon, he scoops what appears to be an assortment of pickled produce: Cabbage, beetroot, shallots, a pear... are those grapes? Harman deposits these carefully along the length of his grilled meat.]

Now here we are...

[Harman eyes his monstrously experimental fusion snag longingly. Suddenly, he takes a highly anticipated bite, then two, then vigorously thrusts the entire remainder into his gaping maw. A whole foot long... gone in seconds.]

That... That was magic. That was.

[Harman greedily sucks the vinegary residue from his fingers before catching sight of the camera. His eyes widen momentarily in surprise but he is soon playing it cool again.]

Oh... I didn’t see you there. Are you... Yes. Yes of course. It’s THAT night is it? I guess it is and I guess you are wondering why I called you here.

[The camera oscillates up and down to intimate “yes”.]

Good. Very good. Well get yourself comfortable first. Mi casa is su casa. Erm... Do you want some?

[Harman begins to prepare another Gypsy pickle snag monstrosity. The camera shakes side to side in at a desperate rate of knots.]

No? Really? You would really come all the way over here to the arse end of nowhere just to refuse the Gypsy Kang’s hospitality... Even better.

[Harman impressively swallows just about the whole thing like a white girl in one of those black’d scenes that Carlos Rosso perhaps too openly re-tweets on his social media.]

You know. You might be the person to get the memo since I came to OWA. A Kang doesn’t share his throne with peasant contractors. A God doesn’t share his holy mountain with mere mortals. And Harman Ardelean does not like to share. Period. I mean... Sure, I shared some pretty spookily accurate predictions with Jake Ketone before sending him back to his next AA meeting. Hell, I even shared my wedding invitation +1 with Kevin Maverick - that’s the last time I ever do that, by the by. If you really want to nitpick, I shared a corner with that Garry Carson against the so-called Killer Alpha Squad. Now, let me just ask you one question here. Do you really think that I’m just going to share the credit for pinning the Omega Heavyweight Champion with my bwoi Gaz?

[Acknowledging the silence. Harman tilts his head with a cheeky closed-lipped smile.]

Yes or no? Come on, mate. I need an answer here. It’s not rhetorical except that actually it totally is and no, I’m definitely not sharing any credit with anyone at all. Garry Carson can just count himself lucky that he was sprawled outside of the ring somewhere while I was proving that I’m already the KANG among Gods of War even though I’ve still got to mop up this tournament finals yet. This is what everyone needs to get into their heads. My kind of sharing is really just me taking literally anything and everything that I want at any given time. I share a night with a woman. I take my thrills. I share a drink with another man. I’m taking his bank card and social security number. You share a ring with me: I’m taking a W, I’m taking the fight purse, I’m taking all of the glory. And you, Sir? At best you’re taking a beating. Maybe, if you can still walk, you’ll do like that big lad from my first match and take your walking papers back to Never Never Land or wherever the hell you come from. Now come with me...

[Harman guides the camera in for a closer look at the caravan. It’s purple. It’s glittery. It almost glows in the twilight.]

It’s about time I shared a good look at what’s being fought for at Civil War. What we are REALLY fighting for. Some people will tell you that the God of War prize is to be recognized as the best up-and-comer in the business of handy blows and catchy cash can catches or something. That is, to show everybody that you are ready to take your place among sporting deities and, even better, PICK. YOUR. SHOT. Now let’s be real here. The Mongoose has been saying that he’s been around the block. He’s an established star. He’s going to the top regardless but he wants this one just to spite everyone who whines “he doesn’t need it”. Top flex. Respeck. And then there is me. Now I’m not trying to be funny but if Bull Lebowski doesn’t come out begging me to take a shot at his belt after I smashed his crown jewels and pinned his fat ass last match then I don’t know what to say. If Raging Bull Flubber doesn’t even have one testicle left to come to me as a MAN to finish business regardless then that’s just a bad look for the champ and his title. In that case, maybe he’s not worth my time. Maybe I’m better off going after the Big Hobo. Jake Keeton got a couple of shots. How hard can it be to skip that queue?

[After a pause to scratch his chin and ponder this great mystery, the Gypsy Kang shrugs and continues his rant.]

Accolades are fun. Money is the root of all evil and therefore VERY fun. But, if you ask me, there are too many “prizefighters” these days. That’s marketing talk for liking to get paid a lot to fight cans while being too shook to take on a real challenge. But in the Gypsy community if you really care that much about money you’re just another white boy with a steady job and a pension. Above all, the Traveller community is all about freedom and our traditional way of life. We don’t like to be tied down and it’s hard to chase that promotion on the road. You gotta value other things in than money. The respect. The Prestige. And in the world of Gypsy Bare Knuckle Brawling there is nothing more prestigious than a ‘Gitanos de Furgetas’ match. Man against man. Van against van. Loser goes for a hike and sleeps under a park bench. Kinda like how the OWA Openweight Champ lives except you also have to go through the added humiliation of getting a job and saving enough wonga to buy a new van before being allowed back into the community.

[Harman raps the side of his caravan with his knuckles.]

This here is my pride and joy. Actually, she’s more than that. She’s my symbol. She’s my flag-bearer. She’s my sometime lover. When you see her coming round the mountain from about 3 mile off you know that Harman’s coming. And you know that he’s coming fast because we got a V12 pulling her and she’s built for speed as well as comfort. Perhaps most importantly, she’s my home. That’s right. You heard ‘em say “bet your house on it”. Harman bet his house on it and for what? The grimy little Mystery Smell Machine that Mongoose, Caspain and the Scooby Dooby Du Bwois have been sleeping in for months without a shower or a port-a-potty between them? There are some things this should tell you:

1)I’m crazy. Like there are a lot of ‘characters’ in this line of work but it’s not even pantomime anymore, maybe I’m just on a higher level of consciousness at this point because no one can figure me out.

2)Though some have been quick to spot supposed similarities between our style, mannerisms, and love of pickles; I have far better taste than McQueen ever will have. All those Pickle-Oh winnings and the Drag Queen of Games still can’t choose a decent van. If the money isn’t going on cocaine, blackjack and hookers then someone really should have a talk to him because there is really no other excuse.

3)I really hate lying to people. I have a reputation to uphold. When the Mystic Gyp makes a prediction by the power of the crystal nut, then it damn well better happen. The world needs a little more magic and I’m making it my duty to ‘share’ some of that with the world via the medium of accurate precognition of the torrid futures of every poor son of bitch that stands in my way. I told McQueen I’d take his boys, his 24/7 title and his van. 2 out of 3 ain’t bad but my OCD can’t take it. It’s a stain on my conscience. I got the jitters and they won’t go away until I see him taking public transport to his next match like the bus wanker I know he is on the inside.

4)The Kang is just that confident. Victory by murder. Anyone who disagrees is a filthy casual who fails to note that never in the history of OWA has there ever been a Wrestling / Pickle-Oh crossover World Champion. Statistically the best base discipline for Pro Wrestling has always been “A Bad Motherfucker on Worldstar” with collegiate wrestling being a distant second. These are the big leagues, Kid. Traditional Martial Arts like Aikido and Pickle-Oh have never been as effective on the streets as Steven Seagal told you, and they sure as hell don’t mean shit to the Gypsy Kang of Gods.
[Obviously impressed that he has successfully owned the keyboard warriors who have doubted him and predicted Moongoose McQueen as the next God of War, Harman struts over and opens the door to his caravan placing one foot on the step.]

Get in, Loser. Maybe it’s not 2005 anymore but I told you the Gypsy community was all about tradition and we’re bringing back the spirit of MTV Cribz to show Mongoose McQueen and all you other peasants watching the obnoxiously luxurious property that you will never ever have.

[Harman steps inside and ushers the cameraman to follow. Tentatively, he does. Glamour shots of the interior set to a 16 year old RnB track which sounds very familiar although you can’t name it or the artist follow.]

Welcome to my crib. Make yourself at home, this is the closest you are ever going to get. To your right is the bathroom. I think we need another Jacuzzi but I’m not sure. Also spot my premium, high caliber, self-cleaning portaloo in the corner. It has a built in bidet function a perfume dispenser so my shit really does smell like roses. Mongoose, I know you won’t have a van to put it in very soon but you should really consider investing in one. If you keep sharing public toilets with the gang without any private hygiene facilities then sooner or later you’re going to pick up a staph infection or an STI or something so just get yourself to the clap clinic regularly until then. If you want, I can hook you up, just tell ‘em that Harman sent you although I’m not sure whether they’ll give you a discount or just tell you to fuck off. Worth a try.

[Harman takes the cameraman even further into the caravan to a galley kitchen / pantry area. There’s a hardwood hoosier cabinet with a stove top, pots, utensils and, most glaringly, very many more jars of Muraturi.]

This is where Kang fuel is made. Just like my swang-and-bang approach to punching people’s souls from their bodies some would call it a little limited but it does the job perfectly well. And look at the fuel itself. They say that McQueen the King of Pickles but I’ve already said what I think about your Pickle-Oh credentials. These here, these are Worldstar grade pickles. These are pickles from the streets. Just a few baby ones here were enough to knock out Kevin Maverick and official on their own but we too gangsta for that VAR life so you can keep that Pickle-Oh title. It’s as worthless as every other egg-and-spoon race belt you’ve brought home from the ring.

[Harman drags the cameraman even further to the far-end living area. All of the cushions are conspicuously covered in clear, waterproof plastic sheets.]

And this is where the magic happens. Not fortune-telling, I spit truth 24/7. I mean this sofa is actually a futon. It folds right out into a bed, it’s where I try before I buy prospective Gypsy Queens. Like me, it hides more than at first meets the eye. It can do more than anyone ever gave it credit for. It’s got different positions, it’s got a heated blanket. Bitch, it even has a fold out cup holder. How swish is that? I can never be fucked to read the manual so there are probably a few more functions here that I am - LITERALLY - sleeping on but in a way that’s perfect, right? Because everyone’s been sleeping on me too.

[Harman jumps and lands sprawled out along the sofa.]

Let me guess, you’re feeling pretty good for yourself. In fact, you’re almost cool as a - pickled - cucumber. Almost. You’ve seen the grand prize. It tickles your fancy. After a brief scare you’re getting your red panty night after all. And you got this loud mouth opponent just selling the fight for you who, as far as you can tell, is nothing you haven’t already dealt with before. The ‘Kang’ has no credentials. He got lucky and surprised you for his only accolade, a 12 second reign in the chaos that is the 24/7 race. He can’t take a thing seriously and his biggest statement one-on-one win was against an over the hill, washed up, recovering alcoholic. Sure I’ve got the knack for bending the rules in my favor and I almost always do when I hit the ring. But that’s nothing new, you’ve been through the same puddle of shit before with RD3 and look how well you had him figured out. Harman’s just a Reginald that sleeps on a fold up bed and never bothered to learn how to wrestle. Jackpot.

This pretender “God” most look so human to you. So ordinary. So normal to a superstar like you. But keep thinking that. And watch everything you know about the world turn upside down like magic when I show you that You are just a McQueen but I am a God. First the Prestige of that name, then everything else. With all the sponsorship deals I’ll be raking in, my face could be selling McKANG burgers all across America. And hey, you getting dropped on your head in a dozen different variations could be the Happy Meal toy. Just think of the possibilities. Mongoose falling off the turnbuckle. Mongoose getting a Gutter Crown. Mongoose headbutting a caravan door. Mongoose falling out of hi-sorry... MY new van. I’m sure it’ll be a hit with the kids. For once you’ll be selling more gear than the dodgy doctor in our locker room and with all the little potential choking hazards in every town... McQueen you’ll be at your most dangerous ever.

The Purple Patch Continues.

Red Panties For Everyone.

(We are shown a graveyard somewhere in Michigan, and we see the Goddesses Champion Roni Ozborn dressed in her usual attire of ripped jeans, black band t-shirt, her battle vest, and a black Detroit Tigers fitted standing in front of a tombstone with the name Amadeus D. Crowe written on it. The Goddesses Championship is draped over her shoulder. She soon takes the belt from her shoulder and drapes it over the tombstone. Roni not facing the camera and trying to hold back her tears begins to speak)

I finally did it. I finally fucking did it. Look at it. Look at how beautiful this championship is, and it is mine. After, all the blood, sweat, and tears I put into this business and it finally paid off.

(Roni then drops to her knees and tears are seen running down her face. Her hands clenching and pushing the championship onto the tombstone.)

I owe it all to you, Crowe. The man who gave me hope and took me under your wing and trained me to become who I am. This is all because of you and I wanted to show that I am a champion, now. I wanted to show that everything you told me about being passionate and giving it your all and I even accepted failure as an option paid off finally for me. I only wished you were there when I won this championship because I know you would be proud of me. At Civil War, I will show that everything I have learned from you, HANA, and OWA, in general, was worth the investment of time in me.

(Roni wipes her tears away and soon stands up grabbing her belt off of the tombstone, and begins heading back to her ‘92 Cadillac DeVille. Roni then throws the belt over her shoulder and jumps onto the hood of her car and sits cross-legged). 

I promise myself if I ever get accepted by any promotion, I will go out there every night and give it my all no matter the cost because I owe it to the owner, the fans, everyone who supported me, and most importantly myself. Let’s face it when I began my journey, I was a no one. I was just some girl who grew up in a single-parent household in the rough parts of Detroit, who had dreams of making it in Wrestling and moving away to achieve a better life for myself. I thought those dreams were just that...a pipe dream something I could never achieve, but Crowe, as mentioned before took me under his wing and trained and made me think about my dreams, were achievable. That hope is what made me pursue wrestling as my main career choice as it was either I make it or break it. I never could find a place that I could call home for it was due to poor booking, backstage politics, or the owner seeing me as nothing more than a jobber and that was it. All my hope was gonna until I saw an ad for OWA and that it was holding an open try out. So I took what money I had and the car that I was living out of and drove to Chicago and attended the tryout. As someone once said, “If you had one shot or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted. In one moment, would you capture it or just let it slip?” and I knew this was my one opportunity and I knew I had so my best and prove why OWA should sign me. So I did just that. I went out there and put on a match that I put everything I have in it. When I didn’t hear anything for a few days, I figured I wasn’t accepted, but I was wrong.

(Roni pauses for a minute and runs her hands through her hair)

I got a phone call when I answered it was none other than Viola DeMarco, herself. She said she was impressed by me, and that I had real potential to become a top star in her brand. She asked if I would accept and I did in a heartbeat. Now, look at me. Look at everything I have accomplished! I have the fans chanting my name! I am the current Goddesses Champion! I proved that an underdog like me can become the standard and become someone who shouldn’t be taken lightly! I proved to all the naysayers that I was worth the time to invest in! I showed...I showed that nobody can become a somebody. I will show Viola didn’t make a mistake by having me on her brand...I will show everyone who I am and what I have become.

(Roni wipes a tear away and she begins to tap her left index finger on the hood of her car)

I know why this match is happening? I am really surprised Jeff didn’t mention it, well he did allude to it by saying something on the line that we, Layne, himself, and myself, are the three workhorses of this company. That is very true, but our story is a bit deeper you care to look at it. Jeff was a man down on his luck and on his last dime, but OWA came along and saved him. Layne was “wasted potential”, but soon claimed OWA as his home and turned a new page in the book of his life. Does this all sound familiar at all? It should because it is the same thing, or relatively close to what I said about Dulce and me. All three of us are just one of the same...a Triforce if you will. Three separate, but equal, pieces that fuse to become one. Layne would be the Triforce of Loyalty, Jeff would be the Triforce of Respect, and myself would the Triforce of Heart. Those are the elements we three showcase the most, and it is because of those elements that OWA ever makes a Trio Belt, and we decided to join forces...well then hardly anyone could beat us. That is why I predict this match will be the one to watch and the one where the fans will lose their minds over. You have three wrestlers, who are willing to defend their brand to no end and prove that they are better...to prove that they have what it takes to lead their brand when it is their time to do so. Think about each one of us went through hell for our respected championship. We were willing to fight for our respectful titles and it showed, as we all three won the respected belts so this match...this match in a way is fan service to fans that come and watch us each and every night. This is OWA’s thank you to the fans...or at least that is one way to look at it.

(Roni takes in a deep breath and steadily calms her nerves as her tapping begins to slow down)

I don’t normally respond to my opponent as it is excepted and cliched, but there was something Jeff said that I just couldn’t help, but to somewhat smirk at. I don’t remember the exact phrasing, but it was something on the line “He and Layne are willing to go all out” then later on something on the line of “I am not on their level or something of that sort.” You see Jeff there is just one thing you forgot...one tiny little thing you forgot. Before I did OWA, I was doing Hardcore and Deathmatch matches every week. I went through Glass Panels, had light tubes busted on my back and head, got Irish whipped into barbed wire, DDT onto a chair, and so on! Yet, you have the audacity to tell me that I couldn’t hang with you and Layne! Come on, don’t make me laugh now! I fought guys about your size and Layne’s even while I was wrestling women, though I did always come up short and would lose, I went out there and did my best no matter the cost. I lost an unfathomable amount of blood, I sweated to near extinguished in matches due to no AC, and I wiped so many tears from my face that they became bloodstained! Still, you dared said I am on your level or even Layne’s level! Again, don’t make me laugh because I saw things in matches no one should have to see or even feel! So if you and Layne want to go out and bring in tables, ladders, chairs, baseball bats, or what have you then I will simply give you a smile, flip both of you off, and be ready for it as it would be nothing for me. So bring what you want and do want as I will be prepared, but promise me one thing...just one simple fucking thing. Do not, and I repeat do fucking not go easy or half-ass in our match. Not for my sake, but for the fans that want to see a hell of a match between three of the best OWA has to offer.

(Roni proceeds to jump from the hood of her car with the belt still around her shoulder and begins to walk towards the door of her car, but pauses for a minute before turning back around)

Matthew 16:18 says, “And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock, I will build My church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.” I am here to you all, Jeff, Layne, and anyone else who listens to my words, that I am Roni Ozborn, and upon this very brand of Odyssey,  I will build my legacy with my blood, sweat, and tears, and  no matter the price I will defend and fight for it to the end as I shall not allow anyone to disrespect it and prevail. I fought for the keys to be on Odyssey and I am letting it be known for if I ever leave here, then I lose everything I have...and I am not willing for that to happen. So long live the Spartans Champion, long live the Television Champion, and long live the Goddesses Champion. For when three, equal forces fight...well you know and will find out soon enough.

(Roni gets in her car and starts and proceeds to drive off as the song Can’t Nobody Stop Me by Royce da 5’9 can be heard playing as the scene fades to black.)

Day had broken cold and gray in Swedish, exceedingly cold and gray, it was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. 

You didn’t want to pick this fight…we did….

You didn’t want to go in this direction…

He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood forte bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. 

…but you have to prepare for this…

…and God knows We’re not people who run away from a fight…

At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for traveling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero, it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since the freezing point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from the air.


It’s been almost three months since The Ground Zero won The Apollo and Artemis Tag Team Classic Winner. A bitter taste still resides in my mouth that clashes with the constant desire to see blood split over inexcusable actions. Three months have flown by quicker than I could have imagined yet everything hasn’t changed. The Dollhouse are still the Tag Team Champions since forever. For so long I’ve talked about doubt. I still look to the future with my eyes wide open and the one and only goal for now is to defeat The Dollhouse. Ground Zero and The Dollhouse have met a couple of the times but this is my first try to beat The Dollhouse. It’ll be my pleasure to snap their ankles.

The flame the man got by touching a match to a small shred of birch bark that he took from his pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs. He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow, pulling the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding directly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising life with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice, the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees, and the moccasin strings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a moment he tugged with his numb fingers, then, realizing the folly of it, he drew his sheath-knife.


Jonetta Stone, Sweet Roxy, you both can’t stop us...

But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own fault or, rather, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in the open. But it had been easier to pull the twigs from the brush and drop them directly on the fire. Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its branches. No wind had blown for weeks, and each branch was fully freighted. Each time he had pulled a twig he had communicated a slight agitation to the tree, an imperceptible agitation, so far as he was concerned, but an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. High up in the tree one bough capsized its load of snow. This fell on the branches beneath, capsizing them. This process continued, spreading out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.


Not even DiVa can help you both either. We massacred all three of you on Olympus. We took some time to hurt all of you. Maybe that was the reason why The Dollhouse didn’t even come to Kingdom to get a payback on us. Maybe all three of have an early escape plan? Unfortunately for you there is no escape. We have no interest to slow down. When we’re just five minutes into this match that could last thirty minutes, forty five minutes or an hour and it becomes inhumanely clear that you both are out of your breat, that this is more akin to a slaughter than a wrestling match you can’t beg for us to put you out of your misery. From the moment that clock starts, untill it’s final seconds you are nothing but our bitches and we will take immense joy out of beating you within an inch of your life. And you can beg for mercy, you can plead for someone to put an end to the pain.

The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard his own sentence of death. For a moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire had been. This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and kept calm. But the tremendous cold had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, and nose, and cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his whole soul to the matches. He watched, using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, and when he saw his fingers on each side the bunch, he closed them, that is, he willed to close them, for the wires were down, and the fingers did not obey. He pulled the mitten on the right hand and beat it fiercely against his knee. Then with both mittened hands, he scooped the bunch of matches, along with much snow, into his lap. Yet he was no better off.


A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to him. This fear quickly became poignant as he realized that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that it was a matter of life and death with the chances against him. As he sat and regained his breath, he noted that he was feeling quite warm and comfortable. He was not shivering, and it even seemed that a warm glow had come to his chest and trunk. And yet, when he touched his nose or cheeks, there was no sensation. Running would not thaw them out. Nor would it thaw out his hands and feet. Then the thought came to him that the frozen portions of his body must be extending. He tried to keep this thought down, to forget it, to think of something else. He was aware of the panicky feeling that it caused, and he was afraid of the panic. But the thought asserted itself, and persisted, until it produced a vision of his body totally frozen. 


For whatever reason why you all didn’t come to Kingdom, I can guaranteed for sure that I know, deep down inside, you’re afraid of The Ground Zero. All three of you. You see us as juggernauts. You have finally realized that you have made a big mistake to mess around us. What we did to you three, The Maverick Inc, and Kenny Drake last week, is nothing compared to what we’re going to do to you at Civil War. You can count us on that, we promise. Jonetta, Roxy, you both continue to live inside this bubble where nobody has experienced your troubles. That nobody have driven their skull into that same glass ceiling without making a damn crack. What we did to you last week, is nothing compared to what we’re going to do to you at Civil War. You can count us on that, we promise.

This was too much, and he made another wild run along the trail. Once he slowed down to a walk, but the thought of the freezing extending itself made him run again. And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell down a second time, it curled its tail over its forefeet and sat in front of him, facing him, curiously eager and intent. The warmth and security of the animal angered him, and he cursed it till it flattened down its ears appealingly. This time the shivering came more quickly upon the man. He was losing in his battle with the frost. It was creeping into his body from all sides. The thought of it drove him on, but he ran no more than a hundred feet, when he staggered and pitched headlong. It was his last panic. When he had recovered his breath and control, he sat up and entertained in his mind the conception of meeting death with dignity. However, the conception did not come to him in such terms. His idea of it was that he had been making a fool of himself, running around like a chicken with its head cut off, such was the simile that occurred to him. 


In the end I feel so sorry for both of you. I feel sorrow that this could be a hopeless one for you. Once the heavy weight of defeat sets in you will have a choice but to accept your reality and make the most of what you’re capable of retaining the OWA Tag Team Championship titles or letting the doubt, the darkness take over. Jonetta, I can noticed you whenever you make a move. I noticed your presence when you decided to stick your noise in the Ethan Stryfe and DiVa match when no one else did. No matter how fast or strong you are, I know how to beat you up in the ring. Roxy, I hurt your spine and guts, I know how much you are in pain right now just like DiVa and Jonetta are but I was the only one who knocked you out in Olympus. If I was able to knock you out alone, imagine what both Donny Dragon and I can do to you. Every threat I’ve made, the desire to see you both…..or three stretchered out of the ring, half your fucking brain split all over the canvas and picked off my boot, you can guarantee we’re planning to deliver on them. 


Well, he was bound to freeze anyway, and he might as well take it decently. With this new-found peace of mind came the first glimmerings of drowsiness. A good idea, he thought, to sleep off to death. It was like salting an anesthetic. Freezing was not so bad as people thought. There were lots worse ways to die. Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There were no signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, never in the dog's experience had it known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and with a great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it whined softly, and then flattened its ears down in anticipation of being chidden by the man. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And still later it crept close to the man and caught the scent of death. This made the animal bristle and back away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it turned and trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew, where were the other food-providers and fire-providers.


This fate that awaits you is cruel, Jonetta and Roxy. A match with a set distance but it will feel like an eternity for both of you. A lifetime of pain, an everlasting memory of sheer agony burnt into your memory. When the bell rings we will see the eyes of two women who know they have been defeated, they will feel true despair as they finally accepts the consequences of their actions of running away. And with every punch we land, the hopes and dreams will fade away one by one and you both will realise it was never your destiny to beat us, it was never your destiny to ascend to the throne and become kings or queens. You will succumb to our greatness and by the time that clock ticks zero, we will make you fucking beg for mercy.

Civil War Promo 1: Toes Across the Floor

(The camera opens in a poorly lit back alley. The sound of rustling emits from behind an overflowing trash can. A glass bottle bluntly falls over the trash can's lip to the ground, making a hollow noise as it rolls in circles in the alley. A gigantic foot protrudes from behind the trash can and kicks the glass bottle against the opposite wall, shattering it on the bricks. A slight gurgle is heard, followed by a loud and carnal groan as a giant shadowy figure pushes itself up to it's feet against the wall and starts lurching forward through the now glass covered alleyway floor.)

"War's the damnedest thing, isn't it? It divides brothers, unites enemies, and generally fucks up the entire order of things for most. Not me though. See, I don't have enemies...no, not anymore. I don't have friends either. War doesn't touch me like it does others. I experience no traumatic PTSD after witnessing the blood and guts of my enemies fall to the ground at my feet. I've let men die in and by my hands and felt nothing. I've stood against one third of this bracket already in singles action and came out on top, not because winning matters or because I had a vendetta to quell. No, I beat them for one simple reason alone: I could. See, I'm not the lowly foot soldier on the field dying for a few strung together letters that I believe to be superior to to other haplessly strung together letters in the eyes of God. I'm not fighting for ma and pa back home, I don't care what regime reigns supreme, hell I'm not even a soldier of fortune in this battle. That's the problem with having nothing to prove and nothing to lose; you always end up caught between a handful of idiots arguing over an ant hill. It's even worse when you're drug into battle by a team that you don't really care about. Far be it for me to be a conscientious objector when there's blood to be shed. The way I spin this to benefit me is OWA's put eight self-entitled 'bests in the world' within arms reach of me, and you don't have to wake Jake Keeton out of his coma to know that I love putting insecure, insincere, own horn tooting, egomaniacs in their place. Personally I can't wait to lock Hands Across America onto CM Nas and see how well he toots his own horn while my fingers are digging into his skull and my palm pressed against his mouth. You think you're a messiah? a destroyer? a god? No, my friend. You're just another overcompensating kid playing wrestler. Again, ask Jake Keeton when he comes to how far being the self-proclaimed best in the world will get you when you're squaring up against me. I don't care what disciplines of fighting you know, what titles you once held, or how good your gas tank is in that ring. None of that matters against me. I'll put you down with the ugliest punch to the face you've ever seen if I feel like embarrassing you instead of putting you through the wringer for my own personal enjoyment. I got nothing against you kid, but there's always going to be a twinge of resentment coming from me any time some 'expert' tells me that they can't be beaten. That's not how fighting works, and don't convolute yourself into thinking that what we do is anything more than a fight. That'll be your downfall every single time."

(Derelict steps into the light, revealing the lacerations and bruises from his battle with Jake Keeton. His face is gauzed up, his wounds weeping through the medical tape. He stares into the camera with his only fully open bloodshot eye, removes a cotton ball from his cheek and spits blood onto the ground.)

"Carlos Rosso could tell you that..that is, if he bothered to step out of his own little self-constructed echo chamber. I'm so glad that my ears are filled with blood right now because it affords me at least one night where I don't have to listen to that man talk about himself to himself while surrounded by others. Damn, it's gotta get boring keeping yourself company especially when all you have to talk about is you. I can't say I blame him for being such a boring conversationalist. It's not like he has much else to spout off about these days. His pride's been taken away, so why bother acting with honor? I want you to look real long and hard at Carlos, Nas. He's your future. He's a broken man that let success define him, only to taste defeat and let it define him as well. I don't know though...I like this Carlos better than the old one. I see potential to mold a true apathetic monster out of the deepest sickly green of his ego's bruise. Maybe this will be my chance to do just that. There's this misconception that you can fix a broken man. You can't. You can stack the remains high around the now void center where his soul once resided, but that only makes for a hollow man. You're not quite empty yet though, are you Carlos? You've filled that void with vengeance, but that's easily curable. I'll tap that reservoir until there's nothing left. Give me your best, punchy. Or at least, what passes for your best these days."

(Derelict turns away from the camera in dismissive disgust and limps back toward his previous resting place among the garbage.)

"You're already there, aren't you Christopher? Looking at your three names lined up in a row on the run sheet is like staring at a Darwin chart. You've been through the long and arduous metamorphosis that I put poor Jake Keeton through, the one that Carlos superficially toils through. The one destined for CM Nas. The difference is that you came out the other end and convinced yourself that you'd built yourself back up to be the man you once were. You shed your past moniker along with your sins and picked up where you left off with others in your life that you once held near and dear. They don't look at you the same way they once did though, do they? They sense the absence of a soul. They sense the facade of a happy reformed man. They recognize that old desperation that will ultimately lead you down the same path you went down before. You can take havoc out of your name, but you can't purge it from your existential being. You rebuke your true nature though, which is sad, because you were so close to being a true threat. Instead you just became another happy grapple boy who thinks technique compensates for a killer instinct. You were once a man who strove to save those who I sentence to eternal damnation. How 'bout you do the OWA a favor and try to save me, Sabertooth?"

(After his long and stiff legged trek back to the trash can, Derelict falls flat back against the wall and lets himself slide down to a seated position slowly, creaking and moaning all the way down)

"You could've been as driven as Miltiades, a man who seeks worth in the absence of absolution. I must admit, I admire his handy work despite his flawed motivations. Or maybe I'm looking at it all wrong. Maybe he's like me and sees worth in no one and sets out to show the world just how pathetic it is against his own rugged reflection. The only difference is that I wouldn't bow to a man as my superior for simply beating me in a fight, and I feel like that's as deep as this man's motivations go. Like I said with Nas, I could bust a lip with the worst looking haymaker you've ever seen. It doesn't mean I'm better than Nas. Now, if I do it again, maybe it means I'm better than Nas. It doesn't take sweet science to win a fight though, which is what I'm trying to convey here to the narrow minded Milty. I'm a breaker of men's spirits, and what I see before me is a man beaten by the basest of human motivations. You want to inflict pain, but if you feel pain you cower and kowtow. I could get the same satisfaction of breaking a spirit from kicking a dog, but even then I know the dog would come back later and lick my face or bite me. You reek of a man without spirit seeking to break the spirits of others, which is what people wrongly see when they lay eyes upon me. You don't strike me as being someone whose going to put up much of a fight after the first staggering blow's delivered. Is this the best that Kingdom has to offer? two generic grapple monkeys with a can-do attitude and two men broken so badly that they've reverted to a primitive mindset?"

(Derelict spits more blood from his leaking gums, splattering his plasma on the wall across from him in one giant loogie.)

"And what do I get from the critically acclaimed Odyssey brand? more of the same minus a few hundred pounds. Dulce's just another 'happy to be here' student of the game that thinks there's something to master in the art of fighting. As for Persephone Bane? Just another broken toy trying to play tough to cover their insecurities. I've exposed her before as the little girl lost in Hot Topic. I don't mind doing it again. The Iron Lioness Diantha Moreau is busy fighting someone else's battles and worrying about outshining Carlos. The cute thing about this brother and sister is that they have matching mental scars. It's good they weren't born twins. Otherwise I strongly believe they'd fall prey to incest from loving something so much like them...and then there's Eris. I could compare her to Sabertooth, but I think that would be discrediting this nihilistic little Antichrist. Sure, you share the same ambitions of the former Havoc, but I don't sense the same desperation for success or meaning. "

(Derelict nonchalantly plunges his hand into the trash can next to him and yanks out the Openweight Championship. Without looking at the camera he holds the belt aloft.)

"If you're feeling frisky after we beat the ever loving hell out of one another, I'm pretty sure 'openweight' applies to gender neutrality as well. You seem like you'd be fun to play with. Who knows? maybe you could teach me a thing or two while we're busy playing doctor...that is, after they clean what's left of Jake Keeton off of the stretcher. I mean, I don't care if it's there, but you strike me as being a neat freak."

(Derelict lets the title drop from his hands and fall back into the garbage can with a boisterous aluminum clank.)

"There might be a misconstrued sense that I hold zero loyalty to Olympus, which is mostly true, but I do appreciate them affording an old war dog like myself a battlefield rife with hills for others to die on. I'm not a sentimental type, and I don't really give a damn for anyone on my team, but I do believe we're the toughest cadre of warriors in this battle. Lord knows what Tarah Nova's survived on this brand. It took me an another man to take my belt away from Kevin Maverick, and while Gareth's a dick he's at least as capable as Carlos in a fight. As for my credentials as a fighter?
I mean, hell...just look at me."

(The battered and beaten Derelict stares into the camera blankly as it slowly fades to black. His bloody smile cuts through the blackness just before the camera cuts off.)

 


 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

Long Live The Goddesses Champion. Those words echoed volumes when I said those words for my match against Dulce and guess what. My reign may have just begun, but that saying is strong as one reign ended and a new one began just as one monarch ends another one begins. I have the intention to make not only Dulce proud but everyone who has supported me from back then to now proud as well. I will fight tooth and nail to defend this championship no matter who it is. When I won this belt I couldn’t believe it. Honestly, for a second I thought I was knocked out and what I was hearing and seeing was no more than a hallucination, but when I heard that bell ring and I was announced as the new Goddesses Champion. I knew then that moment was a reality and I did what many saw as impossible. I beat Dulce, and that...that will be one of my proudest moments that I will never forget. The cheering, the emotions running threw me and all the fans, and so much more everything about that moment will live on and I will remember it as a stepping stone to becoming who I was always meant to be. Enough of that, let us get down to business.

My first match after winning this championship is against no other than April Song. There is not much that I can say about April that many haven’t said before by people who have faced her. I try to think of something, but I can not think of anything new to say or anything that would not be cliched. I will say though I am honored to begin my reign and have my first match as the champion against a veteran of this sport. That does mean a lot to me as veterans always have tricks up their selves, and with April being a very technical wrestler I am sure she knows some sort of off the wall hold that I may have never encountered. In doing so, I will like the challenge of figuring how to escape it so that way when we face off again, if it happens, I will know exactly how to counter it.

In all that is all I really have to say. I am honored to have my first match as Champion against someone like April, and I hope this match doesn’t disappoint. I am hoping that April’s lost has not bugged her in any way and she brings her best because if not then this match and win, if I do win that is, will feel shallow and hallow...and that will be a shame. So bring your best April and let us make a great Song together in that ring and show me, and everyone else that you still have what it takes to be considered the best.

It’s been a while since you all have seen The Olympic Gold Medalist isn’t it? I’m sorry to make you wait for so long but I have a threat for you all in return. First off, I’m going to return to Kingdom for one night only…..maybe after a while. And second of all, I’m going to compete stand-to-stand, shoulder-to-shoulder with my Ground Zero friends.

That’s a very exiting news isn’t it? For the first time ever, I’m going to wrestle with all my Ground Zero brothers behind my back. They’re ready to back me up and I’m ready to back them up. That’s what we are all about. I’m going to do everything I can as a Ground Zero member to give the beating of all time to our opponent.
 
Ah yes, this is a Gauntlet match, not a Handicap match, I know that, but still, our opponent has to be ready for anything and everything for every single bad scenarios in this match. 

Well, who’s the unlucky opponent this week? Oh my God, it’s none another than Kenny Drake!

Kenny, Kenny, Kenny, my man, I know you have a history with Nate Cage, Donny Dragon, and even James Anderson. Nate Cage was once in Wolvesden and betrayed you…..ouch sorry about that, but I have to remind you, we have no history prior to this, man. We never had a conversations before and we never see an eye to eye before. I did think you were cool one minute ago but my mind changed after I found out that you’re a Ducks fan.

How come Kenny? How could someone like you support The Ducks? Man they are pathetic and what makes it even worse, they have no God Damn wrestling team! You could have gone to Beavers man and became a decorated college wrestler like me but instead, you had to find a wrestling school in order to reach your dream to become a professional wrestler back then. 

That’s cool actually, you tried to reach your dream with your own way and I gotta admit, your wrestling career is very great. You started in 2002 and you’re obviously an Oregon legend, but try to enjoy it while you can because Oregon about to has a true symbol in Hans Olsen. Your American Hero.

What makes you even more pathetic, Kenny is that I’m not an Oregon native. Hell, I’m not even a native American. But I took the hard way out to fly to America to wrestle for The Beavers as I’m arguably the most famous Beavers alumnus with my contributions for this country while you never win a championship in forever. That’s what you get for being a Ducks’ fan, Kenny, it’s too late for you to turn around your fate. I’ve said what I said that Ducks is inferior to The Beavers but I also want to tell you with Nate Cage knowing your number, you’re truly a dead meat. Ducks are good food after all, don’t feel so bad about it, my guy.

And to top it all, I’m going to snap your ankle!

Oh it’s true! It’s damn true!

The camera opens to Kevin Maverick sitting in a dark room by himself. He isn’t his usual jovial self. Instead, he’s lost in thought, wondering what’s next for him. He’s failed at every turn, and for our hero, he feels lost at the moment. As Kevin lifts his face, his eyes slowly drift over the camera. He takes a moment to cough and contemplate his words before speaking.

“I tried. Heh, this whole season I have tried to do my best to win. I tried to defend the Openweight Championship - and I failed. I tried to compete in the God of War tournament - and I failed at that too. I- I don’t know man...this season is not going my way, you know? Sometimes I wonder to myself...what is it that I’m doing wrong? Why am I falling on my face at every turn? It was never like this in Japan, dude. Maybe I’ve lost a step, along the way. Maybe there’s something I don’t have..something I’m not seeing…”

Kevin sighs and shakes his head. 

“Maybe I’m not seeing the bigger picture. Or hell, maybe The Showman isn’t...The Greatest.”

Kevin shakes his head.

“Nah, fuck that. I can’t keep feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t get into this business to throw myself a goddamn pity party. I’ve faced failure before. This isn’t anything new on my end. I’ve busted my ass to get to OWA. It’s time I remind people why I was called to fight amongst the best in the world. It’s time for me to wake the fuck up and smell the goddamn roses! Claim responsibility and move on to the next objective at hand. An objective that involves defeating a newcomer by the name of Trent Hawk. Hmph, sounds like someone’s Create-a-Wrestler. Am I stuck in a game of OWA 2k20? Am I stuck in an endless loop of heartbreak and mediocrity!? Nah, this can’t be life and this certainly can’t be real. That’s right Trent - you’re a phantom to me. A haunting reminder of how far I’ve fallen since I lost the OWA Openweight Championship. I was once on cloud nine, showing the world that I was one of the best cruiserweights the world has ever seen. And then out of nowhere the company changes the meaning of MY CHAMPIONSHIP! I’m no longer the hot prospect brought over to expand the brand. Now I was just a surprised Pikachu with dreadlocks. And man, I don’t know if I ever fully recovered from losing my belt to Derelict. Now I’m just out here, lost in the world. I’m death stranding, Trent Hawk! I’m stuck in the darkness fighting my shadows! This is what rock bottom looks like…”

Kevin sighs and bites his lip.

“But I don’t intend on staying like this, man. I intend on fighting my way up the roster! I don’t give a damn how long it takes! I’m willing to do anything to see that little piece of glory once again! Allesandro Devione and I had one of the best matches at Final Destination! That was me at peak glory! That’s where I intend on returning to! It’s just about taking things one step at a time, you know? Rome wasn’t built in a day and there’s no way I’m going to allow my career to be flushed down the toilet overnight! There’s no way that’s I’m going to let somebody’s CAW do me in! I’m the fucking Greatest Showman for a reason.”

Kevin stood up to loosen his legs for a bit.

“I’m the greatest highflyer this company has ever seen. I took what the world expected we can do as performers and raised the freaking bar. Nah - this isn’t where my story ends, Trent Hawk. This isn’t about numbers or filling some sort of quota. It’s about digging deep and getting rid of the bullshit. It’s about removing the anchor that’s tying you down. I should be fighting for the goddamn Omega Heavyweight Championship right now, but instead, I’m lollygagging in my self-pity. You have an important role to play in all of this, Trent. You’re going to help me get out of this rut. You’re going to help me get over myself. With your defeat, I’ll situate myself and begin at square one. It’s okay...I just need to fight the darkness and chase the phantoms away. You’re one of them, Hawk. A cold reminder that if I don’t get over myself, then I’ll be like you. I know that I’m better - no offense. I know that I can provide OWA with something that it’s never seen before. I know that I can forge a legacy of the likes that nobody has seen., It’s about being honest with myself, getting over myself, and pushing myself to the absolute limit!”

Kevin is now rejuvenated. He’s stretching his arms, eager to show the world what he’s made of.

“This is my fault; I should’ve never allowed myself to fall this far. I have to be a man and accept full responsibility for my actions.  So this is me accepting full responsibility. This is me reminding myself that I’m a grown-ass man who has to bear the weight of my failures while embracing my successes. I’ve seen what glory looks like and one day I’ll meet her again. But, it all starts with you, Trent Hawk. It starts with my beating that ass. I know man, it sucks to lose. But hey, a CAW like you can restart your career mode and try again. Meanwhile, I’ll be fighting my way back to reality. As I’ve said, this isn’t my life. This isn’t my destiny. This is just me consumed by my darkness, just a shook one chilling with the phantoms. Yeah...it’s time to wake the fuck up Maverick. It’s time for the Greatest Showman to pull off one last trick. Because if I fail now...then I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself.”

Kevin kicks the chair aside and begins to walk away as the camera fades out.

The camera opens afore the grandeur of some marvel of neoclassical architecture. The marble-effect composite material of it's collumns gleam gloriously in the midday sun. Above them are words, etched in gold leaf, welcoming us to "The Pro Wrestling Hall of Fame". A dapper gentleman in an extravagant purple suit steps ahead of the camera and climbs the steps to this monument to the art of handy hands. As Harman steps inside his breath seizes.  He finds himself in a long hall bedecked with wrestling history. Busts. Portraits. Ring gear. Merchandise. Photographs of some of the most dramatic moments in sporting history. Even a copy of a New York public notice, sent out under Megan's Law, informing of Mr. DeDeDe's arrival in the area to wrestle at Madison Square Garden. It bears the signature of the man himself, as well as his immortal words: "if she 10, I'm 10". Slowly, Harman strides down the hall with the likenesses of the great ones either side of him but it soon becomes clear that something here is odd. For every shrine to one of the greats there are 5 slots in the hall where the portrait is replaced by a stock silhouette and where the name plaque is either scratched out or bears the single word "REDACTED". Harman stops and turns to face one of these.

I didn't always want to be a wrestler. Actually, never was sure what I wanted. I just followed the road and saw where the wandering took me. It took me to a lot of places where I've done a lot of things. I've been a landscape gardener. I've been a removals van for hire. Apprenticed as a farrier, shoeing horses until I kicked a mare back for stepping on me foot. They had to put the poor pony down and I had to get out of town again. That's life. For a while I was just drifting... selling jade vagina eggs, "magic" crystals and palm readings to housewives who refuse to vaccinate little Tommy and Tina. But the great crystal bollock told me that my future held greater things in store. One day, call it fate, I was in the area and I just sort of wandered on in here. That was a happy accident. Within these halls is not just some boring sports museum keeping the memory alive of athletes that no one cares to remember. I mean, it is that but it’s so much more besides. This place is a temple. No. That’s too bland a word. A synagogue. A fucking ashram. And what do people come to worship? No God’s here. Barely even any people with their names scribbled down here these days.

 “So what the fuck are you blithering on about, Harman?” I'll tell ya. It’s the way of life. You got these folk travelling up and down the world in their sparkly tights and the big boots. If they’re the real cat’s pyjamas then they are also lugging around some of the biggest most garish pieces of bling you have ever seen in your life. They’re talking shit daily. They’re brawling week in and week out. Everywhere they go they start a ruckus. Does that remind you of anyone? Me, I was looking at these pictures trying to find me cousins but they aren’t here. This place ain’t of the culture but it’s damn close. Every name you see here made their name acting like a stereotypical Gypsy. Sure, there’s less dags and horses involved but what’s that against getting paid a Kang's ransom while TV cameras telegraph to the world that you are the Baddest Motherfucker out there? This line of work is practically tailor made for a guy like me. I just couldn’t call myself a Kang if I didn’t give it a try. I’ve had a fair amount of time to think about the kind of wrestler I want to be now. I think I’d like to be like this guy.

[Harman points at the REDACTED plaque]

There’s no memorabilia of him here. Not even a picture. He could be a handsome devil like yours truly, midget whose mother dropped on his face as a baby. He could be a boxing kangaroo for all I know. I haven’t a clue what he looks like. No one here will even tell me about him. They just keep giving funny looks like I just river danced and they mother’s grave every time I ask. Bastards. One thing I do know. This Redacted fella did a lot. There are more blank silhouettes with his name here than there are entries for anyone else combined. He must have won countless titles, slept with countless women, been everywhere, done everything. I think he must have been the absolute pinnacle. But one day he just disappeared and took everything worth remembering with him. Greedy cunt. That’s what I want. Everything. And I’m not sharing either. The long road has only just started.

Now I’ve barely dipped my feet in the water here but your bwoi's already making a splash. It's all happening so fast. To be honest, I didn't know the God of War winner got a guaranteed World Title shot until after booking my place in the finals. I was still thinking about that hobo but here I am face to face with the bloated cruiserweight they call a final boss and the somehow less athletic female he sat on to take the straps. And who’s in your favourite Gypsy wrestler's corner? That’s right. Your favourite wrestler’s favourite wrestler. Garry Carson or whatever his name is. It’s the establishment versus the contenders. Raging Bull Flubber, the First God of War who made it, and Kate Moss' malnourished cocaine ghost of Christmas' past against the soon to be Gypsy God of Erlampus and the man who already has a ticket for a free run at the big big time.
I look at the company that I’m keeping now and it’s clear that I’m finally being taken seriously around here. Between them, these three guys have it all. They’ve hit all the markers of success in the ring. Bull is the only other man who has done what I am about to do when I hit Moongoose McQueen upside the head again. And he made good on it too. He went further and now people and calling him the man around here. Respect that hustle. You’ve got Tarah with da history, success across multiple promotions, big time name. And you got collegiate badass Garry here who made both of them quit. Bless. Between these three you got all of the tangible attributes of greatness. And then there’s me. I didn’t go to college to learn to wrestle good. I ain’t never won a word title. I didn’t fuck Mnaxxx'Ear and nobody had heard my name a few months good. Nothing says Harman got the tangibles to be here among the names but here I am. I’m sitting at the table and I bring a hell of a lot more to the table than you even know.

What I bring to the table, boys and girls, are all of the intangibles. What do I mean? Just think about it. I have the knowledge advantage here. That don’t mean I can tell you the square route of pi, but it does mean I can tell you what’s going down. I seen tapes. I seen the footage. Anything you need to know about the champ or about Tarah, it’s already there on DVD and Blu-ray and on demand on the OWA network. It’s been known what they are capable of. And if you want to know where their breaking points are... Garry already took them there. Now here’s the thing. Nobody knows what it takes to stop Harman Ardelean. It hasn’t been done since I stepped into the ring. Nobody knows just how far I can go or how far I am WILLING to go. That’s what you call limitless potential. Everyone who has stepped foot in the ring with me has thought they had it all figured out but then they get there and they hit their best shot and it’s not enough. They’re stuck in a deep dark well of their own ignorance and they are out cold before they reach the bottom.

Haterz will say in 4 matches I kicked two dicks, put two people unconscious with biohazardously fermented vegetables, benefited from a distraction and should have been disqualified in quite possibly all of the matched matches where DQ was possible. And what? I don’t give a shit. I only need to care about the official results. I’m not even going to embarrass myself by swearing blind nothing untoward happened. I sent nothing. Harman Ardelean is the dirtiest sack of shit to ever step foot into an OWA ring and he’s going places. All of y'all haterz would do the same if you had a fight IQ of over 300 like I do but there ain’t nobody on my level so you can cry me a river. We all do regrettable things sometimes – Tarah had two kids with that clown Nas and now she’s tag teaming with the guy who some fine handy blows in him. The difference is that I don’t ever learn from my mistakes. I’m just that good at being that bad of a person. I'm like the Jon Bones Jones of wrassling but the OWA wellness policy doesn't apply to free agents so I'm never getting caught pulsing. Let’s hear it for those picograms. One day, I will change this business. I’ll clean it up. That’s right. I’m going to be the sole reason they introduce video assistant referees to combat sports and no  one as vile as me will ever be seen in the ring again. How do you like that for advancing the sport? Until that day comes, only God can judge me and hey... I'm one win away from being God around here, remember that. 

The wisened among you might be coming to the realisation now. I didn’t need flashy moves and flippy floppy shit to drive Kevin Maverick’s head into a caravan door. I didn’t need sobriety to this no faster than Jake Ketone. I didn’t need an NCAA championship or a black belt or golden gloves to put together a purple patch. Not a resume. Not rhyme nor reason. Harman Ardelean is the master of the dark arts, baby. If you want to know how I do it, that’s magic. There’s a trick to it but you aren’t sharp enough to see how it’s done or to catch me in the act. That’s just the way it is. Maybe Garry and Big Belly Bull and the soccer mom have some doubts that I’ll be standing there at the top but it’ll happen. You don’t want to believe it now and you won’t want to believe it after but hocus pocus Harman’s the GOATest I’m pulling it out of someone’s ear after I step on their head.

Count yourself lucky, Gary. You are making a good friend this week. With your record against top competition and a little Gypsy voodoo, there ain’t nothing that can stop us. We’re both more than the record books can tell you right now. We’re more than the sum of our parts. And that’s a hell of a lot more than Killer Alpha Squad can say after their record breakingly short title reign got ended by a couple of Instagram thots. If they wanted to forget that night we might just beat the memory out of their heads with what we are going to do with them. But the record books will still tell tale of what we did. At least until they have to scrub my name from the files like my hero...
REDACTED BLESS

Olympus Promo 1: Mouthful of Cavities

[The camera opens inside of a packed soup kitchen as long tables filled with world weary faces sit silently with their heads hanging over their meager plates.  The sound of shuffling feet and brushed nickel ladels scraping pots make for somber soundtrack to an already dire scenery.  The camera scans the cafeteria line as the single file of the walking dead mechanically lurch from the soup station to the bread.  Suddenly the doors at the back of the room smash open.  One hundred pairs of tired eyes apathetically look up from their bowls to see Derelict stride down the center line of the cafeteria toward the soup counter.  Standing impatiently at the back of the line, he cracks his knuckles and hops from one foot to the other, peering over the hunched shoulders of the unfortunate souls in front of him.  Incensed, he starts swinging his arms at his side, letting them meet in loud obnoxious claps in front of him.]

"C'mon you Methuselah, let's get this show on the road eh?"

[The exhausted travelers pay Derelict no mind as they continue to shuffle forward like a funeral march.  Rolling his eyes at the lack of line progress, Derelict cuts ahead.  Just as a withered old man reaches out with a shaky hand to grab a roll, Derelict slaps his bony hand away, nicks a roll, and drops it on the ground in front of the ambling old timer.  As the malnourished man bends down to pick it up, Derelict swipes the soup from his tray, grabs a roll, and saunters toward the tables.  Noticing nearly all of the tables are filled past capacity  in this desolate communion hall, Derelict lets his bowl free fall down on the nearest table with a declarative slam, making the inhabitants jump in surprise and scoot down the bench to make room for the alpha hobo.  Stepping over the community bench, Derelict plops down and starts greedily dipping his bread into the murky broth and slurping down the soggy dough.]

"Agh...this soup's a little over seasoned.  I wouldn't mind it so much if it weren't for this canker sore on the inside of my cheek.  They're the damnedest thing, cankers.  They're so benign, and yet so annoying.  You can't help licking them, even though it stings when you do it.  It's like some sickening sadomasochistic pleasure.  Sometimes you forget about them until you're eating a nice meal or talking to someone and suddenly BAM! you bite down on the side of your cheek and feel the most hair raising pain course through your nervous system for a split second.  It doesn't last long, but I'd imagine if it lasted a mere second longer it'd rival child birth or a root canal.  Nobody really knows why you get them either.  There are theories of course, like mouth trauma or them simply being a telltale symptom of illness, but no one really knows."

[Derelict sucks on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully for a second before polishing off the remainder of his breed, picking up his soup bowl, and grotesquely swilling the contents down in one gulp, letting the broth trickle down his beard as he throws it back.  When he finishes he lets out a long belch, smashes the bowl on the side of the table, and rises from the bench, making the already scrunched together inhabitants on the other side of the bench cower closer together.  Smirking a sadistic smirk, Derelict lifts his side of the bench with one hand and dumps the homeless men into a dog pile on the floor.  He lets out a hearty laugh and heads for the door.]

"I've taken to calling my canker sore Jake Keeton lately.  It fits the bill: It's annoying, fun to lick, I forget about it until it inflicts blinding pain on me out of nowhere, but the pain really doesn't last.  Also like a canker, no one really knows why Jake's getting another shot at my belt.  It's almost like he's some festering omen of the illness that infects OWA.  Call it favoritism, nepotism, whatever you want; the truth remains that Jake Keeton doesn't deserve to step foot in the ring with me, much less for my championship."

[Derelict pushes through the double doors of the soup kitchen and steps onto the dystopian streets on the other side of the soup kitchen's welcoming doors.  Mere inches from the door an oil drum burns bright with ne'er do wells and transients huddling over it's fiery glow.  Multiple piles of ragged clothes, presumably containing a human being beneath the piles of discarded laundry, line the outside walls of the soup kitchen.  Derelict takes it all in before taking a deep satisfied breath.  Suddenly something catches his attention about the sleeping bodies bordering the building.]

"Eenie...meanie...miney...Moe?"

[Derelict yanks one of the sleeping bodies off of the sidewalk and tosses it aside, revealing his OWA Openweight Championship nestled among the mass of clothes.  Derelict picks it up, dusts it off, and slings it over his shoulder.]

"I personally don't care who he cut in line to get to me.  I think I've convincingly displayed that I don't believe in lines myself.  I understand pecking orders,and I don't mind pecking ol' Jakey boy right between the eyes a...third? fourth time? I mean, we're not counting the tournament since, you know, he no showed on me.  Don't get me wrong, it's the best decision that poor excuse for a human being has made in quite awhile, but to show up again only when the belt's on the line? well, that's mighty tacky.  It also shows that you have zero integrity despite preaching nothing but.  Granted, you've shown on plenty of occasions that your words of sportsmanship and superior wrestling acumen ring hollow when it comes to me.  Still, being a hypocrite is one thing.  Being a cowardly hypocrite who only shows up for his beatings when there's a chance the pot might be sweetened with the inclusion of a championship in the match, even in your loss? That's downright desperation.  I'd go as far as to call it panhandling.  It's never been about saving your soul though, has it Jake? We both know I'm not here to fix you.  Quite the contrary, actually.  I blush at the idea of another chance of taking you out of this sport for good.  If I spent the rest of my eternity beating up Jake Keeton it would be heaven.  Well...not for Jake, but I'd certainly enjoy it.  The pain's all the more sweeter knowing that you keep proving me right about your true nature as a scared little boy whose afraid to move on past this comfortable little arrangement we have as rivals.  I keep your name in the record books, even if it is on the middle of the card and in the loser's column.  I'm your legacy, your purgatory, the only thing you'll ever be remembered for because you never quite got past my level.  You're just that crazy fucking ex who can't stand to see someone you were intimately involved with have a better life without you after it all ended.  Maybe deep down you see me as the embodiment of all of your demons, your mistakes, your life's regrets, but just like with them you'll never be able to overcome me because deep down you really don't want to.  You're afraid of what's on the other side of this, so you live in this static reality because you know that outside of this circumstance, you're not a good guy.  Compared to me you're a moral paragon of virtue, a regular fucking paladin, but that's not saying much when my moral ceiling is the bottom of the barrel that you've been scraping for some time now."

[Derelict walks toward the burning oil drum.  The bums part to make room as the gigantic ginger stares into the metal barrel as he stands just above the flames.  He proudly holds up his title above his head with one hand and stares around at the men at fireside as the flames glint in his eyes and the smoke dances through his mangy beard.]

"Jake Keeton thinks that this belt is his key to salvation.  He believes that winning it will absolve him of all sins, wash away the past, and make him a clean and sober man with purpose.  This belt defines him.  It embodies him.  He believes it's his soul and he believes that I took it from him because he needs someone to blame for all of his life's mistakes without having to see the true culprit in the mirror.  I didn't put the booze to his lips.  I didn't make his family hate him.  I didn't kill his wife.  And yet, he wants to drag me down with him into eternal torment to make himself feel more like a hero."

[Derelict shakes his head]

"He is not a hero.  There are no heroes.  Not in this or any other story.  There are the ones who write the history books and those who choose to believe the victor's side of the story.  The story I'll tell will be of a temporary pain that I kept irritating for my own amusement that only lasted a few weeks before going away on it's own.  It's name was Jake Keeton, but just like canker sores disappearing without anyone really noticing they're gone, Jake's only claim to fame will be filling a few forgotten weeks in my eternally dominant reign as OWA Openweight Champion.  As for what stipulation I'll use in my favor to continue my tortuous maiming of Jake? Well, that remains to be seen.  One thing's for certain though, if he thought the pain of me ripping the title out of his grasp felt like his soul being ripped from his chest, he's certainly going to feel this one..."

[Derelict lets the OWA Openweight Championship strap slip from his fingers.  Just before the belt hits the fiery depths of the burning chemical barrel below, the camera cuts to black.]

“Nice wedding, fam.”

The camera opens to Kevin Maverick dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks with one leg over the other. There’s a glass of wine on a nearby table. Before he continuing, he takes a sip. 

“I mean it. For the short amount of time that I was there, I learned a lot about you, my friend. First off, your family is batshit crazy. Second, you have a penchant for the overdramatic. And lastly, your family is batshit crazy. You blame me for causing an uproar, but it was one of your racist ass cousin who swung the first blow. But, hey - I’m used to leaving a bunch of pissed off cats shaking their fists in my dust. Meanwhile, I have all the intel I need. If there’s anything you’ve shown me that night, is that you're a sucker for tradition. So, allow yours truly to present to you...a few gifts. I guess you could say they are...symbols? Metaphors? Yeah, let’s go with that. One of the oldest tropes in marriage is the concept of the bride having “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.”  Well, in our case, Harman, consider Game Over our wedding and you’re the bride to be because let’s face it - I’m going to make you my bitch. Now we’ve established our roles in this relationship, allow me to present to you the first symbol of our unholy union.”

Kevin winks as he brings out a replica of the OWA Cruiserweight Championship.

“Back in the day, including “something old” was a sure way to ward off the Evil Eye and protect any future children the couple might have. This ‘Evil Eye’ was thought to cause infertility in the bride - which is a hard yikes for you my dude. But, on a lighter note, “something old” represents continuity, and couples use this as a chance to wear a sentimental piece of jewelry or item of clothing or an heirloom of sorts. We’re not related by blood - that would be creepy - but I would like to present you with my Cruiserweight - currently Openweight - Championship replica. You see, unlike you, I was brought to OWA for a reason. The company has and continues to see value in the work I put in between those ropes night in and out. You’re a gifted wrestler sure, but you lack the pedigree. Maybe being spoiled by that nutty family of yours has convinced you otherwise, but all I see is a brat who thinks he actually means something to this business but has yet to prove it. I already made a name for myself when I got my revenge and pinned Allesandro Devione one, two, three! Right there in the center of the ring at Final Destination, before a crowd of tens thousands! I was always a man of the spotlight; and yeah, I’ve had some rough patches. But, I’ve learned from the past. Jake can blame me all he wants, but at the end of the day, we both screwed up. As much as I want to fight Derelict, it’s in the past, old news. Now, it’s time for a change. It’s time...for something new.” 

Kevin puts away the belt and brings out and brings out a replica of the God of War trophy. 

“Gifting a couple  “something new” offers optimism for the future. The couple is about to enter into a new chapter in life, so walking into marriage with “something new” makes total sense.  But, don’t you worry that pretty head of yours about searching far and wide for something new. For you see, one of us is going to walk out of that arena with as the God of War, and the real version of this baby here will be proof. Winning this tournament is a new start for me, a chance to make things right. It’s a new path for The Greatest Showman and you saw a preview of my capabilities when I molly whopped your greasy cousins all over your big fat gypsy wedding. Maybe I should’ve copped some silver on the way out. If I was a single man, I would’ve hollered at that Esmerelda-looking shorty in the colorful dress. She was probably the best thing going at the ceremony other than those hairy-chested, garlic-breath douche bags. You see Harman, you’ll be present for my new shiny toy, but it won’t be for you...instead, you’ll be borrowing some advice from yours truly.”   

Kevin puts away the replica trophy and puts his hands on his lap.

“Incorporating “something borrowed” brings the couple good luck. By borrowing something from a happily married friend or relative, the bride or couple ensures a little of their good fortune rubs off on them. So I’d like to impart this bit of advice to you, my dear friend. Next time, don’t bite off more than you can chew. Because right now, it’s the reception and you’re trying to sneak your way to the grown folks’ table. Here’s the thing Harman - try as you might, this is the closest you will get to immortality. Just check in with one of those fortune teller aunties of yours - your future lies in another direction, one that will lead you away from becoming the God of War. You warn me to not insult you, but you’re doing that on your own. You’re making enough of a fool of yourself for the both of us, fam. I wonder how many of those gypsy youngins realize that their hero is nothing but a cornball who relies on theatrics to make himself more than what he seems? The only thing you’re a “kang” of is your own delusions of grandeur. Whatever weird shit you’re in to, those threats about whipping me in the name of Black Jesus, keep me out of that and leave that freak shit between you and your hairy, greasy version of the son of God. I’m not going into the ring to find God - I’m seeking victory, nothing more, nothing less. And of course, in classic Maverick fashion, your boy is going to put on one hell of a show. So don’t think this L with a grain of salty - embrace the lesson I will impart upon you and hope your next ‘marriage’ doesn’t end in heartbreaking divorce.”

Kevin sighs and cracks his knuckles. 

“Because as far as I’m concerned, the only “something blue” you’re going to be wearing will be on your eye with a bit of black on it. But fear not my dear Harman - it’s for your own benefit. The amount of act right I’m going to beat into you will deflect that pesky Evil Eye, for the color blue stands for love, purity, and fidelity - three key qualities for a solid marriage! I shall purify you in the metaphorical waters of Lake Minnetonka as it rains purple for The Greatest Showman! Tradition is for fiddlers on roofs, while victory is for the bold! And I’m as bold as they come, my friend. The black and blue may ward off evil spirits, but purification doesn’t fix a greasy behavior.”

Kevin leans forward, his eyes focused on the camera.

“On Sunday night it’s game over for the Mystic Gyp. Your poor man’s parlor performance is nothing more than a snake-oil salesman’s tired charade. One well-placed kick is going to send you back into rotation as I continue my path to securing the bag and walk away as your new God of War. It’s written in the cards - a date with desitny, a marriage proposal fulfilled, a dowry paid. Because it’s not going to be your special day my dear gypsy friend...it’s going to be mine. You can play house and be your own Zaddy. I’ll settle for being Gawd.”

Kevin winks at the camera as he stands up and walks away. As he leaves the room, the camera focuses on a wedding cake of a loving husband and wife.   

(Scene shows two men sitting at a small table for 2. At one side, Moongoose McQueen and across from him, a kid. They are playing a children's card game with Moongoose McQueen is currently losing. The kids board is full of powerful cards while Moongoose only has a few. The kid begins to taunt Moongoose.)


Kid: How does it feel, Mongoose? How does it feel to be a third rate duelist with a fourth rate deck facing someone with clearly superior cards? This game is as good as mine. You have no chance. Just give up.


(Revy, the Boys, and Bane look from the side in concern at the current state of the game.)


Kid: Look around you. I have trapped your friend CASPIAN 's soul inside this card, and sure, if you somehow manage to find a way to beat me, you may have it back, but if you don't. Hoo hooo, your loss will activate my trap in which those dark energy discs around legs will touch you and send you into the Shadow Realm. You were a fool to come here to my trap. All to save your friends, but I will have my revenge and prove in front of the world who is the best player in the world. Soon, this world will be mine!! What do you have to say to that, Moongoose?!


(Moongoose's expression doesn't change as he continues to stare at his cards, shuffling them around in his hands)


Kid: Nothing to say for once? How unlike you? I must have beaten you so badly, you've become speechless. I managed to put on the field all my best cards and completely destroyed your board. There is nothing you can do, and when it becomes my turn again, that will be it, so why prolong the experience and just give up now? Your pathetic cards can't save you.... Nani?!


(A light begins to shine from the object wrapped around Moongoose's neck as he lets out a battle cry)


Moongoose: MOO-NGO-O-SEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!


(Moongoose's hair becomes sharper and pointer as his face takes a serious look and turn)


Kid: What is that? What is that around your neck? What is going on?!


Moongoose: Heh. Don't you see? My deck has no pathetic cards. Even if the situation seems bad now, with the powers of the Millennial Pickle, I've been in control of this game since the very beginning. Watch as I end this with my next move.


Kid: Millennial Pic....You're bluffing! You're delusional. What a sad state to be in when you are about to lose.


Moongoose: I draw. First I play “Empty Jar”, and I summon “Giant Cucumber” Next I activate my face down card, “lacto-fermentation.” It effects allows me to bring back “Sour Vinegar” from the GY. With “Giant Cucumber” and “Sour Vinegar” on the field, this triggers the effect of “Empty Jar” and I ferment and fuse my “Giant Cucumber” and “Sour Vinegar” to bring forth and even stronger card. “The Hurting Gherkin” With “Hurting Gherkin” on the field, this will allow me to add Pickle Counter to “Empty Jar” for every Gherkin in my GY. I have 5. And for every Pickle Counter I have on Empty Jar, it fills up, and once I reach it's maximum criteria, 5 counters, I can summon as many Gherkin Tokens as I want for each counter. I summon 4 to my field. With 4 Gherkin Tokens on the field, I activate my other face down card. “Salt Bae”


Revy: Salt Bae? That's insane? I haven't seen that used since 2017? HE'S A MAD MAN!!


Moongoose: If you didn't know what “Salt Bae” did now, you are about to find out, as Salt Bae will season all my Gherkin Tokens. By sacrificing them I get to draw a card for each one. In this case, I draw 4 cards. Now from my hand, I equip “Gun” to the “Hurting Gherkin” and with that, I initiate my battle phase. Attack, “Hurting Gherkin.” Brine Magic Attack!!


Kid: You fool, that pickle isn't strong enough to defeat my monster. If you attack, you'll lose!


Moongoose: You are right, My “Hurting Gherkin” will be destroyed, but I won't take any damage. I activate from my hand..... Scott-Roids.


Kid: Your hand? That's against the rules.


Moongoose: Screw the rules, I got Anime powers!! Scott-Roid reduces the damage I take to zero, essentially no selling the damage I would take from any attack.


Kid: So-what? Now you have no monster on the field and you are open for an attack while I have 3 still. All that for nothing?! Ha! I won! Hahahahah... NANI?!!


Moongoose: That's right. It's not over. For you see, when the “Hurting Gherkin“ is sent the GY with Gun equipped, it's effects activates, setting off and unending loop for violence. With that said, I'm allowed to add back gun and one card with a lower level than the “Hurting Gherkin” to my hand from the GY.


Kid: And what is a weaker card going to do stop me?


Moongoose: I told you. My deck has no weak cards. As it does contain, the Unstoppable Pickl-odia, The forbidden one!


Kid: PICKL-ODIA!! THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE?!!


Moongoose: It is. I was able to draw all four pieces of the forbidden one and add the last remaining piece to my hand with that attack. And now, I call upon the great power that is the Forbidden One. Pickl-odia, arise to the field and smite his monster.... OBILITERATE!!


Kid: Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!


Moongoose: And now, to punish you for your crimes, I sentence you to the Pickle Realm.... BRINE CRUSH!!


(Moongoose waves his hands in front of the kid as an invisible force sends the kid flying backwards as his life points drops to zero. Members of the Shin-SEKAI leaps into the air in celebration as Moongoose pulls off a miracle play.)


Kid: I guess I was wrong, he is.....a pretty big... dil. (faints)


Revy:.sigh.... fuckin puns.




(10 mins later, in the conference room, where the ambulance can be heard in the background.)




Announcer: Ladies and Gentleman, your winner for the World Pick-le-oh! Tournament and your new King of Games. Moongoose McQueeeeeen!! Moongoose, you are the world champion and best player of this game, you have the 3 Pickl-gptian God Cards, you're basically unstoppable. What's next for you?




Moongoose: Um.... So like, I came here to save CASPIAN, and now that I got him back, I got more important matters to attend to. After all, I might be the greatest Pick-le-Oh! Player in the world, but I am a pro-sport entertainer first. And for once, I will say it, Reginald Dampshaw III, you have captured my attention. I have decided to put aside Pickle Moongoose for now, and give you the credit you deserve, after all. This is God of War, and you, only a few individuals can say they got the best of me on multiple occasions. And I mean it. I've had situations where I've dominated over them, have a even amount of wins and losses, but rarely has someone beaten me so many times as you have.


Though, honestly, I wouldn't really count them. After all, if we look at the circumstances of each win you have over me, there has been a cheap shot to the back of the head with a brass knuckle, pulling on my tights, as well the more recent one in which you interfered and cost me a match against your bodyguard when he was on the verge of tapping. But alas, a win is a win, no matter how despicable? Right? After all, it's not like the English could ever win any fight or war playing fair, now have they?


Game Over. Moongoose McQueen vs Reginald Dampshaw III, where the winner advances in the God of War tournament, with a guaranteed shot for a world title. Now I hear all the chatter going into this match. That Moongoose isn't going to win because these days, he never makes it towards the end. He always comes up short, whether it's Clash of the Titans, the OWA Challenge Cup, Ascension to the Heavens. Moongoose McQueen simply can't do it. But the one that triggers me the most is, “Moongoose McQueen doesn't need it.” He doesn't need the God of War. Reginald needs the God of War. Why are people talking like this is some crap that people can pre-determine, and let's break down why someone would be stupid enough to assume that Moongoose McQueen doesn't need it.


Sure, Moongoose has star power. He clear can draw and has the ability to go toe to toe with any individual he sets his mind too. Perhaps he doesn't need to win a fancy tournament. He doesn't need his name in the record books among the greats. Hell, why not just throw in there that Moongoose McQueen doesn't need to have a world champion to be remembered as one of the most iconic and influential man in this business. Say what you want, but I bring something unique to the ring. I bring controversy, I pique interest, I can assert in any match if I really wanted to, and being denied that would cause waves and waves of outcrys of injustice. After all, denying my rights to prove to the world how amazing I am is crime worthy of life time of imprisonment or dare I say, a death sentence. Yet in the end, this is how people truly feel. The need to put down true greatness for the sake of another have their chance, and it's Reginald of all people.


Announcer: Oh wow, ok, will you look at the time... I...


Moongoose: Silencio! Your king speaketh. Don't even get me started on how guys like Chris Sabertooth already have a world title shot at Aria Jaxon before me. I'm already annoyed at the premise that I, clearly the best man to challenge for the world title from sheer experience and passion, over qualified and a dignified choice has been casted to the back of the proverbial line, while guys that “need it more” once again get to move on ahead. How many more time is the vast majority going to keep saying that “Moongoose McQueen doesn't need it.” Saying that like I should just accept that I am some gate keeper destined to play the role in which I let those walk past me and become “Gods.” I didn't sign up for this nor did I agree to it. OWA, the world, they think they could assign me to such a role because I already had my moment in the sun. Because I don't “need help” to convince anyone that I am a top calibur star in this company, and despite how well I promote and sustain myself? What do I get? Nothing. Jack squat. Put into tournaments like “God of Wars” that are beneath me, and yes, I don't care how much OWA tries to convince you its a real a serious thing. But in the end, it's just a glorified means to pad the statistics of people who need it. I don't need it, hell, this isn't even a guaranteed shot at that world title. Because last I checked, people still can challenge for the right to take the opportunity from you, completely bypassing the so-called hard-ship of competing in the tournament to begin with. And so what? If I choose to decline the challenge and simply ride out my role as God of War, what does that do? People start forming more useless opinions that I am a coward, but at the end of the day, I've earned my shots and chances, so why would I let someone else take that away from me? Do I look like an idiot? Do I look like a fool? Keep looking, because I don't care what people think about me. I deserve to be selfish and petty, but unfortunately, people don't see it that way.


No, I'm sure people are preparing to find some way to keep me out of the God of Wars finals. I'm sure they want the God of War to mean something, after all, Bull Connors was a new and coming star who made it big thanks to the “God of War.” This tournament is meant to create star, but yet, I'm already one. At the end of the day, all your opinions of me won't change. I could win Clash, God of War, Ascension, and every god damn opportunity that OWA presents, but no one will believe I truly deserve it. You all think either I don't need it or someone else needs it more, but who gives a crap about that, because in the end, I want it. And with that, Reginald should be worried.


For like everyone else, he is blind. He preaches as if he can beat me, but has only proven time after time he only can when he cheats, and he gets away with it, because they all turn a blind eye and allow it. To think, there are people that support a cheater like so. Now I might not be an angel. I might not be a role model that kids can look up to. I might not be Nobi, but I am an honest man. If I'm going to knock you in the back of the head with a brass knuckle, I'm going to let you know it's coming at your face. If my boys, Bane, or Revy are on the verge of losing a match, I'll allow it to happen, because they should learn from their mistakes and weakness instead of relying on me to bail them out of their own in-competencies. You interfering last week did nothing but hurt your stooge. It doesn't matter if the world thinks a win over Moongoose McQueen is an impressive debut. You and I know that in the long wrong, getting in over his head is going to cost him. And Reginald, if you were a real man, you'll go into the God of War match with me with no trick. Just skills and aggression and settle this, because if you cheat and advance, you are no better than me making a mockery out of this tournament. If anything, you are worse, because you didn't win of any real merit. In the end, you know you can't beat me, atleast not fairly.


You come at me as if what you and I have is a brawl. But I can assure you. What you and I have been doing, are wrestling matches. I have not yet had actually “fought you” yet. If you really want to go that way, prove who truly is “God of War,” I'll play that game. We'll play mastermind and see who can screw the other out of a win. I suppose I've made a mistake of underestimating how low you will sink for a win. But not anymore, ever. Believe me, I've learned that lesson. And now, all that is left for me to do and return the favor to you and teach you a lesson of my own. “Don't hate the player, hate the game.” Now me, I personally don't feel like I've every had a real vendetta against another person. If anything, I'm beyond that level of pettiness. But this, this animosity your have towards me, exists only because you need me. You need a target, someone you feel like your are better than. Because Moongoose McQueen is crazier, weirder, he's a joke, and perhaps that makes you feel better about yourself. But that couldn't be further than the truth when here you are, trying to appear crazier, weird, and funny, and failing so hard at it, simply because you are trying too hard, when this, this is all natural. I don't need to try to be great, I was born with it. So despite those that might think I don't need God of War, wrong, I was destined for it, and that is simply the game. I am inevitable. I was made to be public enemy number one, because lets be honest, in this god of war tournament, who has the most credibility going in? This guy. But who wants to see a guy who was blessed with such potential and talent to begin with? No one. But how is that my fault that I am as gifted as I am, yet people insist I must be punished for it? That is insane, but it appears you already believe in that hype. You already believe that you have this won, and believe it or not, I want you to think that. I want you to think that. I want you to believe you can win. Get cocky and arrogant. Because it will make it only that much more satisfying when I make a comeback and knock you out of contention, and despite all those previous losses, my come back has only just begun, and what better than winning the God of War tournament?


All you moron who thinks I need to be serious in order to move up in this business, those naysayers who believe I don't need or deserve anything, well they can go eat a big ole bag of dicks. I'm sick and tired of being looked down upon and being pushed to the sidelines. I will not stand for this. I will not give the people what they think Reginald deserves. He will not be your God of War, I will. Nobody puts Moongoose in the corner. Not Dampshaw, not Scott Oasis, no one!


Reginald, I'm sure this won't be the last. I suggest you continue to take the ball and run with it. After all, you've had the honor of being the few men who consistently got the best of me. That ends this Sunday at Game Over. Take a big ole wiff of that air, drink and taste that sweetness. Live in that reality where you truly believe you are better than me. It's ends with me standing on top of you in that ring. Anything you bring, I'll have an answer for, and I promise you, I'll leave you with nothing left. The truth is there, Reginald. I am better than you and I deserve to be the God War, regardless of what others may think, and I'll beat you so hard, they won't have any choice but to accept nothing but the truth.


This is it, Reginald, all or nothing. Make your best play here or go home with nothing. If you're lucky, I might be in the mood to let you challenge me again when I win that title, but I hardly doubt I'll ever be in any mood to face you after I humiliate you this weekend.


(P.S. This promo is over 3000 words... dun't curr)

"...TILL THEIR HEARTS' CONTENT"


You really did it. You really done did it now, didn't you? Everyone had forgotten, even me, but it turns out that Kevin Maverick is a talented man after all. You might fight like my mother's pouf but you just have this preternatural talent to cause far more grief and aggravation than you have any right being worth. You just know how to piss a guy off, Kevin. After that stunt you pulled at the wedding, even I got a bit aggy for a minute, and I'm a pretty laid back fella. Hell, I may be the human embodiment of moving on from one's problems because the next day I could actually see the funny side of things. You gotta be a pretty crazy guy to start that kind of riot at a gypsy wedding. A Kang's gotta respect that level of don't give a flying fuck. My boy Leander though... He isn't so forgiving. the guy really, and I mean REALLY doesn't like to be upstaged. And at his own wedding... Brother, he was out of control. Kevin, because of you I had to dropkick my best friend because, frankly, he was making a scene and I wasn't about to let him upstage me either. But we're good. It's all love and banter now that he's had a clap for whinging. You know how it is...


Or maybe you don't. It seems to me, Kev, that the number of shitlists you are on only seems to grow bigger. Even now. You've lost your title. You are slipping further and further from the limelight. Performances have been a shadow of what they used to be lately and you should be small an issue to be anyone's problem and yet... You keep finding ever more creative ways to piss people off. I'm almost in awe of the absolute fuckery that is your ability to stir shit. The other day at the reception, me and Leander were doing a few shrimp, the stuff of beauty, really, I deserve a Michellin star. But can you imagine the pain I was in, Kevin? I don't think you can but just picture this. It was the most scrawny, hair-thin shard of a broken leg from the smallest, least appetizing little sea cockroach that boiled to death in that pot and it had somehow worked it's way between my front teeth and up into the gum. That's you, Kevin. You are the single least threatening man that has had the misfortune of running into the Gypsy Kang since he came to OWA and yet you're the one who has left the most people aggrieved. No matter how much hot water you find yourself in, you keep asking for more. Jake Keetone is still running with the story that your patheticness cost him the Openweight Championship. You've put yourself in the crosshairs of the entire gypsy race by driving into a caravan at a wedding. Even your last match. You booked your place in this round by getting beaten pillar to post just to disappoint everyone by stealing the win away with the most anticlimactic, unconvicing school boy ass roll up. Now get me right here. You took what you wanted whatever way you needed to take it. I ain't gonna hate on that. I respect that hustle. But what I also respect is how Hans Olsen must be feeling right now. You have got to understand. He KNOWS who the baddest motherfucker was that night. Everyone does. And that's why it must really sting to see you where you are against the Gypsy Kang on FPV.


That there, Kevin, is one of the many big differences between you and I. You have your moments. A few tough wins. A little highlight reel of fuckery. But seeing you have your moment always rubs people the wrong way for some reason or another. Now the Kang is a different beast. Harman Ardelean doesn't just beat people as far as the rules are concerned. No. No. No sir. I beat 'em till their hearts' content. You know what I mean? When I lay a beating down on someone I always make sure to leave them singing "O be joyful, O be easy". And the music might be playing out of the other side of their mouths but one thing remains true. When I am done with them, people daren't, they FUCKING daren't look aggrieved at the result. Don't believe it? Just take a look back at the growing list of athletes that have made peace with me being the better man. The 24/7 division is just pleased I found something shinier. I made my in-ring debut against Shrek and both he and Fiona have fallen off the face of the earth since. Like I'm not sure if he's still laid up next to Mickey Schumacher dealing with that brain damage or whether he's gone back to his day job hiding in children's closets but I ain't seen hide nor hair of him. Then there's Jake Ketone. Really yappy before our triple threat. A little quieter the second time around. Yeah. He prefers to like I don't exist and me kicking his ass twice didn't happen and he's still chasing the Hobo despite being at the back of the line but that's fine. Atleast I don't have to smell his breath anymore. Come to think of it, he probably hates you more and all you did was get beaten unconcious twice.


You can even say it about the best of them I haven't had the chance to meet yet. The big, fat hoboroni is adamant there are no worthy challengers but he's forgetting the obvious. Or maybe not. When a fella struts in and and repeats your title winning accomplishment in half the time I reckon that'll stick in your head a bit. Listen. Here's a hot take. The story is he's trying to get out of Jakey bwoi but do you really think that washed up sack of shit is still on Derelict's radar? He's alcoholics anonymous. He's nobody. My crystal left nut is saying that Shrek 2 is dragging his toes because the longer the line of cans between him and the innevitable when Harman comes knocking, the longer he gets to hold his title. Clever boy. I don't get the feeling he had much of a formal education but someone definitely bolted his head on right. Street smarts, that is. Keeps you alive out there when all you've got is a half-eaten trucks top sandwich in a bindle. He knows what he's doing... and so do I.


It's just a crying shame that I can't say that for everyone. I don't need a crystal bollock to tell you that crashing a gypsy wedding that the Gypsy KANG is attending says you ain't that smart. By not letting Hans get his own way all you did was apply for a beating. And now you've walked right into the foyer, right to the front desk and signed your name in pretty letters with a fountain pen. You really ought to have taken a fall in the first round there, buddy. I like a bargain as much as the next guy, but two spankings for the price of one doesn't sound like a good deal unless it's at one of those "massage" parlours. Atleast you'll learn your lesson. This the school of hard knocks, baby. A one on one Harman Ardelean ass whooping is the undisputed KANG of ass whoopings. I'm not just talking about hospital holidays, weak ass "concussions" and the odd chronic traumatic encephalitis. I'm talking about dealing out life changing injuries in the best possible way. Maverick, I'm gonna hit you like an epiphany - shout out to my playa JC. When you step into that ring, you ain't just gone find trouble. You gone... Damn. Should I? I'm saying it. You gone find God. I said it. Just saying. You gone find out what a real God of War looks like when I light you up like... Ugh... Like the god damn light of the world, you hear me? JC really going to send me to hell for this huh? But the KANG don't care even if you is the Son of God. Once I'm done with this tournament and ascend to my rightful place as GAD OF ERLAMPUS then that kind of makes me his step-daddy or something. Black Jesus will learn to call me daddy in time but your time is sooner, Kevin. Papi is gone teach you the manners yo momma couldn't. After I lay down the belt you are going to know never to crash a gypsy wedding ever again. You're not going to be able to look at a caravan again without getting them PTSD flashbacks taking you back under the boot of Zaddy Harman. But that's ok. It'll keep you meek. Keep you humble. By putting you down once and for all I'm going to raise you into a new man. A better man. A changed man, Kevin. The man known as Kevin Maverick is going to view the world in an entirely different way. Maybe he'll cut out the partying and theatrics a go dry like Jake Ketone. He'll wax lyrical about the benefits of his new hobby - drinking only water and not having a life - for health and for fun. Maybe he will dedicate his life to philathropy and feeding the homeless on-paperweight champ. That is... If Maverick isn't himself homeless after OWA cut him for his poor run of form, but we're getting ahead of ourselves. 


Kevin, I'd like to think you'll come away from this match with a new outlook on life. See the thing is, that's a pretty vague proposition. The truth is, even the Mystic Gyp can't tell you if the sugar will taste sweeter or if the coffee will smell richer. We can hope that through swollen eyes you see all the colours of the world as more vibrant and that, having finally learned that you are not a beautiful or unique snowflake, your life will be filled with a verve and urgency it never had even as your broken body cannot move. Just like you'd just discovered Fight Club. But that's all down to you. When all things are done I can promise only two things:


1. You will NOT talk shit about Harman Ardelean.
2. You will NOT talk shit about Harman Ardelean.


Got it? Kevin Maverick will not have an opinion about Harman Ardelean sending him to the back of the line. He won't say a peep. Kevin Maverick will stay the fuck out of my way if he knows what is good for him just like Jake Ketone did before and after our first round match, and just like Shrek did before him. After this fight, the only person who is going to get on his soapbox and have anything to say about what happened is yours trully. And I am going to have A LOT to say but for my brothers who share my ADD here's the jist of it:


I told you so.


I am the GYPSY KANG!


I am the FUTURE!


I am the next GOD OF WAR!!!


(And that Hobo is mine.)