Graves had been following Kristoffer Arroyo for three blocks.

Not because he likes him.

Oh, no, no!

Because he’s trying to decide if he’s useful like a folding chair, or someone to push in front of a bus so that he can safely cross the street.

Suddenly—

Black SUVs pull in.

Doors swing open.

Boots hit pavement.

ICE jackets on their backs.

They move fast.

Grab Kris by the arms.

Demand ID.

Kris doesn’t seem to have any on him.

From afar, Gravy panics.

Not morally.

Logistically.

You can’t use a guy to eat a pin if he’s in federal custody.

Kris argues with the ICE officers as Gravy pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking—thinking HARD.

Then it hits him.

He reaches into his cape and pulls out a Sombrero.

He stares at it.

Nods.

Puts it on.

”...perfect.”

Stepping out into the street.

”HEY ICE! LEAVE THAT MAN ALONE! I’M WHAT YOU WANT!!” Gravy yells and shakes his ass in defiance.

Every masked face turns.

Kris does too.

Gravy’s waving both arms wildly to gain their attention. ”MEXICAN GRAVY!!!”

He slaps his own ass in defiance.

They drop Kris and rush Gravy.

He smiles and leads them on a chase.

Gravy isn’t known for his speed though, and is quickly captured.

They cuff him. Slam his face into the hood. Press his face into the metal.

Gravy begins to giggle. ”You fools…”

His hands are behind his back.

In the cape.

So much cape.

“Why is there so much fabric?” an ICE Agent asks while trying to search Gravy.

Because, inside of the cape, deep within its darkest recesses. A tiny voice whispers.

“Okay boss, you’re free!”

Gravy remains posed as though he’s cuffed.

They smash his face into the hood again.

Hands behind his back and deep within his cape—Graves pulls a string that in-turn pulls a zipper.

Suddenly about twelve screaming ANTIFA protestors pour out of him like clowns from a tiny car.

Glitterbombs detonate.

Bullhorns blare: “ICE OUT~!”

One is waving a “STOLEN LAND” sign, and another stars throwing Vegan pamphlets like ninja stars. 

“THIS MAN IS A CHILD PREDATOR!” one Ice Agent pleads through the onslaught.

This mob doesn’t care.

A fight ensues.

Pepper balls fly.

Gravy steps sideways out of the confusion and heads down an alley.

He turns the corner and almost runs face first into Kris.

They both stop and look at each other.

”You owe me one…”

“Are you following me?”

Graves doesn’t answer him. He just stands there staring. Studying. Listening to the distant chaos echoing from down the alley.

He tilts his head.

Slow.

”You owe me now.”

Annoyed, Kris’s eyes narrow.

“I never asked for your help. I never asked for any of that.I could have handled that myself, all you did”— he gestures back towards the alley — “was make things worse!”

Graves doesn’t argue.

He just begins circling Kris with his hands behind his back.

His eyes squint and he leans in: “Mm.” and nods to himself.

”You didn’t beg and plead like some pussy.”

A small nod.

”You did the same thing you did in that ring. You kept thinking.”

Graves motions vaguely, like he’s conjuring memories of their match.

”Everytime I hit you, you didn’t try an’ hit back harder… you tried to move somewhere smarter.”

A step around Kris.

”Guillotine. DDT. Table.

The bite.

You kept trying to put me somewhere bad instead of trying to be somewhere good.”

He nods again.

”That’s why you’re still interesting.”

A grin creeps in, ”but you know what beat all that thinkin’?”

He points back toward the alley, where the commotion continues.

”This.”[dwg]

He leans in to make it uncomfortable. [dwg]”Same thing I did to you, I’ll do to them.”

Graves straightens and adjusts his ribs.

”You might make a valuable ally. A fine weapon to turn against my enemies, but—”

His eyes narrow.

”—But I’m a better weapon, and you’re more valuable as a shield."

Kris exhales, annoyed.

“Shield you? From what!? Your own imbecilic decisions? You do realize this is a tornado tag, right!?”

Graves considers it.

”Duh, that’s why I need a shield. Listen, as a former Anarchy champion yourself—I’M SURE that you’re not too happy sharing a lineage with me. Do you really want to see either of those dummies we’re facing have their name forever immortalized alongside yours?”

Kris considers it as Gravy checks his watch.


”Would you look at the time? I have to go get in line. Catch you after for our shit-talk date!”

Smoke bomb.

Purple fumes.

Gravy’s gone.

Kris puts a hand up to conceal his nose and mouth from the lingering smoke.

“Goddamn you, Lichter.”


Kristoffer glides through the water of the hotel pool, before cresting the surface tension and stepping onto the stairs to exit. Walking to his chair, he retrieves a towel and starts patting himself down.

Naturally, it happens again.

Smoke bomb.

And like magic, Graves has reappeared.

Kris scowls and covers his mouth with the towel.

“Do you HAVE TO?”

Graves looks Kris up and down. Kris’ dripping chiseled frame is wearing a speedo and nothing else.

”Put some clothes on, you’re weirdin’ me out.

Kris rolls his eyes and pulls a shirt on.

“So how did your date with Jenny Myst go?”

”She has lice now.”

He again considers his watch and taps the face of it.

”Shit talk date. Remember?”

“How could I possibly forget. But before we do that….”

Kris sighs.

“....I suppose….on some level….I do owe you….a thank you.”

He grimaces as he speaks those words.

Graves looks like he’s going to speak, but Kris puts a hand up to continue.

“Look, I know we have almost nothing in common. But I want to win this match just as much as you do. And in order for us to do that, we need to get on the same page. Which means no more of this “you’re just a shield” talk. Savvy?”

Graves looks to the side evasively before replying.

” ’Kay.”

“Are you just agreeing with me to get me to shut up?”

”Who the fuck knows?”

Kris throws his hands in the air.

“Fine. Whatever. Lets get this over with. Who goes first?”

”Age before beauty.”

“Hrm. Right”

Kris waves off the shot and trains his eyes on the camera.

“I saw what my wayward employer had to say about Razor Blade and the Hixx clan (incidentally, which one of the Hixx sisters is adopted?). Performance art? Suffice it so say, I’m inclined to be less forgiving. No, I see you people as more of a VIRUS. A contagion, spreading like wildfire throughout the XWF. A wildfire of what, pray tell?

Utter, contemptible, mediocrity.

Throw El Landerson in with the rest of the lot. He’s no different. Same incomprehensible promos. Same middling workrate. Same predictable losses.

And what do our prophetic corporate overlords deign to do?

Put not only Razor Blade, not only BOTH Hixx Sisters, but also El Landerson in the March Madness tournament!

Gentlemen, were we really so desperate to make numbers? I mean, you do realize other people, other promotions, will be watching this, right? Filling a tournament that is supposed to be one of the XWF’s premier events with just so much cannon fodder. So much, idiotic, LAZY cannon fodder.

And that’s the crux of what bothers me about this lot. The laziness. Spewing the same thoughtless drivel week after week. Losing, week after week aside from the off weeks they’re able to score a one in a thousand win over some joke of the week enhancement talent. Not even fucking TRYING.

You people are an INSULT to those of us who TRY. To those of us who bother to captivate and enthrall again and again while you spout your banal drivel and half ass it through another contest.

And now, you’re being elevated to a main event slot on Anarchy?!

Dear Gods….WHY?

Why, Lichter? To prop Graves and I up with an easy win? This victory will mean NOTHING. Less than nothing. Because everyone in that locker room knows that the Hixx’s and El Landerson’s of the world are commensurate with one thing, and one thing only: FAILURE. So excellent work, booker man. You crafted a main event that will be as predictable as the sun rising in the morning.

Graves, you won’t need me as a shield. Because quite frankly neither one of us is getting eliminated by one of these simpletons. You’re fretting for nothing. At any rate, take it away. I’m done wasting precious oxygen on these thoughtless motes.

”Alright, let’s clear something up about that stipulation:


That’s the hook, right?

The scary part?

The pressure?

Here’s the problem.

Pressure only works when the target’s unsure.

I’m not.

Why?

Simply answered with a question of my own.





Who the fuck are you?





Latoya Hixx — winner by association — you ain’t no winner, you don’t win shit. Quick, how many Anarchy, Revolution, or Tag Title reigns are under your belt?

Answer: Zilch!"

Graves freezes. "FACT CHECK!"

Miss Furry's unmistakable voice calls from off camera. "Zero title reigns for either of them!"

Heh, at best, you’re around when shit gets won. That’s why every other word out your mouth is Razor this Razor that.

The American Nightmare was living in a nightmare of his own creation, dragging your dead-weight ass around. No wonder you’re hitched onto a new wagon these days!”

Gravy strokes his chin.

”Hmmm…

Bit Luchador?

I’ll admit, this is my introduction to you, sir.

If this match brings any regrets, I promise you—it’s that!”

Graves sighs.

”So let me get this straight. The first time you teamed with Latoya, you didn’t know that you were going to win?

Didn’t know, or didn’t expect it in your wildest, most delusional bedtime fantasy?

Because that’s two very different problems.

Not knowing means you’re clueless, not expecting means even you don’t even bother believing in you.”

Gravy squints slightly.

”You stood there—On camera—and announced to the entire universe: ‘Wow, we won—who’da thought?’

That’s the energy you bring to the ring.”

A slow exhale.

”When I walked into First Blood against him—”

Gravy jerks a thumb toward Kris without looking.

”There was no maybe.

There was no let's see how it goes.

It was joints popping and me laughing while he tried to choke the life out of me."

Gravy glances at Kris.

"You said it yourself: this win means nothing if it's against cannon fodder.

But that's where you're wrong, vamp.

Wins always mean something, especially when you're holding gold!

Every squash builds the myth.

Every easy night reminds the locker room why they don't step to you.

And in a tornado tag?

No tags.

No real rules.

Just us turning two bodies into a highlight reel of broken dreams and continued inability to even nick that glass ceiling.

So no more shield talk if it bugs you that much.

Call it mutual assured destruction.

You watch my back, I watch yours, and we paint the canvas with whatever's left of them dummies.

We walk out with the W, I keep my strap, you get to keep pretending you're too cool to care... and maybe, just maybe, we don't hate each other by the time the bell rings.

Or, y'know, you can keep whining about how beneath us they are while I go solo and prove the point anyway.

Your call, Arroyo. But clock's ticking. Anarchy's coming, and no matter what—those losers?

They're already dead men walking."

Graves flicks a lazy salute with two fingers, then reaches into his cape again.

"Till then... stay frosty. Or don't. Makes no difference to me."

Another smoke bomb pops—this one smells like taco's and Baja Blast—Graves is gone.