The backstage hallway buzzed with the normal chaos of a live sporting event. Road agents yelling into their radios, production assistants sprinting back and forth, someone arguing about entrance pyro being over budget. Business as usual for the XWF. The Edgecrusher wandered through the middle of it all carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder. Nobody pays him any attention, let alone questions what he was doing there.  Nobody questioned him. Confidence had become his backstage pass, and lately he'd been abusing the privilege. The Edgecrusher eventually finds what he was looking for. A single 8.5x11 sheet of white paper taped to a production case. The call sheet for the upcoming Anarchy show. Every match, segment, interview, carefully planned out by the powers that be.

EC: Main event title match, battle royal, extreme rules... looking pretty good. Now where am I?

He pauses in confusion, reads the sheet of paper again. Then he reads it again and again. He is nowhere on the list.

EC: There must be some sort of mistake. HEY YOU!

The Edgecrusher grabs the first person walking by with a clipboard and headset by the arm and forces him into a dead stop.

EC: There must be some sort of mistake!

He says in an almost childlike whining tone and points to the call sheet.

Production guy: I'm sorry?

EC: MISTAKE! I'm nowhere on this list, but some nobody gets a tables match? Who the hell even is...

He squints.

EC: Perry Platypus? 

Production guy: I'm sorry, I actually work for the arena security.

EC: So, secure me a match on the show!

Production security guy: I can't help ya with that, brother.

EC: GOODBYE!

The Edgecrusher turns with his back to the security guy and continues looking at the sheet as if expecting his name to suddenly appear.

EC: Still nothing...

He rubs his chin; eyes focused a very specific match.







The rookie he had spoken to at the Cleveland show walks up next to him. He looks at the call sheet and pumps his fist.

Rookie: Hell yeah, my first official match. My grandma is gonna be so excited to see me finally make it big!

EC: Wait... you're Perry Penile implant?

PP: Pennyweather, and now people are gonna not only know the name, they will remember it forever!

EC: wow...  cool... lucky you...

PP: I'm gonna go call nana! It's been her dream to see me wrestle my first real match before she dies. We were all afraid she wouldn't live long enough. Stage 9 feline AIDS. Doctors said it was impossible, but Nana never quits.

EC: yeah... that's great...

Perry dashes off to set up the surprise for his sweet old granny. The Edgecrusher watches him closely. Once perry disappears around the corner he turns back to the call sheet.

EC: Anyway...

He pulls a sharpie out of his beard, pops the cap with his teeth and makes a few marks. He leans back admiring his handywork.

EC: There, that's better.

The sharpie disappears back into his beard, and he innocently walks away while whistling.









A weathered gym sits quietly on the edge of town. The Edgecrusher marches inside carrying a notebook labeled "TABLES MATCH TRAINING."

EC: It's a Tables match...so I'm gonna be ready for every damn table Tommy Temu can throw at me.




A giant periodic table hangs on the wall of the gym; flash cards are scattered everywhere. The Edgecrusher paces back and forth.

EC: Hydrogen... Helium... Lithium... Beryllium...

A trainer from across the room suddenly points at him.

Trainer: Atomic number 79?

The Edgecrusher doesn't hesitate.

EC: GOLD!

Trainer: Symbol?

The Edgecrusher freezes in his tracks. He looks around nervously.

EC: G?

The trainer sighs.




A surgeon walks into an operating room and finds the Edgecrusher standing over a medical mannequin on an operating table. He is decked out in scrubs and rubber gloves and holding a wrench. The surgeon just stares in stunned silence.

EC: Don't worry, I watched like... three videos on Youtube.

The surgeon slowly walks back out




A tiny elementary school classroom, we can see the weathered gym across the street through a window in the corner of the room. The Edgecrusher is squeezed into a desk that was clearly built for third graders. His bulbus gut lays flat covering the entire top of the desk.  A stereotypical elderly math teacher stands at the chalkboard pointing towards math problems.

Teacher: Eight times seven.

The Edgecrusher immediately panics.

EC: Fifty...

He squints.

EC: ...five?

The teacher slowly shakes her head her frustration obvious.

Teacher: Again.

Sometime much later. The same question, the exact same answer. Over and over again until finally.

EC: FIFTY-SIX!

The teacher smiles and tries but fails to hide the sigh of relief.

Teacher: Excellent.

The Edgecrusher leaps up in celebration, the desk still snuggly held in place by his gut.




A fancy restaurant, the Edgecrusher sits perfectly straight at the table. The waiter places twelve different forks around his plate.

Waiter: Will sir be having the soup first?

The Edgecrusher nods with confidence and grabs the steak knife. The Waiter immediately takes it away and rolls his eyes.

Waiter: We'll start from scratch.

A quick montage plays out.

EC learning to fold napkins, properly cutting his food, balancing a wine glass, practicing saying "Exquisite," spitting fancy food into a napkin and complaining it needs ketchup.




A woodworking shop. The Edgecrusher approaches a spinning table saw, the grinding of steel echoes in the room.  He stares at it and the saw stares back. A long pause before the Edgecrusher slowly turns around.

EC: Some tables aren't worth winning.

The scene fades out.