Black gloved fingers zip across a phone screen.

Scrolling through X (formerly known as Twitter).

The fingers work at breakneck speed… Er, break knuckle speed?

Shooting off Xs… exes?

Whatever tweets are called now.

Sure, fine, Xs.

Xs about the XWF.

Specifically Xs examining ex-XWF, exasperated by excessively existential exculpations exclaiming exclusion, eviction and exile of XWF owner Elon Musk.

…Actually, go ahead and read it yourself.



Chirp. Xed.



Chirp. Xed.



Chirp. Xed.

”Ahem.”

…

The fingers keep zipping on the screen, the enigmatic ninja’s eyes are locked completely on his phone as he rapid-fire shoots off post after post after post.

…Fine-tailored Italian shoes click across the floor, closer and closer to the thumbs typing at 143 words per minute.

”I said, ahem.”

Amazon CEO (and one-third of the Trillionaires, the current ownership group in charge of the XWF) Jeff Bezos hovers over the ninja.

Despite this, the ninja is completely locked in on his phone, one foot casually resting on his knee as he rapidly tweets.

…Bezos waves a hand in front of the ninja’s face.

He doesn’t look away from his phone. He doesn’t even slow down.

If anything , he’s speeding up with every post he makes…

…Bezos befuddled rises, placing his hands on his hips.

”What’s this moron’s malfunction, Musk?” Bezos calls backward over his shoulder. ”He isn’t respondering to my efforts to communicate with it!”

An impatient exhale.

”Oh, Jeffrey. Does a general complain that a nuclear warhead doesn’t greet him at dawn’s light with his morning paper?”

”I… sorry, what?”

”Priorities!” Musk stands up from his chair impatiently! ”That soldier is waging a one-man war against the forces that seek to rip this company from our control!”

Jeff blinks. He looks toward the ninja, lounging casually on the couch.

”...You mean the guy tweeting?”

”It’S X-ING! IT’S NOT TWEETING BECAUSE IT’S NOT TWITTER! IT’S X!”

”...Okay, but I-”

”PEOPLE CALL IT X BECAUSE X SOUNDS COOL AND SEXY AND I’M FUN AND PEOPLE DO WHAT I WANT BECAUSE I HAVE GOOD IDEAS.”

…Bezos takes a deep breath and counts to three.

”...Musk. I don’t even care what your shitty little app you bought off Jack Dorsey  is called.” Bezos gestures toward the ninja on the couch. ”What I’m saying is… yes, there are employees within our company that are actively working to try and remove us from power. BUT, your so-called secret weapon… is sitting there making posts instead of stopping them.”

…Elon waves off Bezos. ”Please! This is the most critical part of the fight! The war in the people’s hearts! The town square of the digital world! Where the world’s rabble meet to exchange ideas, debate freely, and cyberbully anyone that thinks differently than they do.”

Elon turns from his desk to stare ominously out the window, down from the top floor of the XWF Headquarters building.

”Don’t you see? Scoops McGee, Centurion and his little Woke Mind Virus… all these fuckin’ woke lib, pieces of SHIT. They’re getting all the shine for the great things we’ve done as the Trillionaires! Did you hear those people on Warfare? I announced the most logical decision, to induct myself into the XWF Hall of Legends… and they booed! They cheered all our creative decisions, but booed us! US!!! When We’ve SINGLEHANDEDLY saved the XWF! How backwards is that?!?”

”Yeah!” Zuckerberg calls, looking a completely different direction, as he’s wearing a full 360-degree Metaverse headset. ”That’s whack to the max, yo!”

”And *I* have figured out the core problem.”

”And what, pray tell, could that be?” Bezos rolls his eyes. ”Might it be that people are tuning into our wrestling entertainment program to watch wrestling? And not three middle-aged men stand in a wrestling ring talking?”

”…NO.” Elon fumes, spinning back towards Bezos defensively. ”People LOVE the part where I talk! Because I’m VERY COOL and I have GOOD and INTERESTING things to say!”

…

”But inside of your stupid idiotic suggestion is a kernel of truth.” Musk turns back to the window of the twenty-story skyscraper, staring down at the bustling company, working on every floor beneath him. ”We don’t have an obvious proxy in the ring, competing against the loudest voices standing in opposition to us. We need a champion. Someone who represents the Trillionaire mindset.”

”You’ve been obsessed with this idea of a Trillionaire champion ever since we bought this company… Kieran King, Micheal Graves… Schadenfreude Clown.”

”Don’t even say his name. What a terrible idea for a champion...” groans Elon…

”Lovely wedding, though, yo!”

”Shuddup!" Musk stews... his thumb gently rubbing a monochromatic wedding ring on his finger…

"My point is... Is such a proxy truly necessary?” Bezos impatiently huffs. ”Men like Theo Pryce, Jonathyn Brown… they all managed to control this bizarre company from our position without having some representative to fight for them.”



Chirp.

”All these employees act as our proxies, Musk. They’re the ambassadors of our… very expensive investment.” Bezos permits a touch of venom to permeate through his otherwise hyper-restrained tone.



”They can preen and pride about disagreeing with our ownership, but at the end of the day, they battle each other. They each call the other a stooge of our regime, while comfortable taking our checks and showing up obediently to the next event. They push the plow. And we reap the harvest.”

”As always, you’re missing a critical bit of nuance, Bezos. And that’s our long-term returns. If people don’t like hearing us talk…”

”If people don’t like hearing you talk, why the FUCK has my whole promo been you mouth-breathers talking?”

Bezos and Musk spin toward the voice!

”Who said thaaaaaAAAAAH!” Said Zuckerberg, spinning in his Metaverse headset, tripping on the power cord and stumbling in a tangled mess to the floor.

Sitting on the couch, the Ninja stares ahead with his single red optical port.

His fingers remain typing the whole time.

Elon blinks. ”Excuse me? Who the FUCK do you think you are?!?”

All at once, the cyborgs fingers stop.

”I’ll handle that multi-part question in order.”

The Ninja raises his right hand, bringing his thumb against his middle finger. ”First, thought you’d never ask…”

”What are y-“

”You’re excused.”

SNAP.

In a split-second, all three Trillionaires zap from the room. No puff of smoke, no lightning strike, no slow Thanos turn-to-dust visual effect.

Just… gone.

The Ninja’s hands move to his neck.

KERACK to the left.

SNAAAAAP to the right.

”There we go. Onto the next question…”

WHO THE FUCK DOES @getouttamyringerson THINK HE IS?!?

”Who am I? Glad you asked.”

“I’m the asshole here to fix this show that used to be about WRESTLING.”

“What has the XWF become, huh?”

“A side-show of maudlin melodrama.”

“Touchy-feely soap opera horseshit.”

“Featuring geriatric talent, all whining that management is #LiterallyHitler.”

“While they collect percentages on merch sales.”

“T-shirts with Oleandyr Retina on the front, FIGHT FACISM airbrushed across the front…”

“And a ‘Manufactured by Amazon’ tag resting in the neckline.”

”Oh, and don’t get me started on Andy C’s shit lib horse crap.”

The Ninja snaps his fingers. And his robotic mask opens…

To reveal… Centurion’s face?!?

And Centurion’s voice to boot!

Quote:”“I’m afraid I’ve been talking about helping people, but all this time, I’ve actually…been getting paid.”

“And what’s even worse is…I actively hate the person who owns the company I work for. I think he’s the devil. And yet, I still allow him to pay me. I know, I am a terrible sinner!”

“Because it can’t POSSIBLY be because the means to survive this ever increasing hellscape relies on using the very tools used to oppress people, can it? It can’t possibly have anything to do with fighting aggression with aggression, can it? No, there is only one way you can advocate for people, and that is by being poor and miserable, and even then, any usage of technology would be seen as being “ungrateful” to the folks that gave it to you, isn’t that right?”

The Centurion face flickers… Like a projector screen, before the Ninja’s voice starts speaking from Cent’s face.

”Seriously, Andy? You’re a MILLIONAIRE. You got WORLD WAR ONE BATTLESHIP money sitting around your fucking mansion and personal two-floor training gym.”

“You’re not the fucking Amazon employee tweeting about unions while he stuffs warehouse lockers with kitsch for minimum wage.”

“THAT GUY is surviving an increasing hellscape.”

“YOU’RE an entitled fifty-year old crybaby that’s appointed yourself the #LeaderOfTheResistance when your lower intestine is barely able to resist filling the girdle you wear in the ring.”

The Centurion face blinks like a projector running out of film reel, before the Ninja’s face returns.

”That’s where we’re at. That’s what the XWF is full of right now.”

“Promos where we’re told to hate the uber-wealthy, ultra-elite management team.”

“By the uber-wealthy, ultra-elite professional primadonnas.”

“Who air out their personal drama in front of a camera in a desperate attempt to appeal to YOUR sense of humanity.”

The Ninja points a finger directly into the camera.

”YOU.”

“Yes, YOU.”

“The person watching this promo.”

“You’re being lied to, over and OVER and OVER by these people.”

“Who think they can get away with it because they think they’re better than you.”

“These narcissistic pompous morons who think they have the right to tell you who should run the wrestling industry because they’ve been dropped on their heads for forty-some-odd years.”

“Who get off on playing professional victims while they make more in a three-minute match than most of you make in a fucking year.”

“Who am I?”

“I’m not the corporate stooge. I’m not the Hall Monitor telling everyone not to run between classes.”

“I’m the fucking reckoning. I’m the wave set to wash the scum away and drive the pretenders out of the goddamn marketplace.”

“Did I just compare myself to Jesus Christ while saying his name in vain?”

“Try to keep up.”

“Cuz we’re just getting started pissing people off.”

---

The Title Card on the screen reads 1998 - Inner City

A young African-American boy sits on the floor of his family living room, staring up at the screen.

Lips slightly parted, amazed by what he’s witnessing…

Wrestling.

And not just any wrestling.

Hardcore Japanese Strong-Style wrestling.

Scoops McGee and a longtime rival, ‘Immovable’ Fudou Kenji…

In the arena, the crowd is eighty-thousand strong, all roaring in excitement, all on their feet…

But in this room, the sound of the crowd is fuzzy through an ancient twelve-inch television, so old, it’s still running on tubes.

The young man watches the action in awe as Scoops reels back his arm… KNIFE EDGE CHOP to Kenji!

Kenji’s chest ripples, his knee buckles, but he is UNMOVED!

He roars in Scoops’ face!

Scoops snarls back!

The young man’s grandmother sits in an armchair knitting with a smile on her face, before glancing up from her work.

”Who are you watching, lil’ Timmy?”

The boy turns back excitedly. ”Scoops McGee.” He turns back to watch the screen in youthful bliss. ”He’s the greatest of all-time…”

STUDIO AUDIENCE: AWWWWWWWWW!

”CUT!”

Suddenly, the “young man” and the “grandmother” both look off-screen at the voice. The crew on set all move to reset the scene back to the start, as the Ninja steps in from stage right.

”Did you get what was happening there? The pathos, the brief sensation of understanding that came with a neat little origin story.”

“Ohhhhh, that young man must be that Ninja fellow as a child… This is a flashback! He LOVED Scoops… Something must have happened!”

“Did you even stop to consider how lazy the title card is?”

The Ninja snaps his fingers and the title card pops back on the screen.

He reaches forward and RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIP

Seemingly the card off the screen.

The Ninja lifts it up to the camera.

”It says INNER CITY. It couldn’t even come up with, like… HARLEM or CHICAGO or another city that some racist writer thinks a black youth would grow up in. Some asshole literally just wrote INNER CITY on a first draft and it made through a half-dozen writer’s rooms to in front of a studio audience for this promo.”

The Ninja takes the title card and frisbees it off-screen to the left.

A man in a vest and jeans, with a hat that says Director across the front, charges from the camera.

”Hey pal! You’re ruining the promo! The Trillionaires paid a lot of writers to craft an emotionally resonant origin story for you! And then organized an entire film crew and a shooting schedule so people will find you engaging!”

”Psssh.” The Ninja scoffs, reaching into his pocket for his phone. ”You wanna see something engaging?”

Less than a second later, an X chips on the screen.



A moment later, under the X, replies, retweets, likes all start to rapidly accumulate!

The Ninja pockets his phone, turning toward the Director.

”See that? In two seconds, I just made something more engaging than your fucking Leave it to Beaver fan fiction.”

”How DARE you trash my team’s hard work!” The Director angrily waves his script in the Ninja’s face! ”I didn’t go to film school for four years to be talked do-”

”Dude, you didn’t even go to film school. You’re an actor that’s literally wearing a hat that says DIRECTOR because someone thinks the audience is too stupid to get that you’re the director unless your hat says so.” The Ninja Suh-NATCHES the script out of the Director’s hand. He walks to the screen and opens it into the camera.

”Look. All this we’re doing RIGHT NOW? Even when a promo pretends to take you off the beaten path, guess what? You’re still on rails, riding the ride. Hearing from dopey sidekicks that either kiss some wrestler’s ass and support them unconditionally or are deliberately-designed strawmen designed to make that wrestler’s opponent look stupid by proxy.”

The Ninja smacks the camera with his right hand.

”Wake up. Are you getting it yet? How you’re getting grifted every other Monday? All these wrestlers are trying to sell you on believing some idealized superhero version of themselves.”

The Ninja points backward to the 1998 image of Scoops McGee wrestling in Japan in his prime.

”THAT’S the version they want you to think is real.”

The Ninja slaps his earlier ragebait Scoops-related tweet on the television screen.

”THAT is the REALITY. THAT’S who Scoops McGee is. THAT’S what I see.”

“A man who abandoned his wife and child to chase a fucking high like a goddamned drug addict.”

“That’s the guy who’s trying to convince you he’s the hero of this story.”

The Ninja sits down on the TV set in front of the studio audience.

”Folks, I’m Morpheus, offering you the red pill to see beyond the carefully-crafted simulation.”

“Not from the Trillionaires, but from the fucking con artists trying to convince you to buy.”

“Not the product. But them.”

“As decent people who’ve worked hard to get this opportunity.”

“Who deserve your love and admiration.”

“When none of them would spit on you if you were on fire.”

“And none of them.”

“Not ONE.”

“Can hold a candle to me in that ring.”

…

The Ninja takes a breath.

”Which brings us to our target for this week.”

---

Jay Fetu.

Mr. Main Event himself.

What a fucking joke.

Calling yourself Main Event when you haven’t sniffed a match on even the backhalf of the card almost your whole XWF career.

You basically had to beg Miss Furry for a shot at the Anarchy to even get booked in a main event, which she gave you because she wanted the functional equivalent of a week-off.

And then Lichter booked her against you and Andy C… and somehow Andy sucked even harder than you did.

Jeez, sorry, this promo is supposed to be about trashing Fetu, but here I am up that Andy Cortinovis literally got outwrestled by the guy.

Andy Cortinovis was the WORST wrestler in a match featuring MAIN EVENT JAY FETU.

…

It’s funny that management organized a whole championship specifically for low-tier bottom-feeders like Main Event Jay Fetu and John Blade…

And everyone in the Chain Gang is still shamelessly begging for title shots.

Jesus Christ, don’t you have enough?

Now, this is usually the part where someone cutting a promo on Fetu will claim he’s among the worst there is in the XWF.

But honestly?

He’s no bigger liar than Scoops or Cent.

He’s just less tactful about his deceit.

You ever see a Fetu promo?

Or for that matter, any Chain Gang promo?

They’re all openly lying about things that have happened on your screen.

Quote:I knew what I was gettin' myself into when I heard you
Challenge me to a triple threat Steel Cage match at Anarchy

Right. Furry challenged YOU, Jay. Except…

Quote:Main Event Jay Fetu Faces Miss Fury Anarchy title

”That didn’t happen. YOU challenged her for a title match. Admittedly, in a garbled word salad, kind of like when Amazon sells something like a chair as…

Sweetcrispy Comfy Chair for Adults, Foldable Living Room Chair, Soft Faux Fur Lounge for Bedroom Dorm Rooms, Comfortable Reading Chairs for Teens, X-Large



”Like you’re trying to trick some algorithm into giving you title shots.”

Quote:I was at LOF, in Mars, when I was surprised, much like y'all, when I saw Mr Oz come out here and confronted me on my behalf

When I kicked Mr Oz's teeth down his throat and then last night, but I'm here tonight,

”Watch every second of Leap of Faith 2026… Oz never confronts Fetu. Fetu gets lobbed out of the opener battle royal and never once meets Oz, let alone kicks Oz’s teeth in.”

“So, what’s my point? That Fetu has a tenuously grasp on reality?”

“That he’s a liar trying to connect himself to more important people and hope you don’t notice how nothing he says happened.”

“No.”

“Fetu isn’t the biggest liar in the XWF.”

“He’s just among the least convincing.”

“Jay’s lies are easy to spot.”

“And even easier to disprove.”

“But, Jay’s not any less honest than Cent pretending he’s Che fucking Guevara.”

“Jay’s not any less honest than Scoops pretending he can make up two decades of being an absentee father by crying in a restaurant to a son that wants nothing to do with him.”

“Jay isn’t the worst liar in the XWF.”

“But he’s the perfect test subject to demonstrate how everyone in that locker room is trying to pull the wool over your eyes.”

“Like watching a child magician fuck up a trick that came out of the ‘Learn Magic’ magic kit. And then watching David Copperfield do the same illusion flawlessly.”

“The game’s already up. No matter how good the con is, you already know the trick.”

“So, come one, come all.”

“Before I beat Scoops McGee at Relentless in just a few weeks, I’m going to dissect Jay Fetu.”

“I’m going to smack his stupid stunner shades off his idiot face.”

“I’m going to break down his one-move offense spamming superkicks by kicking his knee until he can’t fucking walk let alone kick.”

“Who am I?”

“I’m the light you hold the suspicious twenty dollar bill up to that shows it’s counterfeit.”

“I’m the genuine article that no fraud can stand up to.”

“What’s left to say, Jay?”

“Four letters?”

“One word?”

“Try seven letters and two words.

“Fuck you.”