We open on a surprisingly demure sight given the subject. Sam Dyson is clad in his jammies and a smoking jacket, and reclining in a black leather barcalounger. A big screen TV is planted in front of him, displaying an Amazon Prime menu (still, fuck you Bezos). Sam yawns and scratches his balls.

You know, I bet everybody’s getting all hot and bothered coming up with their promos for March Madness, treating this like some big goddamn deal. I can see it now, SEB is gonna finger blast Betsy Granger to some classical music as a beautiful sunset plays out in the distance, Dickie Watson is going to bore us all to goddamn tears with another four hour psychological treatise on his opponents, Scoops McGee is gonna wax poetic about the weathering effects of time as his ineffective sphincter lets lose another fountain of shit into his Depends…yadda…yadda…..yadda….

But for me? Sometimes a guy just wants to kick his feet up, crack open a PBR….

There is in fact a cool can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the cup holder. Sam picks it up, cracks it open, and takes a satisfying sip.

….ahhhhh. And just watch the good ol’ Boobs Tube! So that’s what I’m gonna do! And to everybody who thinks they’re clever pointing out that my mother and Dolly Waters did a very similar promo almost one year ago….FUCK YOU! I’ve got nothing to apologize for. This is America! The land of reboots, remakes, and reinventions! And I’m gonna outshine my stupid mother and her stupid meth fueled southern fried hick friend!

Anyway, on with the show.

The shot cuts to a view that displays Sam’s arm as it raises and clicks the remote control.

A young lady in an upper middle class house answers the call of a door bell swiftly. Upon arrival, she opens the door and we see one of Sam Dyson’s Insignificants, except his paper bag mask has a crude Michael Graves mask drawn on it in crayon.

“Hey! Are you FunBunny15?”

“Uhhhh….yep. You wanna come in?”

“Do I ever!” “Graves” emotes brightly.

The girl steps aside to allow “Graves” to enter and shows him to the kitchen. “Graves” pulls up a stool next to the kitchen island and looks around.

“Boy this is a nice house! Especially compared to the dumpster I live in!”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s better than a dumpster.”

“Actually, it’s a literal dumpster!” “Graves” replies, not losing an ounce of his cheerfulness.

“Well…I’m going to head out of this room for some vague reason. But please feel free to make yourself right at home.” The young lady departs stage right.

“Okey dokie!” “Graves” says, tapping his fingers on the counter top. But, his calm is soon interrupted by an inevitable other.

“Excuse me, are you Michael Graves?” Sam Dyson enters the shot, clad in a suit and tie.

“Gah! You scared me! Who are you?”

“Sam Hansen. Surely you’ve heard of me.”

“Graves” muses for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well….whatever! Anyway, I’m the host of To Catch a Predator and you sir, are majorly HOSED!”

“Oh no! But I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“That’s not what these chat logs have to say.” Sam Hansen pulls a few sheets of paper out of his jacket and opens them.

“Well, I think you’ll find that our chats were completely innocent!”

Sam shoots “Graves” an unconvinced look and starts reading. “You have a perfectly symmetrical face.” That sound familiar?"

“Well, yeah….”

“Your teeth are clearly well taken care of. Your hair is lush and conditioned. Your skull structure is divine.” Sam shakes his head disdainfully “Recognize any of THAT perversion?!”

“Graves” holds his hands up defensively. “Look man, it’s not what you think. I was just complementing the lady’s bone structure!”

“Sounds to me like you wanted to BONE something, but it wasn’t her structure.” Sam slams the papers down on the countertop. “So what’s the deal “Graves”?! Why are you REALLY here?” Just then, Sam Hansen’s ear piece crackles, and through the magic of television we can hear what is being said.

“Uh, Sam….we got a problem. The cops said they found a bloody saw in “Graves’” car.”

“Hey, they had no right to go in my car without a warrant!”

“They said it was in plain view on the passenger seat. He even left the interior lights on so it was easier to see.”

“Well……fuck!”

Sam looks even more disgusted now. “What the hell were you doing you sick freak?!”

“JUST SO LONG AS THEY DON’T LOOK IN THE TRUNK I”LL BE FINE.”

Sam looks taken aback, and sends “Graves” a strange look. “Uh, why would you shout such clearly incriminating information?”

“I got a brain disorder that makes me mix up my indoor and outdoor voice sometimes.”

“Sam, they’re opening the trunk.”

“Again….WARRANT!”

“They said it was literally leaking blood and viscera and reeks of the sickly sweet smell of death.”

“Fuck!”

“Well?! What’s in it?!!”

“It’s…it’s….oh God….Oh lord…..*profuse vomiting sounds*....”

“Hey…answer me!”

“*Gasp*....Ugh….*that spitting sound you make when you’re trying to expel the remainders of the puke in your mouth*....Sam….it’s…..it’s…..CHILDREN’S BODY PARTS!”

“Oh my God!” Sam emotes melodramtically.

“I tried to tell you Sam Hansen, this wasn’t about sex! I’m not some kind of pervert! I was merely trying to Frankenstein together the perfect child! That’s it. I mean, did you even SEE the new Frankenstein movie?! Jacob Elordi knocked it out of the park, man.”

Suddenly, there’s a crash as the front door of the house is completely unnecessarily rammed down and a squad of SWAT officers pile into the kitchen.

Sam points a finger at “Graves”. “Um, HE’S GOT A GUN!”

“Shiiiii”

The SWAT team lights “Graves” up like a Christmas tree! A very gory, bloodstained Christmas tree. “Graves” body jukes and jives as the bullets tear through his body, causing him to dance a darkly comedic dance of death. The kitchen behind “Graves” becomes a dumping ground of blood, organs, and chunks of flesh.

The show concludes on a close up of Sam Hansen’s cruelly cackling visage before fading to black….

….and reopening on Samael Dyson’s cruelly cackling visage yet again. Except he’s got a tub of popcorn in his lap, and with each barbed guffaw he spits pieces of popcorn all over the place. Before too long, he’s able to regain some semblance of control and starts to address the camera.

“Had no idea that show could be so fuckin’ funny! But ya know…while we’re on the topic and all…..

…..Michael Graves.”

Sam smiles mischeviously.

“Fire walk with me, Gravy.”

He puts the bucket of popcorn down on the floor before proceeding.

“You might think that we have something like history between us, Mikey. But we don’t. You beat Kris. Hell, you OUTSMARTED Kris, which even though the man is firmly on my shit list right now, I have to admit is a difficult thing to do.

Kris (and I upon further analysis) had a lot of things wrong about you Mikey. First off, you’re not stupid. You’re not “Samael smart” exactly, but you’ve got a sort of creative feral cunning that a guy like me can appreciate. Kris also thought you were unfocused. Which, most of the time you are. But that match at Snow Pain, Snow Gain showed that you can sure as shit focus when you need to.

In short, you’re ALMOST the kind of guy I’d want in my employ.

Almost.

If it weren’t for the fact that you’re such a PUSSY.

B-b-b-but WHAT?!

You heard me.

P-U-S-S-Y.

You know, that thing that usually costs you an Andrew Jackson and a sandwich from 7-11 at the No Tell Motel.

You’se a bitch, Gravey.

I mean, let’s look at this objectively. A man stole your face, your very identity, for a whole fucking year. And not only did he do that, but he proceeded to have the best year of “your” career that you’ve ever had, humiliating you….emasculating you….and doing it with aplomb on each and every Anarchy.

And what have you done about that?

FUCK. ALL.

Fuck all, Gravey boat!

Mark Flynn is still alive and…well, ,maybe not so well. But the whole “not so well” bit has nothing to do with you and everything to do with Corey Smith. Which, given what an absolute bitch stain Corey Smith is, the fact that he did more damage to Flynn than you just makes this whole shebang that much more hilarious. And sad. Mostly sad.

Mikey, if someone paraded around as me for a whole year, and not only that, played a better “me” than me, that fucker would be six feet underground.

But what do you do instead?

Play with my scraps vis-a-vis Clutch Cassidy and lob half assed insults at me while trying to pin me for the Xtreme. And failing at it. Speaking of….we gotta talk about how I swooped in and stole that shit right out from under your nose, man. I mean, it’s right there. Ahahahahahahahaha!

Apparently nobody told Gravy that the XWF doesn’t take weekends off, and neither do I. In fact, I haven’t taken ANY time off since I got here. I hit the ground runnin’ and never stopped. I’ve been here for a cup of coffee and already won two championships and managed my Rollerwhores to a third championship. See, I know how people view me. They think I’m crazy. They think I’m lazy. But if I was truly either of those two things, would I have managed to accomplish so much in so little time?

The fact is Gravy, when it came to the XTreme championship you took your foot off the gas while I don’t know how to do anything but pedal to the metal, baby. And I can’t help but wonder why that is. I mean, maybe it’s a commitment problem. Maybe it’s a discipline problem.

Maybe you’re just TIRED.

You’ve been around a while Graves. So much punishment. So much…heh….organ harvesting! I guess! And sure…sure….you won the Anarchy Championship. But Kris was right. You didn’t pin him. You didn’t make him submit. If anything, you got awful lucky against a guy who probably would have beat you any other day.

All that pain you’ve endured that you like to laud over others. You think that makes you strong. The agonies, the scores of indignities. The suffering! But it doesn’t Gravy. It doesn’t. It doesn’t make you strong at all. It makes you a weary old man in a mask who is very, VERY likely on his last run. You’re not superhuman, Gravy. As much as you want the world to think you are. Yet, I bet you still think this is gonna be easy. You think you’re going to roll right on out of there a double champion in the face of TWO young bucks who are full of piss and vinegar.

No, Gravy, no I don’t think so.

You’re just…..too…..BROKEN.” 

Sam shrugs and belches, and more popcorn spatter is ejected.

“Anyhow, I heard the rest of this season is pretty shit, so lets watch something else, shall we?”

Again, the shot focuses on Sam’s arm as it raises and he clicks a button.


We reopen on a typical looking talk show stage. Sammy Povich is standing by with another Insignificant. This one is wearing a bag over his head with the image of Isaiah King’s face plastered on it. He’s also wearing a t-shirt that looks like an attractive torso with six pack abs and a smooth ebony skin tone.

“Welcome back to the Sammy Povich show everybody. I’m here with “Isaiah King” who is in quite a predicament! “Isaiah”, why don’t you tell us what’s going on.”

Isaiah starts to blubber pathetically.

“Jesus man, get a hold of yourself! We only have so much time!”

“Oh, I’m sorry Sammy! It’s just that my whole life is in tatters!” A hand from off screen hands “Isaiah” a tissue and he dabs at the eye holes of his paper sack face. “You see, I just gave birth to a butt baby and…..”

“I’m sorry, a WHAT baby?”

“A butt baby. A baby that came out of my butt.”

The big screen behind them springs to life, and on it is a pile of feces molded into a vaguely infant looking form wearing a zebra onesie and holding a rattle. “Isaiah” turns to look at the image.

“Oh, there’s my baby! Isn’t he cute?”

“Yeah….cute.” Sam scowls, looking disgusted.

“Anyway, here’s my problem. I’m in a committed relationship with my tag team partner Sebastian Everett Bryce.”

“Sounds like the kind of poncey name a total bitch would have.”

“Isaiah” ignores the barb and continues. “And I THINK he’s the father of my butt baby.”

Sammy quirks an eyebrow. “Wait, you THINK?”

“Sammy, I made a HUGE mistake!” Isaiah starts to blubber again, and he snorts back a huge snot before continuing. “I CHEATED ON SEBASTIAN! AND HE MIGHT NOT BE THE FATHER OF MY BUTT BABY!”

“Whoa! That’s heavy. Why don’t we bring Sebastian out here so he can tell you what a huge piece of shit you are.”

Another Insignificant storms onto the stage, this one of course wearing an image of SEB on his paper bag mask.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!” “SEB” wails. “I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME!” He gesticulates wildly as he takes a seat next to Sammy.

“Isaiah” continues, still dabbing at his eye holes. “I do love you “SEB”! I love you so much! But we’ve broken up and gotten back together 47 times and I think I cheated on you during one of those break ups. It honestly started to get hard to keep track of when we were together and when we were broken up, in my defense.”

“Well, this begs the question, who did you cheat on “SEB” with?”

“Yeah, who?!”

“Isaiah” takes a deep inhale before disclosing the truth. “It was….it was….MADISON DYSON!”

“Well, then lets bring Madison out here!” Sam cajoles.

The crowd starts to boo loudly as another duo of Insignificants carry a catatonic drooling Madison Dyson out in another chair and plop it down next to “Isaiah”.

“Madison, what do you have to say for yourself?!”

The shot closes in on Madison’s face. Her eyes are half lidded and vacant, and a thin stream of saliva dips out of her mouth and lands on her lap.

The shot cuts back to the entire stage, and “SEB” rises to his feet in a rage.

“How could you cheat on me with THAT?!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just that Madison always paid me so much attention! I couldn’t resist her wiles and vibrant personality!”

The shot once more cuts in on Madison’s vacant expression before heading back to a wide shot just as Sam is handed a manilla folder.

“Well, we don’t have much longer to wait, because I have right here the paternity tests for “Isaiah’s” butt baby! We’re gonna find out here and now who your baby daddy is.”

“Isaiah” folds his hands together and starts praying. “SEB” eyes “Isaiah” with a desperate look. Madison shits her pants audibly, drawing looks of disgust from the front row.

Sam makes a show of removing the papers from the file folder before reading them. “In the matter of “Isaiah King’s” butt baby….Madison…….you are NOT the father!"

“Isaiah” lets out a girlish little shriek of joy and both he and “SEB” leap out of their seats and embrace each other.

“Now we’re not done yet! Because “Sebastian”.......you are also NOT THE FATHER!”

“SEB” pulls away from his lover looking absolutely devastated. “Isaiah” reels, clamping his palms against the sides of his face before once more descending into blubbering. Then, he abruptly runs backstage! Sammy Povich gets up and follows “Isaiah”, finding him in one of the backstage lounge rooms where he is face down on a couch, kicking his legs and sobbing.

Sammy awkwardly pats “Isaiah” on the back. “There there, I guess. Uh….hey look man it’s 2026 now there’s not so much of a stigma anymore about being a huge slut.”

This just causes “Isaiah” to wail even louder.

“Oh Jesus Christ already. Look at it this way. Now we get to test the entire XWF roster! We can make this a whole series of shows! Think of the ratings!”

“You don’t need to test the whole roster.” Another voice sounds out. Both Sammy and “Isaiah” look at the newcomer in shock and the camera wheels around to reveal…..

….KIERAN KING! (Or at least yet another Insignificant dressed to look like Kieran, complete with a Burger King crown hastily stapled to his head).

“Because I am “Isaiah’s” butt baby daddy!”

Sammy gasps melodramatically, and then scowls. “Wait, why would you have a baby with this assclown?”

“Isaiah” looks at “Kieran” dreamily, and claps his hands together next to his face. “What can I say? I’m attracted to malignant narcissists!”

“Nooooooooooooooo!”

“Now what?!”

Everyone spins around to reveal “SEB” holding a gun aimed right at “Kieran”!

“We were supposed to be together forever baby! I mean, aside from that 47 times we broke up. So take this “Kieran”, you prick!”

“SEB” fires what is now very obviously seen to be a cap gun. A squib built into “Kieran’s” shirt explodes and fake blood sprays everywhere.

Sammy looks at the camera. “Sorry, we blew the violence budget on the first skit.”

“Kieran!” “Isaiah” rushes to the king’s body as it slumps to the floor.

“Oh God….what have I done….how can I live with myself?!” “SEB” howls as he runs out of view of the camera.

The image then settles right on Sammy Povich, who looks nothing short of ecstatic.

“Holy shit, this is like some Shakespeare shit in here! I can see why Maury does it! Well, at any rate, tune back in after the commercial break. We’re paternity testing for Jenny Myst’s baby next and there’s like 84 different candidates to go through because she’s a vapid slut. See you soon!”


And thus we return once again to the real world, which features Samael still reclined in his seat. He’s presently downing another PBR and once drained, he tosses it over his shoulder onto the floor and lets loose a mighty belch.

“Ahhhhhh. Mmmmmmm.”

He basks in the aroma of his beer laden belch before continuing.

“Fire walk with me Isaiah.” He pauses. “I don’t know what my mother saw in you. I really don’t. I mean, sure, you got the abs. The chiseled jaw line. That impeccable skin. But so do so many of the other metrosexual tools who strut around this place. Now that isn’t to say there aren’t areas you stand out in.

For instance….

You’se a bitch too. In fact, if Gravy is a bitch, I’d say you’re BITCH SQUARED.”

Sam laughs.

"I mean, look at that third trimester abortion you called a promo for Snow Pain, Snow Gain. You spent a good half of that shit HONESTLY admitting that you HONESTLY suck balls at beating SEB only to end on the high note of OOOGA BOOOGA scary guy declaring that the man is about to step into your kingdom.

Except he didn’t step into your kingdom, did he Isaiah? No. He actually lit an enormous bag of his shit on fire on your doorstep, before proceeding to knock your whole kingdom down for the umpteenth fucking time.

My guy.

My fuckin’ GUY."

Sam laughs again.

"MY MOTHER BEAT SEB. My fucking mother! A woman who, in her entire career, was by her own admission never more than a mediocre, if completely conniving, wrestler. She put that man on lock down in singles competition.

So why in Jesus Christo’s name has a strapping young bull like you had so much difficulty? It’s utterly mind boggling.

But that’s not even what I really want to talk to you about.

Nah, what I want to talk about is what really, truly, makes you a wholescale BITCH.

Now, a couple weeks back I said that Razor Blade getting the coveted superstar of the month nod was a pity fuck. Turns out I didn’t know what a pity fuck really was.

Because Sebastian handing you that tag strap after beating your ass AGAIN? That was the MOTHER OF ALL PITY FUCKS.

I mean, I can’t even imagine sitting there, after getting humbled and humiliated once more, looking up at that smug prettyboy face as he DEIGNED to hand you half of the tag team championship, and ACCEPTING it. My God man, do you not have any shame? Are you really that desperate to be a champion again?

Have you fallen THAT HARD from grace?

If it had been me in your shoes, I woulda taken hold of that championship belt and popped him right in the mouth with it! Because Samael Dyson doesn’t need that pity, doesn’t need those favors.

But apparently you do. Apparently you need the hand outs.

Shit man, if that’s not a blazing neon sign in the sky shouting to the heavens that your best days are behind you then I don’t know what is.

Yeah man, you’re done. You’re done and YOU EVEN KNOW IT. What was that opening line?

“Exactly a  year ago they said I was at the peak of my career. And I believed them.”

And well you should have. Because what comes after the peak? Why, the other side of the mountain of course. A long fall back into the recesses. And that’s where you are right now, Isaiah. The recesses. The doldrums. Baby sitting a title you failed to earn, granted to you by a man who has proven to be your better time and again.

You fuckin’ BITCH.”

Sam claps his buttery hands together and smirks.

“Fire walk with me gentlemen. Because that’s the last bit of this equation that I haven’t addressed. That’s what’s sexing this match up.

The fire, baby!

So I wanted to take this opportunity to remind you and all those gentleviewers at home that I, Samael Dyson, LITERALLY PLAY WITH FIRE FOR MY FINISHER.

The Flaming Thumper Heart Punch. My father Matthew X’s legacy.

I bet you guys are going to dress your shit up with all these cute little fire motifs. Acting like you’re not afraid of the BURN. Acting like you’re not sweating it out.

Gravy can’t afford to lose anymore parts.

Isaiah can’t afford to lose those pretty boy looks.

But lose you both shall. Because me? I was born in the sin. In the fire. In the FLAMES.

Hell is my home. And fire is my tool. Just as it was for my father before me.”

Sam kicks out of the recliner and reaches behind it, pulling out the wicked steel gauntlet he uses for the Flaming Thumper Heart punch.

“INSIGNIFICANT! LIGHT ME UP!”

An Insignificant enters the shot, carrying a small bottle of lighter fluid and a match. He dumps the fluid over the gauntlet, lights the match and sets the gauntlet ablaze. The flames reflect in Sam’s eyes, making them look demonic. He’s completely unfazed by the fire.

“Take a look boys. It’s your future. Or lack thereof.

But to me?

It’s home.”

Sam continues to ogle the fire as the shot slowly fades to black.