<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - LEAP OF FAITH 2025]]> https://xwf1999.com/ Fri, 08 May 2026 20:02:09 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Revolution: For The First Time...]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49059 Sat, 19 Jul 2025 11:23:48 -0700 Dolly Waters]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49059
The mountain. And the company town standing between her and it.

The union is a’ coming to liberate the wrestlers.

The camper-van shudders down the dirt road, it feels like some rattling war machine bearing down on the land, shit it jolts her from a distant gaze and twists her injured knee into the rusted floorboard.

Dolly grits her teeth, mashes her eyes shut, a little tear sneaking out of the corner, but forces herself to take a deep breath. 

A million reasons why she wasn’t going to let this knee slow her down flash in her mind:

The union.

The career she’s poured herself into.

The fight with the new boss of the company town, and the path to the mountain top he’s blocking.

But through it all, a single thought stands out, almost otherworldly, as if whispered from the mountain top itself: She’s coming for it all.

Dolly’s eyes reopen and fixate on her crutch.

One way or the other..

Fashioned more like a walking stick, It’s wooden, and worn, and splintered, but sturdy nonetheless, a testament to Dolly’s perseverance in this decade long fight. Her brow furrows looking it over, like she can’t bear the thought of it.

What's the implication here?

That the people would never follow her after all the damage she’s taken? All of the losses she’s incurred over the years? Will they think she’s too weak to lead? Will she believe it herself?

The injured wrestler, going to free the wrestlers…

...we’re getting up that damn mountain.

She sturdies herself upright, on her good leg, while the camper-van continues thrashing down the road to the company town, it sways her off balance, and she grabs the crutch, securing the butt of it in her armpit. A black peacoat swings over the crutch, concealing it as Dolly grabs hold of the handle from inside her coat pocket. She grunts and lifts forward, allowing her lame knee the most weight it can possibly endure, showing only the slightest limp as she moves to the front of the vehicle.

With every grounding of her leg into the vibrating floor, her knee tells her the story. She feels the weight of this fight through every torn muscle, and fractured bone. Every failure on this quest, every sacrifice, the few and far between victories that were sweeter for it. The far off vision of the mountain top, calling down like a whisper from a forgotten dream. She can almost hear it: there’s banjos, and laughter, and…

♫ There ain't no short-handle shovels
No axes, saws or picks♫

Just as she takes her final limp into the front of the camper-van, she hears a static reception on an old transistor radio. It’s a choppy old folk song playing. And from the cockpit, Schism whistles and sings along as he slows to a stop. He wears a toothy grin, with a cigarette bitten between his teeth, it pulls the wrinkles at the seams of his eyes beyond the frames of his sunglasses.

Schism: ♫ I’m a’ going to stay, where you sleep all day…♫

♫ Where they hung the jerk, that invented work.♫
 
Schism: ♫ In the big rock candy mountain!♫
     
Dolly allows herself to curl half a grin, yet she doesn’t look down at her comrade, her guide, the sole person who believes in her, instead she stands straight, looking through the large windshield into the dead blackness of night. Not losing focus on the path of revolution he’s led her on.

So this is it, huh?

Schism: It is. End of the road, captain.

The end of the road, indeed. End of the earth, some would say. They’d traveled all the way from central Kentucky, out into the woodlands, and the cliffs of the Appalichan Mountains. To a company town called Elkhorn.

Schism: The only thing between the revolution and The Big Rock Candy Mountain, is that town, and that nickel mine…. And the proprietors of exploitation and death.

Now, Elkhorn wasn’t always a mining town. It was a place where out of work wrestlers from the disintegrating territories were promised new contracts, opportunities to build, and to compete.
The company offered them homes, supplies, and guaranteed work. Afterall, there were no other jobs around, their former employers had grinded these people down to mostly nothing before closing their doors.

But it wasn’t too long before the company town in Elkhorn did the fashionable thing and began exploiting these people, perpetuating that ugly master-servant cycle that all of the wrestling industry was known for.

The work they offered them was anything but wrestling, it was anything but competition, dangerous and tasteless death matches that would leave them maimed, valuing only the powerful, and those would bend-over for the company. Once the spectacle, and the art of wrestling transformed into a cruel banality of company might, the audiences left, and the only thing left for the workers, was a life mining at the mountain for the new boss of the town.

With her attire matching the harsh Appalachian nightfall, the hardened gaze on her pale face is the only thing we can see as Dolly carefully exits the camper-van, knowing full well she’s got her work cut out for her.

So, they’re waitin’ out there?

Referring to the hundred or so desperate workers who snuck out from Elkhorn a few weeks ago,

They’ve been quietly trying, and trying to quietly form a union. So one night, under the shadow of nightfall, and under the threat of prison, or worse, they were led by Schism to a central Kentucky warehouse. There, they were promised to find a revolutionary leader; some mythical figure of liberation Schism referred to as Eroica… but it was Dolly Waters.

She drags her crutch against the dirt and gravel, taking a light limp into the swarming buzz of crickets, and toads, and cicadas. For as dead as this place looked, with only a sparsity of street lanterns illuminating the edges of wooden porches, it sounded as alive as ever.

Schism: waiting on you.

They said the union would be meeting in a safe house… that we’d know it when we see it. But I don’t know how any of them can see a damn thing. It’s so dark out here.

Dolly stands at the threshold of Elkhorn, the weight of the coming battle pressing down on her like a thousand pounds of that nickel out there in the mines.

Schism: No. You’ll know it when you hear it… it’s been calling you for a millenia.

Dolly turns back, to reply to Schism, but he’s gone? Only the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, the last trace of his presence.

Schism?

She mutters under her breath, but only the crickets and the frogs, and the cicadas answer. His van is still there, but Schism is gone.

For a moment his absence feels heavy, almost oppressive. But then Dolly straightens her back, and takes a deep breath. She looks out to the mountain, its presence imminent above the town, splitting through the shadows of the moonlight. -

Her face settles as she grabs hold of the crutch.

She’ll do this alone…

And then she hears it. It’s faint, yet unyielding, and it’s cutting through the sounds of nightfall.

Just ahead in the town.

A collective of voices shouting and arguing, it’s:

The Union


There’s a specific and coded knock on the old wooden door of some kind of storage warehouse. The voices on the other side quiet down into nothing. A piece of wood slides open, and a pair of eyes appear. They look out onto Dolly, standing in her black garments and peacoat.

“You’re late”

The door swings open, and closes just as fast as Dolly is pulled inside.

The windows are boarded along the wooden frames of the building. It’s dark, but lit enough by the candlesticks and lanterns to reveal double, maybe triple even the number of faces that met Dolly weeks ago.

Reading the exhausted, scrawny, coal ash covered faces of the room, Dolly knows her presence is met with incredulity. Their eyes follow her as she makes a firm, unbothered limp to a place along the wall, next to the bearded man who let her in the meeting. As the unioneers continue on with their business.

“The company, and that bastard Baron Nicklesworth know we’ve had enough! They know we’ve got the numbers!”

A man shouts out in the room,

What are we deliberating? She whispers over to the bearded man,
They want to bring Baron Nicklesworth to the negotiating table he whispers back,

Mark McCoy. The original organizer of the Elkhorn union. A man who holds a bitter feud with the Elkhorn sheriff.

Well… ain’t’ya gonna’ tell em’ that won't work?

They’re not going to listen to me… I was a company man myself once. Hell, I tried to take over the company. I’ve poisoned their wells one too many times…

“They ain’t gonna’ listen to a damn word we have to say until we make them feel it in their pocket books! We blow the damn mine!”

Another man shouts,

...it’s why we sent for you.

“Blow the damn mine…hm” another man steps to the center of the room “And then what? We lose our jobs, our homes, and they hire a bunch of these damn gladhandin’ SCABS-” he points out select groups of people in the room, “-to dig in our mountain?”

Another man chimes in,

“Yeah!  I don’t know why we let all these damn cultists, and prisoners in here anyway! The bosses only bring them here for one reason, and that’s to fill our boots after they’ve worked us to ash.”

He’s pointing at the groups prisoner wrestlers from PeeWee Valley, and cultist wrestlers from Black Mountain.

They think these people are scabs… I’m not so sure that they’re wrong either.

Oh… I see the problem she grumbles and narrows her eyes, They could care less if these people are scabs.

Excuse me. a young woman named Olga with a Russian accent steps out from the group of Black Mountain wrestlers. Barking back at the unionmen in the center of the room, I’ve been called a lot of names. Disgusting names. But I wrestle… I WORK, I mine nickel as hard as any of you, and I don’t expect a dollar more , and I have never been called a scab!

The room starts simmering with sounds of opposition.

“Well, Olga, we don’t trust you cultists. This here’s a union meeting for the people of Elkhorn!”
There’s some cheers behind him, and another portion of the room looking on like they’re trying to sort out their feelings.

You call yer’selves unioneers?!

Dolly steps forward, her crutch making a loud thud like a judge's gavel. Her voice even louder,

Unioneers my ass… She slowly looks around the room, her tone dripping with disappointment and condemnation. 

You wanna’ be treated like humans? You wanna be treated fair? Well, guess what? Yer’ not humans to that nickel mine disguised as a “wrestling” company.

You’re equipment like a coal pick, like a  shovel, or a hunk of wood brace…

They’ll use you until you wear out, or yer’ buried under a rock slide, and then they’ll get a new one- she points her finger to the people and then at the ground, And they don’t care what color it is, or if it came from some gypsy rainbow camp, or from the prisons.

It doesn’t matter how much nickel you can mine, or how long your family has lived on this land!

If you stand alone, yer’ nothing but shit to the company, nothing but shit to Baron Nicklesworth and his puppeteers.

Dolly’s face grows harder with a scowl, she pulls the black beret from her sweaty forehead, and turns to Olga, the young woman from the cult group of wrestlers, and points at her with the hat,

Y’all think this woman, and her people are yer’ enemies?

She turns back to face the room, scowling harder still,

Huh?!

This is a WORKER!

Any union, who keeps these people out, ain’t a union.

It’s a goddamn club.

Her glare is steely as she stamps around on that crutch, her eyes piercing each person, one by one,

They want you fighting… worker against worker, stable against stable, native against immigrant, holler against holler, when you know there ain’t but two sides of this world.

Folks that work, and folks that don’t.

You work. They don’t.

That’s all you got to know about the enemy.

The workers start shifting around, Dolly notices them clutching at their rifles and pistols,

Now, I know y’allve got guns… and I know yer’ brave people. I know you could shoot it out with the company if you had to. But this wrestling company don’t want this union, and all of em, all the coffers are just waiting for an excuse to come down here and use their money to crush us to nothing.

The people in the room take turns looking at one another,

There’s a whole lotta gas in these mountains, you mess around and cause the wrong type of spark? This whole thing blows up on us. Thats why we’ve got to keep picking away at this, slowly, surely, building support, organizing, and not lighting a single fuse until we know we’ve got the numbers.

If you want a fighter?

Im yer’ fighter.

Y’all dont need to raise a fist.

I’m gonna’ bring this fight right to Baron Nicklesworth’s doorstep.

There’s a heavy silence before one of the competitive workers pipes up,

“You don’t look like you're fighting anything but a gimp knee, comrade.”

Dolly looks down at the crutch, and breathes deep before chuckling a little,

“Yeah, how the hell is she supposed to lead us anywhere with a crutch? And why are we even listening to her?” another shouts,

Dolly looks the room over. She’s nodding her head, with a slight gnaw at her lip. Mark McCoy, has back firmly planted on the wall, arms crossed. Everyone watches her with bated breath. For the faintest moment, Dolly remembers that she's alone here, that Schism vanished, and remembers:

Yer’ listening to me, because I’m the one who listened to you.

Because you came calling me for a revolution.

I heard yer’ calls… I’ve heard 'em for a millennia.

Ok… Mark calls out, prompting Dolly with a question that he hopes she’ll answer correctly How do we shut the nickel mine down if we don’t dynamite?

Dolly nods and commands with her tone as she continues pacing around the room, The workers walk out. All of em! she steps directly in front of Olga now, looking her in the eye, And any worker that walks out, we take into the union.

“Even the cultists, and the Pee Wee Valley people?”

That’s what a union is, folks. All of us. You better get used to it.

BANG BANG BANG

Just then, the door thuds with the same particular code that Dolly used in her knock.

Mark barges the door, and slides back the wooden peep window. He stands there for a moment on his toes before turning back slowly to the room, an annoyed look on his face. He pulls the door open just enough for sheriff Thaddeus Hatfield to slide through.

Thad rotates his shoulders, and stands himself straight, looking out at the faces filling this storage warehouse. His head idly shakes ‘yes’, as his face slowly tells another story. He leans over to Mark, speaking just so he can hear him.

McCoy? I thought I told you to cease and desist from this union stuff. I want these people out of here, out of the back door… now.

[orange]It’s out of my hands, Thadderoono. The company has squeezed them too tight, and you know it.

Thaddeus' face runs flat, he sniffles and pulls up his trousers, showing a gun handle along his waist.

I take it your Dolly Waters. he asks, walking to the center of the room to face her,

That's right… she spots the sheriff badge on his coat, I take it yer’ the lawman around here? 

Sherriff Hatfield, that’s right mam’... and I have a bounty for your arrest.

The room grumbles, and Dolly’s face twists in confusion, as Thad pulls the folded paper from inside of his coat.

For destroying company property, and attacking a company member of management during a traveling event in May, down in Florida.

Issued by who?! The company? And their security thugs?

And Baron Nicklesworth himself. he says firmly, with finality, Now, Miss Waters… if you don’t mind-

-who gives a shit?! Those goons don’t have any jurisdiction here. For something that allegedly happened?

Normally I’d be obliged in agreeing-he says while calmly zip tying Dolly’s wrists and taking her crutch But they’re just outside the door there.

Mark looks back out the slide on the door, and confirms what Thad is telling him.

A posse of them, all shrouded in their dark trenchcoats under the moonlight. Paid security detail for the company.

Preesh-Herchel agents. he swears under his breath and turns back to face Thad who’s leading an oddly calm Dolly to the door, staggering forward and limping on the full weight of her knee.

It’s fine. He knew I was coming.

Mark puts a shove into Thad’s shoulder as he passes him Are you forgetting that you serve these people, and not that company?

I know damn well who I serve, McCoy. And right now I’m serving my people by keeping the company guns pointed away from them.

Funny. You sure don’t seem to mind the machine gun turrets they’ve got guarding the mines being pointed on them every day.

The comment runs through Thad, his face boiling over, with sweat and stiffness

You just get these people the hell out of here, McCoy, and I’ll give these people what they want.

Thad goes to move Dolly onto the front porch, as Mark tries to quietly sneak the union sympathizers through the back, but before any of that can happen, the door pushes open from the outside.

And then walks in

Baron Nicklesworth.


Well, well…

Nicklesworth barges through the doorway, everyone in the room stiffening as he makes his entrance.

He eyes Dolly with a sneer, his gaze quickly drifting to the crutch that Sheriff Thad has put back under her arm. A thin, cruel smile spreads across his face.

If it ain’t the mighty “Eroica” herself, he belts out a laugh , come here to my little old mine to save the wrestlers. Tell me, Dummy Waters, how do you plan to fight me with that ?!

He motions toward the crutch, his voice dripping with mockery.

That’s right. A crutch. Your battle weapon. Hiding behind that, pretending to be a symbol of strength when you couldn’t even protect your own people. What’s your record in these big moments, Dolly, hmm? Do these people know about the “hero” who’s fallen so many times she can’t even stand without help?

He approaches her, towering over her bent form, loving every moment of this, the dominance he feels over an injured woman. A wet dream for Nicklesworth.

How many times has this town seen you fail, Waters? Lose your shot at the big leagues, falling flat on your ass each time, depending on one crutch or the other to pick yourself up, battered and bruised, pretending like you still matter. You’re nothing but a symbol of what happens when the weak try to play in a world that demands strength.

He leans closer, his face inches from Dolly’s, his words a cutting whisper:

You don’t belong here. You never did.

Without warning, he yanks the crutch from her hands,

Let me show you what happens to people who can’t even stand on their own. You think this is a union, your revolution? It’s a joke. You’re nothing but a punching bag to us

With a sick grin, he raises the crutch high and swings it across Dolly’s back with all of his might. The crack of the wood makes the room go silent, followed by a collective gasp from the workers. He kicks inward at Dolly’s bad knee, causing her to fully collapse to the floor now.

This is your message, Waters. This is what happens when you try to stand up against power.

Baron kicks her again. Harder. Dolly’s body throttles from the impact. And as bad as she wants to scream out, Dolly struggles even harder to remain quiet and strong through the beating. She can barely breathe, with each blow a brutal reminder of the years she’s spent enduring failure and humiliation.

Baron lifts the crutch again, his face sick and twisted. As he brings it down for another strike, a voice shouts out from the back of the room.

That’s enough!

Sheriff Hatfield steps forward,

His face is a mixture of disgust and determination as moves toward Baron with heavy steps. The workers exchange nervous glances.

You’ve made your point Nicklesworth His voice booms, his authority well enunciated, though his eyes flicker nervously to the security outside. I don’t care who you think you are. She may be your problem, but she’s under my arrest, and thus under my protection.

Baron turns toward Hatfield, his expression darkening. The room holds its breath, the tension unbearable.

Protection? he lets out a harsh, bitter laugh, You think this is about protection, Sheriff? What about the protection of your town? What about keeping the peace in your little company paradise? If you don’t put these scum in their place, you’ll be out of a job. Think about it… protecting people who stand against everything that keeps this town running. The mine. The company. ME!

He sneers at Dolly one more time before he kicks her in the side, knocking her to the floor, her face twisting in pain, blood spilling from her mouth.

You think you’re making a stand, Dolly? All you’re doing is digging your own grave. He looks up, wild eyed and scanning the faces in the room

I know you people aren’t this dumb, right? You’re not dumb enough to be conspiring with this communist scum here, right? Surely you all have the common sense not to throw your allegiance behind such a consummate failure as Dummy Waters here.

This is just another in the long list of failed revolutions for little miss bimbo here? Only now… her entire career is on the line!

I know you good people would never throw your lot in with a loser of this magnitude! Would you?!

Baron rears back to kick her again, this time aiming for her face, but Hatfield steps forward stopping Baron’s momentum. He leans over into Baron’s ear,

Listen here… you and the company might own the nickel mines up in them mountains, but this is my town, and these are my people. And I’ll remind you-He pulls back his coat, making his pistol fully visible, -I take my job of keeping them safe very seriously. You’re not gonna’ lay another hand on her.

Baron’s face twitches with irritation, voice dripping with sarcasm as he whispers back,

I’ll remember that, Sheriff. But you remember this… if you, or these people you’re protecting try and cross me, I’ll blow a hole in that mountain the size of your ego.

With a final sneer, Baron turns and storms to the door. I want that girl locked up, Sheriff. She’s a trespasser on company property. He turns back just before leaving, The company doesn’t forget slights, and neither do I.

Thad kneels beside Dolly, helping her to her feet before escorting her to…

The Jailhouse


It’s been hours now. Dolly sits back against the wall. Knee so swollen and throbbing, she can’t possibly walk on it, insides bleeding.

Was this it? The revolution over, everything… over.

The thought sits in her gut like a balled fist.

But suddenly, a muffled thump. Then another. The door creaks open, and Dolly’s head snaps up.

Dolly, it’s Thad, Lets go Opening the cell, he helps Dolly to her feet and hands her the crutch beside her. She grits her teeth and leans on it, barely able to support herself. Thad pulls her out with urgency into a hallway where Mark is standing over two of Baron’s downed security agents.

The three of them make an escape from the jailhouse and into streets, but quickly

Thud.

THUD.

They’re ambushed by the Preesh-Herchel agents. Dozen of them.

A fight breaks out. Thad and Mark take on a few of Baron’s men, but there’s too many.

From her blindside, she’s kicked by someone. Her crutch slips from her hand and she stumbles, barely staying on her feet when she’s battered in the skull with the handle of a pistol.

CRACK!

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Gunshots ring out in the dead of night.

Falling to her back, Dolly’s vision starts to fade. She looks over next to her and just makes out Thad having taken a brutal hit to the side, crumpled to the ground. Mark’s back is against the wall, trying to shield Dolly.

And then, everything goes quiet.

Dolly drifts in and out until her eyes flicker open and see nothing but the dark canopy of the stars above.

She’s now alone. Left for dead.

Mark and Thad captured… or worse..,.

The world spinning around her, she climbs to her feet, and stumbles through the alleyways, trying to get away, trying to survive.

Then, she hears it again. The faintest sound of hope. Like a whisper.

It pulls her attention back to:

The Union House



The door swings open, Dolly ain’t going to bother knocking this time.

She stumbles through the doorway, barely able to stand on her crutch, barely alive.

The workers inside remain silent. They look her over, their faces a mix of disbelief and fear. They’ve seen what happened to her. They know that something terrible has befallen Sheriff Hatfield and Mark McCoy.

But they still don’t look ready to follow her anytime soon.

Dolly catches her breath, and steadies herself against the wall. She’s shaking, but does her damndest to not show it. Her voice comes out hoarse, cracking with exhaustion.

Listen, she says, I know what yer’ thinkin’.

A unioneer in the back of the room speaks up, his voice full of doubt.

“Yeah? Then tell us what you think we should do now, ‘Eroica’?”

Dolly’s eyes tighten, her gaze drifting across the room. She knows they're just scared. She sees the doubt in their eyes, the same doubt in herself she’s been fighting for years.

We fight… we have no choice now

Murmurs stir through the room, mixed sounds of confusion and skepticism. They know that Baron’s men won’t stop until they crush this uprising completely.

“We’ve already lost the fight” a woman near the front says, “It’s too late.”

Dolly straightens, and  takes a step forward. No. It ain’t too late.

She ain’t just talking to the people in the room. She’s talking to herself. She’s talking to the part of her that’s been ready to give up, ready to let the revolution die with her.

I’ve been where y’all are. I’ve fallen. I’ve failed. I’ve had every reason to quit. Her voice cracks with the rawness of truth. But we can’t stop now. Not when we’re so close. Not when we’ve got the power to change this.

The room falls silent again, thick with tension. 

“You want us to fight?” another voice asks,  “After everything we’ve already lost?”

Yer’ all afraid, she says, Afraid that if we fight back, we’re gonna’ lose more than we already have. But I promise you… if we do nothin’, they’re just gonna’ bury us even deeper. We’ve been living in this graveyard of the wrestling industry for years, hoping someone else would dig us out.

She pauses, taking a breath. Her hand grips the crutch tighter, knuckles white.

But help ain’t coming, understand?

The only way out is through.

We have to stand up.

Now.

And fight.

The room grows quiet again, just before someone finally steps up. Olga, the cultist Russian woman, steps forward. Her hands are still covered in the dust of the mines, but there’s something burning in her eyes now.

“She’s right,” Olga says. “We’ve got barely nothing left… and if we let the company get away with this, they’re going to take everything else too.”

One by one, the workers begin to speak, murmuring among themselves. Slowly, the room shifts. They sound less uncertain, less fearful. The silence begins to break, replaced by a slow, steady murmuring of agreement.

Dolly nods, but it’s not enough yet. She still has to finish this, still has to make them believe in the fight that’s coming.

We’re gonna’ win she says. And we’re gonna’ to do it together.

A murmur of agreement spreads, quiet but unmistakable. Faint, but unyielding. It’s not victory yet, but it’s something more… They’re listening.

And that’s all she needs for now.

Because tomorrow comes…

The Battle Of Big Rock Candy Mountain


It’s the following morning, and the town is eerily quiet.

The workers are heading for another days work in the mines, heads down. The air is full of dust, and the only sounds we hear are the crunching of boots and the dragging of tools.

Dolly stands alone in the middle of the road.

Just her and her crutch.

She stands tall, but her posture leans some, burdened by the punishment she’s taken, burdened by everything. Her knees still ache, her body battered, but there’s a fire in her eyes. This isn’t the broken woman who had stumbled in yesterday.

This is Dolly. This is the leader she’s been destined to become.

She’s standing in the middle of the road, just before the entrance to the nickel mine. The town feels like it’s holding its breath, the workers walking past her, their eyes not daring to meet hers. But it doesn’t matter. This isn’t just for them. This is for her. This is for everyone who has been crushed under Baron’s boot for too long.

And then he appears.

Baron Nicklesworth strides down the road like a king walking to his throne.

There’s an execution stage behind him with Thad and Mark tied by their necks, ready to be dropped to their death.

Baron is flanked by his security detail, a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face as he eyes Dolly.

Well, well… he sneers, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. If it isn’t the mighty ‘Eroica’ herself, finally showing up to claim her revolution. I thought we killed you last night. I guess I need to hire better…workers.

You see, Dolly… What I could never make people like Mark and Thad understand is this:

It doesn’t matter who “runs” this town.

It doesn’t matter about the people in this town.

It matters who runs the mines.

It matters who runs the mountain.

So long as that man is me, then the world… hell… the UNIVERSE is run by the company!

Dolly stands her ground. Her arms at her sides, and her lean on the crutch making her look even smaller. But the look in her eyes tells a different story.

Baron stops in front of her, his shadow casting over her like a dark cloud. His eyes flick to the crutch, his mouth widening with a grin.

He laughs, The crutch, Waters? Really? You’re still carrying it? This is your grand plan? This is the symbol of your revolution?

Dolly’s voice is low, but it carries.

You don’t know anything about revolutions, Nicklesworth.

I heard you months ago, rambling on yer’self about how corrupt this company is, but now that you get to be the boss?

Now that *they* tell you yer’ a part of the club? You get to play the role you’ve spent yer’ whole life auditioning for.

Exploiting people like them, like me.

You’ve never known what it means to fight for something bigger than yourself.

Baron’s smile falls for a second. He steps in closer, leaning down to meet her at eye level.

You think you can stand up to me? How many times have you failed? How many times have you fallen, Waters? You’ve built this fantasy that one day, you’d be the hero…. but look where that’s gotten you. A broken knee and a crutch. That’s all you are, a symbol of failure.

The words pack a punch. For a moment, she’s back in that place, the place where she’s always been just short of victory, just a step away from being good enough to win.

But something inside her shifts.

Yer’ wrong. she says, her voice steady. This ain’t a fantasy. This is real. And I ain’t done yet.

Baron scoffs. Not done yet? You see, Dolly, that’s your problem. You think you’re fighting for something you can actually win. The real world is a sick and twisted world where things go to die. The revolution? The union? They’re dead. Because you’re too weak to keep em’ alive.

He reaches down, grabbing the crutch from where it rests at her side. He yanks it from her hands with ease, lifting it above his head with a twisted smile.

I think this says everything I need to know about you he mocks, This is your weapon? This is your revolution?

Dolly doesn’t flinch. She just watches him with cold eyes.

You don’t understand she whispers. This ain’t about me. It’s about them. About every person who’s been broken by men like you, and discarded by the system. You’re not the one in control anymore. We are.

Baron laughs, the sound echoing. You think you can stop me? You’re nothing, Waters. Just another broken piece of equipment to throw away.

He swings the crutch above his head, and everything slows down. Dolly braces herself, but she doesn’t move. She’s not afraid.

He thrashes the crutch down with all of his might, and it cracks against Dolly’s shoulder with a fatal sounding snap. She gasps, the pain is unspeakable, but she stays on her feet. Barely.

Baron strikes her again, and then kicks her to the ground, wearing a big grin as she crumbles over.

Where’s your comrades now, Dolly? See what happens when you challenge real power? he sneers, looking down at her as he beats her repeatedly.

But then something changes. Dolly’s gaze sharpens through the throttling. The world around her sounds quieter.

The workers have stopped.

All of them.

And Dolly realizes something.

They’re watching.

And they’re waiting.

Baron simply laughs, and tosses the mangled crutch  the ground.

Dolly lies in the dirt, her chest heaving as she struggles to breathe. Baron stands above her, his eyes wild with victory.

But then, there’s a sound.

A single shovel hitting the ground. It's Olga.

One by one, the workers follow suit.

One more shovel.

And another.

Each drop of a shovel, each defiant motion, speaks louder than any word ever could.

The workers are done.

Baron’s expression falters for a split second as he looks around, eyes widening in realization.

Dolly forces herself up onto her knees. She grits her teeth, wiping the blood from her mouth.

Hear ‘em now? she calls out, her voice low but carrying. It ain’t just me anymore. It’s all of us.

The workers begin to chant, the sounds of defiance rising like a wave. They shout, they cheer, and the noise fills the town with a power that Baron can’t ignore.

Get them! Baron screams, but his command is already too late, and he dives for cover.

From everywhere at once, dozens of the unioneers emerge, rifles in hand. They open fire.

The crack of gunfire splits the air, echoing like thunder as Baron’s men fall one by one.The security detail is disorganized, their shock turning into panic as the workers charge.

The company’s grip is slipping.

From the chaos, Baron shouts orders, his voice desperate. He’s losing control. He’s realized the workers are stronger than he thought.

But then, the tide turns.

More security emerges from the buildings, weapons raised, firing back. The workers fight on, despite being outnumbered. Dolly’s vision blurs as she watches her comrades fall one by one.

No, no! she yells, climbing to her feet, her hands shaking.

The workers are being overrun.

And then Baron rises from a shield of dead bodies, fixating on Dolly.

He steps into the street and around countless dead bodies, mostly his own men. He walks through the carnage like a tyrant.

This is what happens when you try to defy the system, when you think you can stand up to me. He kicks her in the ribs again. She falls over from her crawl and sucks wind. She’s fading. The pain is too much, the battle too fierce. He kicks again, blood flowing from her side, but her eyes stay on Baron. Leaning right over Dolly now, he produces a pistol from his side, cocks back the hammer and points it at her.

In an instant, Dolly snags the crutch, and thrusts it upward. The broken bit that Baron had splintered off while he mercilessly beat her plunges right into his gut with a mortal blow. He immediately gasps, blood filling his mouth, and drops the pistol. 

The workers surge forward, forcing Baron’s men into retreat, freeing Thad Hatfield and Mark McCoy. The security detail is crumbling, and Baron knows it. Gasping, and dying, he pulls the crutch out of his gut and throws it to the ground. His eyes flick to the mountain in the distance… his only escape.

Dying herself, Dolly collapses over, too weak to chase him down. She watches as Baron turns, limping away from the battle. He’s running, but he ain’t done yet.

Dolly’s vision blurs. The mountain looms just in front of her, but it’s never felt so far away.

The battle is over for her. She’s failed. Everything she’s fought for, all the blood and sweat, all the lost comrades… it’s all slipping through her fingers.

Everything around her goes dark. A hot wind drifts through the trees, and the sounds of the workers become muffled as if they’re a world away.

But then, a soft step in the dirt.

Dolly’s eyes flicker open just barely. She sees boots in her peripheral vision, standing still in the shadows. She struggles to turn her head, to focus.

Schism sits down beside her, cross-legged on the dirt road.

He’s wearing the same stoic expression as always,

She can barely make out his face, but she knows it’s him.

Schism? her voice barely cracking above a whimper.

He turns to her and nods softly, looking at her with a quiet intensity before lighting a cigarette.

I... I lost. A tear slips down her cheek. I can’t win this. It’s over.

Schism looks at her and smiles. His gaze shifting upward, to the entrance of the mines, where the workers’ revolt still echoes in the distance. The revolution isn’t over… it’s still burning, even if she can’t see it.

Schism: You haven’t lost anything,

his voice filled with calm and conviction.

Schism: But now it’s time to win.

Dolly’s heart flutters as she looks at him,

I don’t know how to keep going. Baron... I think he’s gonna’ blow the mountain. I’m too late.

Schism nods, unphased.

Schism: He’s up there, yup. Rigging the last detonator. But here’s the thing... I spent the last days unhooking all of the other detonators. The only one left is the one he’s reaching for. And that’s where you come in.

Dolly’s hands tremble as she looks down at her crutch. It’s bloodied, broken, battered… but it’s all she has left.

Schism watches her, his expression full of quiet faith.

Schism: Take it.

She takes the crutch in her hands and stares at it. She remembers the countless times it’s supported her over the years, through all the pain. But now?

Now it feels like the weight of the past that’s been holding her back all this time.

Without another word, Dolly throws the crutch down onto the ground.

Going to be hard to climb Big Rock Candy Mountain with this She stands tall, a fire inside of her burning.

“Mountains calling," Schism says, his voice fading into the wind as he disappears into the shadows.

Dolly doesn’t look back. She trudges forward to the mountain. She’s not sure if Schism is still there or if she’s imagining him, but it doesn’t matter.

The climb is grueling. Every movement is agony, but with every step, the weight on her chest seems to lift. There’s still a long way to go up the mountain, but it feels like she’s finally climbing toward something she can control. Climbing toward her destiny.


If she can’t stop what's just ahead of her, then it’s all been for naught.

Baron Nicklesworth is going to blow up the mountain.

This isn’t just about the revolution anymore. This is about her redemption. About proving to herself that she can win.

And then, she sees him… Baron standing at the top of the mountain, the detonator in his hand.

He’s muttering to himself, eyes wild with the kind of mania only someone like him could possess. His expensive suit is torn, the wound from the stab bleeding out, his shoes caked with dirt, but his arrogance is as strong as ever.

He hasn’t spotted her yet, so Dolly gathers what little strength she has left and moves on him.

Baron hears the crunch of stones beneath her boots and spins around, eyes flashing with recognition. He sneers, taking in her battered form with an almost amused look.

Cute trick unrigging all of my bombs. he laughs, but clearly gassed as he leans onto the face of the cliff, Even cuter that you really thought you could stop me.

Dolly’s voice is low, I don’t have to stop you. You’ve already lost.

Baron scoffs. Oh, I’ve lost, have I? It’s funny you think that. The revolution ends here, Waters. At the top of this mountain, with me holding all the power. With me stopping you from reaching the tippy-top. With me having the last word.

He presses the button on the detonator, and Dolly’s heart stops. The explosion is imminent.

You’re a failure. Baron says, taking a step toward her. Everything you’ve done, every life you’ve ruined, it all leads to this. You can’t stop me, and you never could.

But then something shifts.

She looks down at the detonator and sees one of the wires is detached.

Baron’s eyes widen, a mix of confusion and anger flashing across his face realizing that the mines haven’t detonated.

Stop! he orders, his voice rising. You’re too late. You can’t save them.

With a final surge of strength, she lunges at him, her body moving with sheer force. Baron can’t react before she tackles him.

Dolly and Baron tumble down the slope, crashing against the jagged stones. Baron recovers quickly, his eyes wild with fury as he draws back a fist.

But Dolly’s already there.

Her fist comes down first, with a sickening crack, hitting him square in the jaw. He staggers back, dazed, blood pouring from a new cut on his cheek.

Baron growls, grabbing at Dolly, pushing her back. They struggle against each other, fists flying, sweat and blood painting their faces, Dolly’s body on the brink of collapse.

Baron grabs at her bad knee, his hands wrapping around it like a vice. You think you can win, Waters? You’ve got no crutch up here to help you now. he growls, his voice filled with venom. You’re nothing but a broken piece of trash.

Struggling, roaring and using every last ounce of her strength, Dolly pries her knee from his hands. Her vision is blurry, her body barely staying upright, but she knows what she has to do.

With a final, desperate push, Dolly shoves Baron off the edge of the cliff.

He screams as he falls, the sound echoing through the air. Dolly watches, her heart in her throat, as he disappears into the rocks far below. His screaming silenced.

It’s over.

She stands at the edge of the mountain, the cold wind whipping through her hair. Her body is beaten, but for just a faint moment, for the first time in years, Dolly feels fully alive.

She looks up, the peak of the mountain, she can’t quite see it, but she knows it’s just ahead.

She hears it calling again, like it’s whispering to her…

When she reaches the top, she looks down off the mountain, to see the town of Elkhorn liberated from the company. Mortal enemies like Thad Hatfield and Mark McCoy embracing one another. Native workers, newcomers and the Cultists all lifting one another in solidarity.

And from behind her, the faintest sound… a melody carried by the wind. It’s familiar: the banjos, the sound of laughter. The sounds of a far-off dream grow louder, clearer, like an ancient song, something that's been waiting for her for a millennia.

And then she sees it.

A brilliant light.

It’s spilling from behind the mountain’s peak, where the land flattens. It’s there that a vision forms before her eyes.

A silhouette of a child.

Dolly smiles, and laughs, almost in a comforting disbelief… as she looks upon her own face fifteen years younger.

Bout’ time you made it up here- the vision of Child Dolly says playfully, -I’ve been calling you for a long, long time.

Dolly nods her head, her smiling lips tremble, tears welling up in her eyes…

Yeah you have- she limps forward and takes the child’s hand -and I’m here now.






Dolly Waters and Charlie Nickles, one on one, for the first time ever.

Ain’t that crazy, Chuck?

Just thinking back on it all?

Five years we’ve spent in this business together. We’ve been allies, we’ve been enemies, and heck let’s get the elephant out of the room shall we: You’ve even pinned me before. Over three years ago in a tag match- and yet- this is the first time we’ve faced off in a singles action, ain’t it?

This match at Leap of Faith?

It’s gonna’ be a “first-time” match for a lot of reasons:

The first time an XWF pay-per-view event has been held in Kentucky, just miles from where I was born. Miles away from where I fell in love with this sport. Miles from where I learned the harsh reality of being broken in the name of legacy for this sport.

I was seven years old, Chuck, the first time Misty locked me in an arm bar. And boy did I cry… I cried even harder than you do every time you’re shown a picture of Doc D’Ville… that’s right, for the first time ever I cried in a wrestling ring, my undeveloped muscles stretching, my tiny bones being bent back just far enough not to break, yet just far enough to feel like it’s breaking over and over and over. I screamed, I tapped, I begged for her to stop. She wouldn’t. Not until I stopped crying.

That was the first time I realized a sobering truth about pro wrestling: it thrives on people being broken from their most basic instincts. It thrives on people willing to shut their mouths and take whatever punishment is handed to them. It thrives on the sociopathic mind, like Charlie’s, people who are resoundingly beaten, and mocked, and defamed, and deplatformed time and time and time again, and still begging for the bosses to pet them on the head.

It’s true… Leap of Faith will be the first time that an out-and-proud “company man” - the former “family man”- walks in defending a Universal Championship in the holy name of the very company he’s condemned for years.

It’ll be the first time Charlie Nickles walks into a title match without an excuse fer’ why he hasn’t lived up to his promise.

The XWF ain’t screwing you over anymore are they, pal?

Is Thad Duke still the warmongering elitist you’ve called him for years, now that yer’ wearing the biggest belt in his company?

Is the XWF still full of corrupt management members who screw you over because yer’ sooo controversial and edgy?

You talk about me “cosplaying” revolution, meanwhile, Charlie is tickling the company ballsack nowadays, and living out his fantasy of pretending to be XWF-daddy while daddy is gone. Funny thing… If he'd just call up his actual kids, Tyler and Emily, the ones he hasn’t murdered yet, I’m sure they could give him some tips on how to be an absent father.

No more excuses for Charlie, for the first time at Leap of Faith he walks into a universal title match on the defense. In the defense of the title he stole, in defense of his questionable record, in defense of his disgusting actions, and in the defense of everything that he stands for… or the lack thereof. Because let’s face it, the man stands for nothing. He doesn’t even know who he is… and he never has.

That’s why I knew my ears weren’t deceiving when I heard him tell me on Warfare:

Quote:I know you don’t mean the things you say.

You never do.


[dolly]Remember that? He then went on to tell me how his journey to winning the Uni was done with me in mind, how he loves me, how I was as important a figure to him as LSM.

Amazing stuff. Truly.

Especially because two weeks before that, Charlie was cursing me out in an in ring promo when I was banned from the building.

That was the first time he’s uttered my name in years, folks. Years.

Its ludicrous, but it’s unsurprising, because Charlie truly never has meant anything he says, he can’t defend any of it because the man speaking it aint real.

Charlie ain’t real.
Corporate Charlie ain’t real.
Family man Charlie for fucking sure ain’t real.

Because just like his therapist told him in his very first vignette all those years ago:

“There never was a Charlie. Only Charles. You made Charlie up”

Now, for the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, you’ll see *Charles* Nickles having to defend… everything. Every heinous comment he’s ever made, every knife he’s stabbed in someone's back, every cowardly and desperate maneuver he’s made to get himself closer to the Universal Title.

For the first time ever, he’s facing someone one-on-one, who knows him as well as anyone. I’ve known as many iterations of Charles Nickles as he’s known defamation suits, and when we get in that ring Sunday I’m going to expose every one of them.

For the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, the Universal Champion is defending against the person that carried his WarGames team to the finals, pinning the likes of Caedus and Bourbon along the way.

For the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, the Universal Champion is defending against a former tag partner, who carried him to a tag team championship win, tapping out John Madison Jr., while Charlie literally sat comatose in a wheelchair the entire time.

For the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, the Universal Champion is walking in with a worse record than the person he’s defending against in the calendar year.

Charlie’s 5-4 to Dolly’s 6-2 in 2025

Wonder if that’s why you started barking my name after you won the Universal Title?

Because the writing was on the wall, huh? As obvious as it could’ve been to anyone in the world who was the next in line for a shot at the belt, and even deep down how obvious it was to Charles, why don’t we listen as he tells you now that I don’t deserve it.

Because I’ve failed one too many times…

Funny though, because this match will be the first time ever that a Universal Champion walks in defending, after having previously lost four Universal Championship matches in a row.

For all the gusto, all the revolting shit that spews from his mouth, all of the lies he tells to make people believe he’s somehow superior, when you boil Charles down yer’ left with a puddle of piss from a man terrified that the world thinks he’s no good at wrestling. When really? The world just knows he’s no good in general.

It’s why the revolution must succeed in the XWF now. It’s why I have no choice but to take that Universal Championship, walk out on my contract, and leverage it for a new contract… a contract for the union. With a man as careless, deluded, and devoid of emotional intelligence at the top of the industry, we’re all beyond cooked.

Charles ain’t toppling and shaping the The Corporation into some benevolent force, and he damn sure didn’t mold it out of anything I believe-in like he claimed. He doesn’t want this company unionized, why would he?

Why would he want better working conditions for the company he now espouses to lead? Broken bodies are dollars in Charles’ pocket. His inclinations embody the worst aspects of professional wrestling. A belief that anyone in that locker room is an obstacle, and Charles wants things to be as miserable for them as it was for him.

Spoiler alert: he lives, and they die.

He wants to see people broken, the same way my grandmother broke me as a child. The same way tens of thousands of aspiring wrestlers break their necks in a school gym before ever even making it to the XWF. Charles wants to keep the train of human carnage rolling in this industry, because in his sick, deluded mind, he’s a man who finally broke even at the casino, he can’t walk away now, and that means no one can walk away.

That’s why I’m going all in. All of my chips pushed to the center of the table. Because this is too important a moment in the history of professional wrestling to fold for the next hand. Leap of Faith is a fork in the road. Will the XWF continue down its path of exploiting the talent, offering X-Bux as scrip for their blood labor? Or will the talent finally have their day, unify, and demand the type of working conditions where they can thrive without the constant demand to be broken from their fundamental human rights? Demand that no one ever has to die in this business again.

And I’m demanding that change now. I’m here to lead this revolution in their names, as someone who’s been on both sides of this blood stained coin. I was 13 when I first debuted in an XWF ring, during a time where women wrestlers were treated with as little regard as Charles’ dental health. Nearly 10 years later, over 100 matches, and my body is on the verge of breaking down at the ripe age of 23. This never needs to happen to anyone else. I fought the “good fight” for years, chased the carrot the bosses dangled in front of me… ‘just take one more chair shot, just maim one more person’ they’d tell me. And after 6 years, they told me I finally earned a shot at a Universal Title in the Cannabis Cup, just months removed from an ACL surgery.

People like Charles? Hell, he got his first shot within 6 months of walking in the door. 

Allow me to drill into yer’ thick head how our struggle has been different, bubby. Weeks ago you said that I was handed opportunity after opportunity, that I cry when I don’t get my way- yet, In the 5 years since you’ve debuted, you’ve been granted more opportunities at the Uni than I have in double the time.

As much as Charles has played the role of some scorned renegade who’s blocked at every turn by the powers that be, in reality, he’s been a fan favorite of XWF management. The perfect lap dog, who has no values, who has no moral compass, who would soon put on a suit and tie and slit the throat of his own children if they told him it might help him win…. And that’s exactly what he’s done.

Charles’ entire quest this year was never about redeeming LSM. The fact is, when he returned to the XWF, Charles was just a hollowed out, overplayed rape joke with no direction. After years of pushing away everyone in his life, literally murdering the only person who believed in him, Charles had nothing. No purpose. A loser who could never hold his own, and always needs something to cling to. Something to lean on.

Whether it was me years ago, or Jim Jimson, or the Bastards, or Marf, or your Demos mask, or the drugs, or Geppettoo, or now his corporate tuxedo he wears… Charles is trying to finally wash his asshole after years of neglect, but not even the XWF has the type of resources to wash away the stench of five years of the crusted-over taint that is Charles Nickles.

I’ve had my dark moments in XWF, and who could blame me? I tried to fight their cruelty with a brand of my own. If they were going to swindle, then so too would I! I’ve made terrible mistakes, and I’ve done my best to atone, and grow. I’ve leaned on my share of crutches over the years too, but at least mine was never my dead daughter. I never had to murder my child to make myself look tough. And for what? Because Charles was being made to look impotent in an OCW tournament? Crying about Twitter banter like some stupid 4chan edgelord?

News flash, Chuck: you didn’t have to kill LSM for saying what the world already knew… that yer’ a despicable man, and a lousy wrestler… you just needed to prove them wrong. And yet, the great irony in all of this, is that by succeeding and capturing the Uni all these years later, you’ve only proven them right. That yer’ a man who will do and say literally anything if he thinks it’ll make him seem brutal and edgy.

You dug her out of the ground, paraded her body around on television, and you did all of this sober -allegedly- in her name, in her honor, only to relapse weeks later after you took another loss. Congrats Chuck, you finally climbed Geppetto's ladder, you cut away the strings… and now I’m gonna’ hang you by them.

At Leap of Faith, for the first time ever, the Universal Champion defends against a woman whose entire career is on the line. a woman who is putting her love for wrestling, and the dream that it can be a thriving and prosperous industry for all its workers and all of its fans to the forefront. A woman who is going to accomplish something never done before. Something that doesn’t involve being perverted, or digging up dead bodies. A woman who's going to unionize professional wrestling, for the first time ever, and who's damn-well capable of doing it.

At Leap of Faith, for the first time ever, The Universal Champion defends against a woman who has defeated nine former Universal Champions, including two of the last three. Names like Raven, Caedus, Bourbon, Lacklan, King, Everette-Bryce… D’Ville… all people that the current Universal Champion has never, and could never defeat… and for the first time, that woman is going to make the current Universal Champion a former one.

In a match full of “first-times” I walk into my hometown, having never won the universal championship. For the first time, Dolly Waters walks into her fourth attempt at making the childhood dream a reality. And for the first time I walk into a universal title match battling not just for myself, but for the future of professional wrestling.

At Leap of Faith, for the first time, the powers of systemic exploitation and rot within the walls of XWF will shudder in the presence of the revolution, in the presence of Dolly Waters. Their absent King be damned! Their absent management be damned!

Because for the first time ever…

I’m going to win the Universal Championship… and I’m going to give its power back to the people.

They say there’s a first time for everything. Charles Nickles knows that better than anyone.

And I say there’s no better a place than Lexington, Kentucky, and no better a time than right now.]]>
The mountain. And the company town standing between her and it.

The union is a’ coming to liberate the wrestlers.

The camper-van shudders down the dirt road, it feels like some rattling war machine bearing down on the land, shit it jolts her from a distant gaze and twists her injured knee into the rusted floorboard.

Dolly grits her teeth, mashes her eyes shut, a little tear sneaking out of the corner, but forces herself to take a deep breath. 

A million reasons why she wasn’t going to let this knee slow her down flash in her mind:

The union.

The career she’s poured herself into.

The fight with the new boss of the company town, and the path to the mountain top he’s blocking.

But through it all, a single thought stands out, almost otherworldly, as if whispered from the mountain top itself: She’s coming for it all.

Dolly’s eyes reopen and fixate on her crutch.

One way or the other..

Fashioned more like a walking stick, It’s wooden, and worn, and splintered, but sturdy nonetheless, a testament to Dolly’s perseverance in this decade long fight. Her brow furrows looking it over, like she can’t bear the thought of it.

What's the implication here?

That the people would never follow her after all the damage she’s taken? All of the losses she’s incurred over the years? Will they think she’s too weak to lead? Will she believe it herself?

The injured wrestler, going to free the wrestlers…

...we’re getting up that damn mountain.

She sturdies herself upright, on her good leg, while the camper-van continues thrashing down the road to the company town, it sways her off balance, and she grabs the crutch, securing the butt of it in her armpit. A black peacoat swings over the crutch, concealing it as Dolly grabs hold of the handle from inside her coat pocket. She grunts and lifts forward, allowing her lame knee the most weight it can possibly endure, showing only the slightest limp as she moves to the front of the vehicle.

With every grounding of her leg into the vibrating floor, her knee tells her the story. She feels the weight of this fight through every torn muscle, and fractured bone. Every failure on this quest, every sacrifice, the few and far between victories that were sweeter for it. The far off vision of the mountain top, calling down like a whisper from a forgotten dream. She can almost hear it: there’s banjos, and laughter, and…

♫ There ain't no short-handle shovels
No axes, saws or picks♫

Just as she takes her final limp into the front of the camper-van, she hears a static reception on an old transistor radio. It’s a choppy old folk song playing. And from the cockpit, Schism whistles and sings along as he slows to a stop. He wears a toothy grin, with a cigarette bitten between his teeth, it pulls the wrinkles at the seams of his eyes beyond the frames of his sunglasses.

Schism: ♫ I’m a’ going to stay, where you sleep all day…♫

♫ Where they hung the jerk, that invented work.♫
 
Schism: ♫ In the big rock candy mountain!♫
     
Dolly allows herself to curl half a grin, yet she doesn’t look down at her comrade, her guide, the sole person who believes in her, instead she stands straight, looking through the large windshield into the dead blackness of night. Not losing focus on the path of revolution he’s led her on.

So this is it, huh?

Schism: It is. End of the road, captain.

The end of the road, indeed. End of the earth, some would say. They’d traveled all the way from central Kentucky, out into the woodlands, and the cliffs of the Appalichan Mountains. To a company town called Elkhorn.

Schism: The only thing between the revolution and The Big Rock Candy Mountain, is that town, and that nickel mine…. And the proprietors of exploitation and death.

Now, Elkhorn wasn’t always a mining town. It was a place where out of work wrestlers from the disintegrating territories were promised new contracts, opportunities to build, and to compete.
The company offered them homes, supplies, and guaranteed work. Afterall, there were no other jobs around, their former employers had grinded these people down to mostly nothing before closing their doors.

But it wasn’t too long before the company town in Elkhorn did the fashionable thing and began exploiting these people, perpetuating that ugly master-servant cycle that all of the wrestling industry was known for.

The work they offered them was anything but wrestling, it was anything but competition, dangerous and tasteless death matches that would leave them maimed, valuing only the powerful, and those would bend-over for the company. Once the spectacle, and the art of wrestling transformed into a cruel banality of company might, the audiences left, and the only thing left for the workers, was a life mining at the mountain for the new boss of the town.

With her attire matching the harsh Appalachian nightfall, the hardened gaze on her pale face is the only thing we can see as Dolly carefully exits the camper-van, knowing full well she’s got her work cut out for her.

So, they’re waitin’ out there?

Referring to the hundred or so desperate workers who snuck out from Elkhorn a few weeks ago,

They’ve been quietly trying, and trying to quietly form a union. So one night, under the shadow of nightfall, and under the threat of prison, or worse, they were led by Schism to a central Kentucky warehouse. There, they were promised to find a revolutionary leader; some mythical figure of liberation Schism referred to as Eroica… but it was Dolly Waters.

She drags her crutch against the dirt and gravel, taking a light limp into the swarming buzz of crickets, and toads, and cicadas. For as dead as this place looked, with only a sparsity of street lanterns illuminating the edges of wooden porches, it sounded as alive as ever.

Schism: waiting on you.

They said the union would be meeting in a safe house… that we’d know it when we see it. But I don’t know how any of them can see a damn thing. It’s so dark out here.

Dolly stands at the threshold of Elkhorn, the weight of the coming battle pressing down on her like a thousand pounds of that nickel out there in the mines.

Schism: No. You’ll know it when you hear it… it’s been calling you for a millenia.

Dolly turns back, to reply to Schism, but he’s gone? Only the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, the last trace of his presence.

Schism?

She mutters under her breath, but only the crickets and the frogs, and the cicadas answer. His van is still there, but Schism is gone.

For a moment his absence feels heavy, almost oppressive. But then Dolly straightens her back, and takes a deep breath. She looks out to the mountain, its presence imminent above the town, splitting through the shadows of the moonlight. -

Her face settles as she grabs hold of the crutch.

She’ll do this alone…

And then she hears it. It’s faint, yet unyielding, and it’s cutting through the sounds of nightfall.

Just ahead in the town.

A collective of voices shouting and arguing, it’s:

The Union


There’s a specific and coded knock on the old wooden door of some kind of storage warehouse. The voices on the other side quiet down into nothing. A piece of wood slides open, and a pair of eyes appear. They look out onto Dolly, standing in her black garments and peacoat.

“You’re late”

The door swings open, and closes just as fast as Dolly is pulled inside.

The windows are boarded along the wooden frames of the building. It’s dark, but lit enough by the candlesticks and lanterns to reveal double, maybe triple even the number of faces that met Dolly weeks ago.

Reading the exhausted, scrawny, coal ash covered faces of the room, Dolly knows her presence is met with incredulity. Their eyes follow her as she makes a firm, unbothered limp to a place along the wall, next to the bearded man who let her in the meeting. As the unioneers continue on with their business.

“The company, and that bastard Baron Nicklesworth know we’ve had enough! They know we’ve got the numbers!”

A man shouts out in the room,

What are we deliberating? She whispers over to the bearded man,
They want to bring Baron Nicklesworth to the negotiating table he whispers back,

Mark McCoy. The original organizer of the Elkhorn union. A man who holds a bitter feud with the Elkhorn sheriff.

Well… ain’t’ya gonna’ tell em’ that won't work?

They’re not going to listen to me… I was a company man myself once. Hell, I tried to take over the company. I’ve poisoned their wells one too many times…

“They ain’t gonna’ listen to a damn word we have to say until we make them feel it in their pocket books! We blow the damn mine!”

Another man shouts,

...it’s why we sent for you.

“Blow the damn mine…hm” another man steps to the center of the room “And then what? We lose our jobs, our homes, and they hire a bunch of these damn gladhandin’ SCABS-” he points out select groups of people in the room, “-to dig in our mountain?”

Another man chimes in,

“Yeah!  I don’t know why we let all these damn cultists, and prisoners in here anyway! The bosses only bring them here for one reason, and that’s to fill our boots after they’ve worked us to ash.”

He’s pointing at the groups prisoner wrestlers from PeeWee Valley, and cultist wrestlers from Black Mountain.

They think these people are scabs… I’m not so sure that they’re wrong either.

Oh… I see the problem she grumbles and narrows her eyes, They could care less if these people are scabs.

Excuse me. a young woman named Olga with a Russian accent steps out from the group of Black Mountain wrestlers. Barking back at the unionmen in the center of the room, I’ve been called a lot of names. Disgusting names. But I wrestle… I WORK, I mine nickel as hard as any of you, and I don’t expect a dollar more , and I have never been called a scab!

The room starts simmering with sounds of opposition.

“Well, Olga, we don’t trust you cultists. This here’s a union meeting for the people of Elkhorn!”
There’s some cheers behind him, and another portion of the room looking on like they’re trying to sort out their feelings.

You call yer’selves unioneers?!

Dolly steps forward, her crutch making a loud thud like a judge's gavel. Her voice even louder,

Unioneers my ass… She slowly looks around the room, her tone dripping with disappointment and condemnation. 

You wanna’ be treated like humans? You wanna be treated fair? Well, guess what? Yer’ not humans to that nickel mine disguised as a “wrestling” company.

You’re equipment like a coal pick, like a  shovel, or a hunk of wood brace…

They’ll use you until you wear out, or yer’ buried under a rock slide, and then they’ll get a new one- she points her finger to the people and then at the ground, And they don’t care what color it is, or if it came from some gypsy rainbow camp, or from the prisons.

It doesn’t matter how much nickel you can mine, or how long your family has lived on this land!

If you stand alone, yer’ nothing but shit to the company, nothing but shit to Baron Nicklesworth and his puppeteers.

Dolly’s face grows harder with a scowl, she pulls the black beret from her sweaty forehead, and turns to Olga, the young woman from the cult group of wrestlers, and points at her with the hat,

Y’all think this woman, and her people are yer’ enemies?

She turns back to face the room, scowling harder still,

Huh?!

This is a WORKER!

Any union, who keeps these people out, ain’t a union.

It’s a goddamn club.

Her glare is steely as she stamps around on that crutch, her eyes piercing each person, one by one,

They want you fighting… worker against worker, stable against stable, native against immigrant, holler against holler, when you know there ain’t but two sides of this world.

Folks that work, and folks that don’t.

You work. They don’t.

That’s all you got to know about the enemy.

The workers start shifting around, Dolly notices them clutching at their rifles and pistols,

Now, I know y’allve got guns… and I know yer’ brave people. I know you could shoot it out with the company if you had to. But this wrestling company don’t want this union, and all of em, all the coffers are just waiting for an excuse to come down here and use their money to crush us to nothing.

The people in the room take turns looking at one another,

There’s a whole lotta gas in these mountains, you mess around and cause the wrong type of spark? This whole thing blows up on us. Thats why we’ve got to keep picking away at this, slowly, surely, building support, organizing, and not lighting a single fuse until we know we’ve got the numbers.

If you want a fighter?

Im yer’ fighter.

Y’all dont need to raise a fist.

I’m gonna’ bring this fight right to Baron Nicklesworth’s doorstep.

There’s a heavy silence before one of the competitive workers pipes up,

“You don’t look like you're fighting anything but a gimp knee, comrade.”

Dolly looks down at the crutch, and breathes deep before chuckling a little,

“Yeah, how the hell is she supposed to lead us anywhere with a crutch? And why are we even listening to her?” another shouts,

Dolly looks the room over. She’s nodding her head, with a slight gnaw at her lip. Mark McCoy, has back firmly planted on the wall, arms crossed. Everyone watches her with bated breath. For the faintest moment, Dolly remembers that she's alone here, that Schism vanished, and remembers:

Yer’ listening to me, because I’m the one who listened to you.

Because you came calling me for a revolution.

I heard yer’ calls… I’ve heard 'em for a millennia.

Ok… Mark calls out, prompting Dolly with a question that he hopes she’ll answer correctly How do we shut the nickel mine down if we don’t dynamite?

Dolly nods and commands with her tone as she continues pacing around the room, The workers walk out. All of em! she steps directly in front of Olga now, looking her in the eye, And any worker that walks out, we take into the union.

“Even the cultists, and the Pee Wee Valley people?”

That’s what a union is, folks. All of us. You better get used to it.

BANG BANG BANG

Just then, the door thuds with the same particular code that Dolly used in her knock.

Mark barges the door, and slides back the wooden peep window. He stands there for a moment on his toes before turning back slowly to the room, an annoyed look on his face. He pulls the door open just enough for sheriff Thaddeus Hatfield to slide through.

Thad rotates his shoulders, and stands himself straight, looking out at the faces filling this storage warehouse. His head idly shakes ‘yes’, as his face slowly tells another story. He leans over to Mark, speaking just so he can hear him.

McCoy? I thought I told you to cease and desist from this union stuff. I want these people out of here, out of the back door… now.

[orange]It’s out of my hands, Thadderoono. The company has squeezed them too tight, and you know it.

Thaddeus' face runs flat, he sniffles and pulls up his trousers, showing a gun handle along his waist.

I take it your Dolly Waters. he asks, walking to the center of the room to face her,

That's right… she spots the sheriff badge on his coat, I take it yer’ the lawman around here? 

Sherriff Hatfield, that’s right mam’... and I have a bounty for your arrest.

The room grumbles, and Dolly’s face twists in confusion, as Thad pulls the folded paper from inside of his coat.

For destroying company property, and attacking a company member of management during a traveling event in May, down in Florida.

Issued by who?! The company? And their security thugs?

And Baron Nicklesworth himself. he says firmly, with finality, Now, Miss Waters… if you don’t mind-

-who gives a shit?! Those goons don’t have any jurisdiction here. For something that allegedly happened?

Normally I’d be obliged in agreeing-he says while calmly zip tying Dolly’s wrists and taking her crutch But they’re just outside the door there.

Mark looks back out the slide on the door, and confirms what Thad is telling him.

A posse of them, all shrouded in their dark trenchcoats under the moonlight. Paid security detail for the company.

Preesh-Herchel agents. he swears under his breath and turns back to face Thad who’s leading an oddly calm Dolly to the door, staggering forward and limping on the full weight of her knee.

It’s fine. He knew I was coming.

Mark puts a shove into Thad’s shoulder as he passes him Are you forgetting that you serve these people, and not that company?

I know damn well who I serve, McCoy. And right now I’m serving my people by keeping the company guns pointed away from them.

Funny. You sure don’t seem to mind the machine gun turrets they’ve got guarding the mines being pointed on them every day.

The comment runs through Thad, his face boiling over, with sweat and stiffness

You just get these people the hell out of here, McCoy, and I’ll give these people what they want.

Thad goes to move Dolly onto the front porch, as Mark tries to quietly sneak the union sympathizers through the back, but before any of that can happen, the door pushes open from the outside.

And then walks in

Baron Nicklesworth.


Well, well…

Nicklesworth barges through the doorway, everyone in the room stiffening as he makes his entrance.

He eyes Dolly with a sneer, his gaze quickly drifting to the crutch that Sheriff Thad has put back under her arm. A thin, cruel smile spreads across his face.

If it ain’t the mighty “Eroica” herself, he belts out a laugh , come here to my little old mine to save the wrestlers. Tell me, Dummy Waters, how do you plan to fight me with that ?!

He motions toward the crutch, his voice dripping with mockery.

That’s right. A crutch. Your battle weapon. Hiding behind that, pretending to be a symbol of strength when you couldn’t even protect your own people. What’s your record in these big moments, Dolly, hmm? Do these people know about the “hero” who’s fallen so many times she can’t even stand without help?

He approaches her, towering over her bent form, loving every moment of this, the dominance he feels over an injured woman. A wet dream for Nicklesworth.

How many times has this town seen you fail, Waters? Lose your shot at the big leagues, falling flat on your ass each time, depending on one crutch or the other to pick yourself up, battered and bruised, pretending like you still matter. You’re nothing but a symbol of what happens when the weak try to play in a world that demands strength.

He leans closer, his face inches from Dolly’s, his words a cutting whisper:

You don’t belong here. You never did.

Without warning, he yanks the crutch from her hands,

Let me show you what happens to people who can’t even stand on their own. You think this is a union, your revolution? It’s a joke. You’re nothing but a punching bag to us

With a sick grin, he raises the crutch high and swings it across Dolly’s back with all of his might. The crack of the wood makes the room go silent, followed by a collective gasp from the workers. He kicks inward at Dolly’s bad knee, causing her to fully collapse to the floor now.

This is your message, Waters. This is what happens when you try to stand up against power.

Baron kicks her again. Harder. Dolly’s body throttles from the impact. And as bad as she wants to scream out, Dolly struggles even harder to remain quiet and strong through the beating. She can barely breathe, with each blow a brutal reminder of the years she’s spent enduring failure and humiliation.

Baron lifts the crutch again, his face sick and twisted. As he brings it down for another strike, a voice shouts out from the back of the room.

That’s enough!

Sheriff Hatfield steps forward,

His face is a mixture of disgust and determination as moves toward Baron with heavy steps. The workers exchange nervous glances.

You’ve made your point Nicklesworth His voice booms, his authority well enunciated, though his eyes flicker nervously to the security outside. I don’t care who you think you are. She may be your problem, but she’s under my arrest, and thus under my protection.

Baron turns toward Hatfield, his expression darkening. The room holds its breath, the tension unbearable.

Protection? he lets out a harsh, bitter laugh, You think this is about protection, Sheriff? What about the protection of your town? What about keeping the peace in your little company paradise? If you don’t put these scum in their place, you’ll be out of a job. Think about it… protecting people who stand against everything that keeps this town running. The mine. The company. ME!

He sneers at Dolly one more time before he kicks her in the side, knocking her to the floor, her face twisting in pain, blood spilling from her mouth.

You think you’re making a stand, Dolly? All you’re doing is digging your own grave. He looks up, wild eyed and scanning the faces in the room

I know you people aren’t this dumb, right? You’re not dumb enough to be conspiring with this communist scum here, right? Surely you all have the common sense not to throw your allegiance behind such a consummate failure as Dummy Waters here.

This is just another in the long list of failed revolutions for little miss bimbo here? Only now… her entire career is on the line!

I know you good people would never throw your lot in with a loser of this magnitude! Would you?!

Baron rears back to kick her again, this time aiming for her face, but Hatfield steps forward stopping Baron’s momentum. He leans over into Baron’s ear,

Listen here… you and the company might own the nickel mines up in them mountains, but this is my town, and these are my people. And I’ll remind you-He pulls back his coat, making his pistol fully visible, -I take my job of keeping them safe very seriously. You’re not gonna’ lay another hand on her.

Baron’s face twitches with irritation, voice dripping with sarcasm as he whispers back,

I’ll remember that, Sheriff. But you remember this… if you, or these people you’re protecting try and cross me, I’ll blow a hole in that mountain the size of your ego.

With a final sneer, Baron turns and storms to the door. I want that girl locked up, Sheriff. She’s a trespasser on company property. He turns back just before leaving, The company doesn’t forget slights, and neither do I.

Thad kneels beside Dolly, helping her to her feet before escorting her to…

The Jailhouse


It’s been hours now. Dolly sits back against the wall. Knee so swollen and throbbing, she can’t possibly walk on it, insides bleeding.

Was this it? The revolution over, everything… over.

The thought sits in her gut like a balled fist.

But suddenly, a muffled thump. Then another. The door creaks open, and Dolly’s head snaps up.

Dolly, it’s Thad, Lets go Opening the cell, he helps Dolly to her feet and hands her the crutch beside her. She grits her teeth and leans on it, barely able to support herself. Thad pulls her out with urgency into a hallway where Mark is standing over two of Baron’s downed security agents.

The three of them make an escape from the jailhouse and into streets, but quickly

Thud.

THUD.

They’re ambushed by the Preesh-Herchel agents. Dozen of them.

A fight breaks out. Thad and Mark take on a few of Baron’s men, but there’s too many.

From her blindside, she’s kicked by someone. Her crutch slips from her hand and she stumbles, barely staying on her feet when she’s battered in the skull with the handle of a pistol.

CRACK!

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Gunshots ring out in the dead of night.

Falling to her back, Dolly’s vision starts to fade. She looks over next to her and just makes out Thad having taken a brutal hit to the side, crumpled to the ground. Mark’s back is against the wall, trying to shield Dolly.

And then, everything goes quiet.

Dolly drifts in and out until her eyes flicker open and see nothing but the dark canopy of the stars above.

She’s now alone. Left for dead.

Mark and Thad captured… or worse..,.

The world spinning around her, she climbs to her feet, and stumbles through the alleyways, trying to get away, trying to survive.

Then, she hears it again. The faintest sound of hope. Like a whisper.

It pulls her attention back to:

The Union House



The door swings open, Dolly ain’t going to bother knocking this time.

She stumbles through the doorway, barely able to stand on her crutch, barely alive.

The workers inside remain silent. They look her over, their faces a mix of disbelief and fear. They’ve seen what happened to her. They know that something terrible has befallen Sheriff Hatfield and Mark McCoy.

But they still don’t look ready to follow her anytime soon.

Dolly catches her breath, and steadies herself against the wall. She’s shaking, but does her damndest to not show it. Her voice comes out hoarse, cracking with exhaustion.

Listen, she says, I know what yer’ thinkin’.

A unioneer in the back of the room speaks up, his voice full of doubt.

“Yeah? Then tell us what you think we should do now, ‘Eroica’?”

Dolly’s eyes tighten, her gaze drifting across the room. She knows they're just scared. She sees the doubt in their eyes, the same doubt in herself she’s been fighting for years.

We fight… we have no choice now

Murmurs stir through the room, mixed sounds of confusion and skepticism. They know that Baron’s men won’t stop until they crush this uprising completely.

“We’ve already lost the fight” a woman near the front says, “It’s too late.”

Dolly straightens, and  takes a step forward. No. It ain’t too late.

She ain’t just talking to the people in the room. She’s talking to herself. She’s talking to the part of her that’s been ready to give up, ready to let the revolution die with her.

I’ve been where y’all are. I’ve fallen. I’ve failed. I’ve had every reason to quit. Her voice cracks with the rawness of truth. But we can’t stop now. Not when we’re so close. Not when we’ve got the power to change this.

The room falls silent again, thick with tension. 

“You want us to fight?” another voice asks,  “After everything we’ve already lost?”

Yer’ all afraid, she says, Afraid that if we fight back, we’re gonna’ lose more than we already have. But I promise you… if we do nothin’, they’re just gonna’ bury us even deeper. We’ve been living in this graveyard of the wrestling industry for years, hoping someone else would dig us out.

She pauses, taking a breath. Her hand grips the crutch tighter, knuckles white.

But help ain’t coming, understand?

The only way out is through.

We have to stand up.

Now.

And fight.

The room grows quiet again, just before someone finally steps up. Olga, the cultist Russian woman, steps forward. Her hands are still covered in the dust of the mines, but there’s something burning in her eyes now.

“She’s right,” Olga says. “We’ve got barely nothing left… and if we let the company get away with this, they’re going to take everything else too.”

One by one, the workers begin to speak, murmuring among themselves. Slowly, the room shifts. They sound less uncertain, less fearful. The silence begins to break, replaced by a slow, steady murmuring of agreement.

Dolly nods, but it’s not enough yet. She still has to finish this, still has to make them believe in the fight that’s coming.

We’re gonna’ win she says. And we’re gonna’ to do it together.

A murmur of agreement spreads, quiet but unmistakable. Faint, but unyielding. It’s not victory yet, but it’s something more… They’re listening.

And that’s all she needs for now.

Because tomorrow comes…

The Battle Of Big Rock Candy Mountain


It’s the following morning, and the town is eerily quiet.

The workers are heading for another days work in the mines, heads down. The air is full of dust, and the only sounds we hear are the crunching of boots and the dragging of tools.

Dolly stands alone in the middle of the road.

Just her and her crutch.

She stands tall, but her posture leans some, burdened by the punishment she’s taken, burdened by everything. Her knees still ache, her body battered, but there’s a fire in her eyes. This isn’t the broken woman who had stumbled in yesterday.

This is Dolly. This is the leader she’s been destined to become.

She’s standing in the middle of the road, just before the entrance to the nickel mine. The town feels like it’s holding its breath, the workers walking past her, their eyes not daring to meet hers. But it doesn’t matter. This isn’t just for them. This is for her. This is for everyone who has been crushed under Baron’s boot for too long.

And then he appears.

Baron Nicklesworth strides down the road like a king walking to his throne.

There’s an execution stage behind him with Thad and Mark tied by their necks, ready to be dropped to their death.

Baron is flanked by his security detail, a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face as he eyes Dolly.

Well, well… he sneers, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. If it isn’t the mighty ‘Eroica’ herself, finally showing up to claim her revolution. I thought we killed you last night. I guess I need to hire better…workers.

You see, Dolly… What I could never make people like Mark and Thad understand is this:

It doesn’t matter who “runs” this town.

It doesn’t matter about the people in this town.

It matters who runs the mines.

It matters who runs the mountain.

So long as that man is me, then the world… hell… the UNIVERSE is run by the company!

Dolly stands her ground. Her arms at her sides, and her lean on the crutch making her look even smaller. But the look in her eyes tells a different story.

Baron stops in front of her, his shadow casting over her like a dark cloud. His eyes flick to the crutch, his mouth widening with a grin.

He laughs, The crutch, Waters? Really? You’re still carrying it? This is your grand plan? This is the symbol of your revolution?

Dolly’s voice is low, but it carries.

You don’t know anything about revolutions, Nicklesworth.

I heard you months ago, rambling on yer’self about how corrupt this company is, but now that you get to be the boss?

Now that *they* tell you yer’ a part of the club? You get to play the role you’ve spent yer’ whole life auditioning for.

Exploiting people like them, like me.

You’ve never known what it means to fight for something bigger than yourself.

Baron’s smile falls for a second. He steps in closer, leaning down to meet her at eye level.

You think you can stand up to me? How many times have you failed? How many times have you fallen, Waters? You’ve built this fantasy that one day, you’d be the hero…. but look where that’s gotten you. A broken knee and a crutch. That’s all you are, a symbol of failure.

The words pack a punch. For a moment, she’s back in that place, the place where she’s always been just short of victory, just a step away from being good enough to win.

But something inside her shifts.

Yer’ wrong. she says, her voice steady. This ain’t a fantasy. This is real. And I ain’t done yet.

Baron scoffs. Not done yet? You see, Dolly, that’s your problem. You think you’re fighting for something you can actually win. The real world is a sick and twisted world where things go to die. The revolution? The union? They’re dead. Because you’re too weak to keep em’ alive.

He reaches down, grabbing the crutch from where it rests at her side. He yanks it from her hands with ease, lifting it above his head with a twisted smile.

I think this says everything I need to know about you he mocks, This is your weapon? This is your revolution?

Dolly doesn’t flinch. She just watches him with cold eyes.

You don’t understand she whispers. This ain’t about me. It’s about them. About every person who’s been broken by men like you, and discarded by the system. You’re not the one in control anymore. We are.

Baron laughs, the sound echoing. You think you can stop me? You’re nothing, Waters. Just another broken piece of equipment to throw away.

He swings the crutch above his head, and everything slows down. Dolly braces herself, but she doesn’t move. She’s not afraid.

He thrashes the crutch down with all of his might, and it cracks against Dolly’s shoulder with a fatal sounding snap. She gasps, the pain is unspeakable, but she stays on her feet. Barely.

Baron strikes her again, and then kicks her to the ground, wearing a big grin as she crumbles over.

Where’s your comrades now, Dolly? See what happens when you challenge real power? he sneers, looking down at her as he beats her repeatedly.

But then something changes. Dolly’s gaze sharpens through the throttling. The world around her sounds quieter.

The workers have stopped.

All of them.

And Dolly realizes something.

They’re watching.

And they’re waiting.

Baron simply laughs, and tosses the mangled crutch  the ground.

Dolly lies in the dirt, her chest heaving as she struggles to breathe. Baron stands above her, his eyes wild with victory.

But then, there’s a sound.

A single shovel hitting the ground. It's Olga.

One by one, the workers follow suit.

One more shovel.

And another.

Each drop of a shovel, each defiant motion, speaks louder than any word ever could.

The workers are done.

Baron’s expression falters for a split second as he looks around, eyes widening in realization.

Dolly forces herself up onto her knees. She grits her teeth, wiping the blood from her mouth.

Hear ‘em now? she calls out, her voice low but carrying. It ain’t just me anymore. It’s all of us.

The workers begin to chant, the sounds of defiance rising like a wave. They shout, they cheer, and the noise fills the town with a power that Baron can’t ignore.

Get them! Baron screams, but his command is already too late, and he dives for cover.

From everywhere at once, dozens of the unioneers emerge, rifles in hand. They open fire.

The crack of gunfire splits the air, echoing like thunder as Baron’s men fall one by one.The security detail is disorganized, their shock turning into panic as the workers charge.

The company’s grip is slipping.

From the chaos, Baron shouts orders, his voice desperate. He’s losing control. He’s realized the workers are stronger than he thought.

But then, the tide turns.

More security emerges from the buildings, weapons raised, firing back. The workers fight on, despite being outnumbered. Dolly’s vision blurs as she watches her comrades fall one by one.

No, no! she yells, climbing to her feet, her hands shaking.

The workers are being overrun.

And then Baron rises from a shield of dead bodies, fixating on Dolly.

He steps into the street and around countless dead bodies, mostly his own men. He walks through the carnage like a tyrant.

This is what happens when you try to defy the system, when you think you can stand up to me. He kicks her in the ribs again. She falls over from her crawl and sucks wind. She’s fading. The pain is too much, the battle too fierce. He kicks again, blood flowing from her side, but her eyes stay on Baron. Leaning right over Dolly now, he produces a pistol from his side, cocks back the hammer and points it at her.

In an instant, Dolly snags the crutch, and thrusts it upward. The broken bit that Baron had splintered off while he mercilessly beat her plunges right into his gut with a mortal blow. He immediately gasps, blood filling his mouth, and drops the pistol. 

The workers surge forward, forcing Baron’s men into retreat, freeing Thad Hatfield and Mark McCoy. The security detail is crumbling, and Baron knows it. Gasping, and dying, he pulls the crutch out of his gut and throws it to the ground. His eyes flick to the mountain in the distance… his only escape.

Dying herself, Dolly collapses over, too weak to chase him down. She watches as Baron turns, limping away from the battle. He’s running, but he ain’t done yet.

Dolly’s vision blurs. The mountain looms just in front of her, but it’s never felt so far away.

The battle is over for her. She’s failed. Everything she’s fought for, all the blood and sweat, all the lost comrades… it’s all slipping through her fingers.

Everything around her goes dark. A hot wind drifts through the trees, and the sounds of the workers become muffled as if they’re a world away.

But then, a soft step in the dirt.

Dolly’s eyes flicker open just barely. She sees boots in her peripheral vision, standing still in the shadows. She struggles to turn her head, to focus.

Schism sits down beside her, cross-legged on the dirt road.

He’s wearing the same stoic expression as always,

She can barely make out his face, but she knows it’s him.

Schism? her voice barely cracking above a whimper.

He turns to her and nods softly, looking at her with a quiet intensity before lighting a cigarette.

I... I lost. A tear slips down her cheek. I can’t win this. It’s over.

Schism looks at her and smiles. His gaze shifting upward, to the entrance of the mines, where the workers’ revolt still echoes in the distance. The revolution isn’t over… it’s still burning, even if she can’t see it.

Schism: You haven’t lost anything,

his voice filled with calm and conviction.

Schism: But now it’s time to win.

Dolly’s heart flutters as she looks at him,

I don’t know how to keep going. Baron... I think he’s gonna’ blow the mountain. I’m too late.

Schism nods, unphased.

Schism: He’s up there, yup. Rigging the last detonator. But here’s the thing... I spent the last days unhooking all of the other detonators. The only one left is the one he’s reaching for. And that’s where you come in.

Dolly’s hands tremble as she looks down at her crutch. It’s bloodied, broken, battered… but it’s all she has left.

Schism watches her, his expression full of quiet faith.

Schism: Take it.

She takes the crutch in her hands and stares at it. She remembers the countless times it’s supported her over the years, through all the pain. But now?

Now it feels like the weight of the past that’s been holding her back all this time.

Without another word, Dolly throws the crutch down onto the ground.

Going to be hard to climb Big Rock Candy Mountain with this She stands tall, a fire inside of her burning.

“Mountains calling," Schism says, his voice fading into the wind as he disappears into the shadows.

Dolly doesn’t look back. She trudges forward to the mountain. She’s not sure if Schism is still there or if she’s imagining him, but it doesn’t matter.

The climb is grueling. Every movement is agony, but with every step, the weight on her chest seems to lift. There’s still a long way to go up the mountain, but it feels like she’s finally climbing toward something she can control. Climbing toward her destiny.


If she can’t stop what's just ahead of her, then it’s all been for naught.

Baron Nicklesworth is going to blow up the mountain.

This isn’t just about the revolution anymore. This is about her redemption. About proving to herself that she can win.

And then, she sees him… Baron standing at the top of the mountain, the detonator in his hand.

He’s muttering to himself, eyes wild with the kind of mania only someone like him could possess. His expensive suit is torn, the wound from the stab bleeding out, his shoes caked with dirt, but his arrogance is as strong as ever.

He hasn’t spotted her yet, so Dolly gathers what little strength she has left and moves on him.

Baron hears the crunch of stones beneath her boots and spins around, eyes flashing with recognition. He sneers, taking in her battered form with an almost amused look.

Cute trick unrigging all of my bombs. he laughs, but clearly gassed as he leans onto the face of the cliff, Even cuter that you really thought you could stop me.

Dolly’s voice is low, I don’t have to stop you. You’ve already lost.

Baron scoffs. Oh, I’ve lost, have I? It’s funny you think that. The revolution ends here, Waters. At the top of this mountain, with me holding all the power. With me stopping you from reaching the tippy-top. With me having the last word.

He presses the button on the detonator, and Dolly’s heart stops. The explosion is imminent.

You’re a failure. Baron says, taking a step toward her. Everything you’ve done, every life you’ve ruined, it all leads to this. You can’t stop me, and you never could.

But then something shifts.

She looks down at the detonator and sees one of the wires is detached.

Baron’s eyes widen, a mix of confusion and anger flashing across his face realizing that the mines haven’t detonated.

Stop! he orders, his voice rising. You’re too late. You can’t save them.

With a final surge of strength, she lunges at him, her body moving with sheer force. Baron can’t react before she tackles him.

Dolly and Baron tumble down the slope, crashing against the jagged stones. Baron recovers quickly, his eyes wild with fury as he draws back a fist.

But Dolly’s already there.

Her fist comes down first, with a sickening crack, hitting him square in the jaw. He staggers back, dazed, blood pouring from a new cut on his cheek.

Baron growls, grabbing at Dolly, pushing her back. They struggle against each other, fists flying, sweat and blood painting their faces, Dolly’s body on the brink of collapse.

Baron grabs at her bad knee, his hands wrapping around it like a vice. You think you can win, Waters? You’ve got no crutch up here to help you now. he growls, his voice filled with venom. You’re nothing but a broken piece of trash.

Struggling, roaring and using every last ounce of her strength, Dolly pries her knee from his hands. Her vision is blurry, her body barely staying upright, but she knows what she has to do.

With a final, desperate push, Dolly shoves Baron off the edge of the cliff.

He screams as he falls, the sound echoing through the air. Dolly watches, her heart in her throat, as he disappears into the rocks far below. His screaming silenced.

It’s over.

She stands at the edge of the mountain, the cold wind whipping through her hair. Her body is beaten, but for just a faint moment, for the first time in years, Dolly feels fully alive.

She looks up, the peak of the mountain, she can’t quite see it, but she knows it’s just ahead.

She hears it calling again, like it’s whispering to her…

When she reaches the top, she looks down off the mountain, to see the town of Elkhorn liberated from the company. Mortal enemies like Thad Hatfield and Mark McCoy embracing one another. Native workers, newcomers and the Cultists all lifting one another in solidarity.

And from behind her, the faintest sound… a melody carried by the wind. It’s familiar: the banjos, the sound of laughter. The sounds of a far-off dream grow louder, clearer, like an ancient song, something that's been waiting for her for a millennia.

And then she sees it.

A brilliant light.

It’s spilling from behind the mountain’s peak, where the land flattens. It’s there that a vision forms before her eyes.

A silhouette of a child.

Dolly smiles, and laughs, almost in a comforting disbelief… as she looks upon her own face fifteen years younger.

Bout’ time you made it up here- the vision of Child Dolly says playfully, -I’ve been calling you for a long, long time.

Dolly nods her head, her smiling lips tremble, tears welling up in her eyes…

Yeah you have- she limps forward and takes the child’s hand -and I’m here now.






Dolly Waters and Charlie Nickles, one on one, for the first time ever.

Ain’t that crazy, Chuck?

Just thinking back on it all?

Five years we’ve spent in this business together. We’ve been allies, we’ve been enemies, and heck let’s get the elephant out of the room shall we: You’ve even pinned me before. Over three years ago in a tag match- and yet- this is the first time we’ve faced off in a singles action, ain’t it?

This match at Leap of Faith?

It’s gonna’ be a “first-time” match for a lot of reasons:

The first time an XWF pay-per-view event has been held in Kentucky, just miles from where I was born. Miles away from where I fell in love with this sport. Miles from where I learned the harsh reality of being broken in the name of legacy for this sport.

I was seven years old, Chuck, the first time Misty locked me in an arm bar. And boy did I cry… I cried even harder than you do every time you’re shown a picture of Doc D’Ville… that’s right, for the first time ever I cried in a wrestling ring, my undeveloped muscles stretching, my tiny bones being bent back just far enough not to break, yet just far enough to feel like it’s breaking over and over and over. I screamed, I tapped, I begged for her to stop. She wouldn’t. Not until I stopped crying.

That was the first time I realized a sobering truth about pro wrestling: it thrives on people being broken from their most basic instincts. It thrives on people willing to shut their mouths and take whatever punishment is handed to them. It thrives on the sociopathic mind, like Charlie’s, people who are resoundingly beaten, and mocked, and defamed, and deplatformed time and time and time again, and still begging for the bosses to pet them on the head.

It’s true… Leap of Faith will be the first time that an out-and-proud “company man” - the former “family man”- walks in defending a Universal Championship in the holy name of the very company he’s condemned for years.

It’ll be the first time Charlie Nickles walks into a title match without an excuse fer’ why he hasn’t lived up to his promise.

The XWF ain’t screwing you over anymore are they, pal?

Is Thad Duke still the warmongering elitist you’ve called him for years, now that yer’ wearing the biggest belt in his company?

Is the XWF still full of corrupt management members who screw you over because yer’ sooo controversial and edgy?

You talk about me “cosplaying” revolution, meanwhile, Charlie is tickling the company ballsack nowadays, and living out his fantasy of pretending to be XWF-daddy while daddy is gone. Funny thing… If he'd just call up his actual kids, Tyler and Emily, the ones he hasn’t murdered yet, I’m sure they could give him some tips on how to be an absent father.

No more excuses for Charlie, for the first time at Leap of Faith he walks into a universal title match on the defense. In the defense of the title he stole, in defense of his questionable record, in defense of his disgusting actions, and in the defense of everything that he stands for… or the lack thereof. Because let’s face it, the man stands for nothing. He doesn’t even know who he is… and he never has.

That’s why I knew my ears weren’t deceiving when I heard him tell me on Warfare:

Quote:I know you don’t mean the things you say.

You never do.


[dolly]Remember that? He then went on to tell me how his journey to winning the Uni was done with me in mind, how he loves me, how I was as important a figure to him as LSM.

Amazing stuff. Truly.

Especially because two weeks before that, Charlie was cursing me out in an in ring promo when I was banned from the building.

That was the first time he’s uttered my name in years, folks. Years.

Its ludicrous, but it’s unsurprising, because Charlie truly never has meant anything he says, he can’t defend any of it because the man speaking it aint real.

Charlie ain’t real.
Corporate Charlie ain’t real.
Family man Charlie for fucking sure ain’t real.

Because just like his therapist told him in his very first vignette all those years ago:

“There never was a Charlie. Only Charles. You made Charlie up”

Now, for the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, you’ll see *Charles* Nickles having to defend… everything. Every heinous comment he’s ever made, every knife he’s stabbed in someone's back, every cowardly and desperate maneuver he’s made to get himself closer to the Universal Title.

For the first time ever, he’s facing someone one-on-one, who knows him as well as anyone. I’ve known as many iterations of Charles Nickles as he’s known defamation suits, and when we get in that ring Sunday I’m going to expose every one of them.

For the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, the Universal Champion is defending against the person that carried his WarGames team to the finals, pinning the likes of Caedus and Bourbon along the way.

For the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, the Universal Champion is defending against a former tag partner, who carried him to a tag team championship win, tapping out John Madison Jr., while Charlie literally sat comatose in a wheelchair the entire time.

For the first time ever, at Leap of Faith, the Universal Champion is walking in with a worse record than the person he’s defending against in the calendar year.

Charlie’s 5-4 to Dolly’s 6-2 in 2025

Wonder if that’s why you started barking my name after you won the Universal Title?

Because the writing was on the wall, huh? As obvious as it could’ve been to anyone in the world who was the next in line for a shot at the belt, and even deep down how obvious it was to Charles, why don’t we listen as he tells you now that I don’t deserve it.

Because I’ve failed one too many times…

Funny though, because this match will be the first time ever that a Universal Champion walks in defending, after having previously lost four Universal Championship matches in a row.

For all the gusto, all the revolting shit that spews from his mouth, all of the lies he tells to make people believe he’s somehow superior, when you boil Charles down yer’ left with a puddle of piss from a man terrified that the world thinks he’s no good at wrestling. When really? The world just knows he’s no good in general.

It’s why the revolution must succeed in the XWF now. It’s why I have no choice but to take that Universal Championship, walk out on my contract, and leverage it for a new contract… a contract for the union. With a man as careless, deluded, and devoid of emotional intelligence at the top of the industry, we’re all beyond cooked.

Charles ain’t toppling and shaping the The Corporation into some benevolent force, and he damn sure didn’t mold it out of anything I believe-in like he claimed. He doesn’t want this company unionized, why would he?

Why would he want better working conditions for the company he now espouses to lead? Broken bodies are dollars in Charles’ pocket. His inclinations embody the worst aspects of professional wrestling. A belief that anyone in that locker room is an obstacle, and Charles wants things to be as miserable for them as it was for him.

Spoiler alert: he lives, and they die.

He wants to see people broken, the same way my grandmother broke me as a child. The same way tens of thousands of aspiring wrestlers break their necks in a school gym before ever even making it to the XWF. Charles wants to keep the train of human carnage rolling in this industry, because in his sick, deluded mind, he’s a man who finally broke even at the casino, he can’t walk away now, and that means no one can walk away.

That’s why I’m going all in. All of my chips pushed to the center of the table. Because this is too important a moment in the history of professional wrestling to fold for the next hand. Leap of Faith is a fork in the road. Will the XWF continue down its path of exploiting the talent, offering X-Bux as scrip for their blood labor? Or will the talent finally have their day, unify, and demand the type of working conditions where they can thrive without the constant demand to be broken from their fundamental human rights? Demand that no one ever has to die in this business again.

And I’m demanding that change now. I’m here to lead this revolution in their names, as someone who’s been on both sides of this blood stained coin. I was 13 when I first debuted in an XWF ring, during a time where women wrestlers were treated with as little regard as Charles’ dental health. Nearly 10 years later, over 100 matches, and my body is on the verge of breaking down at the ripe age of 23. This never needs to happen to anyone else. I fought the “good fight” for years, chased the carrot the bosses dangled in front of me… ‘just take one more chair shot, just maim one more person’ they’d tell me. And after 6 years, they told me I finally earned a shot at a Universal Title in the Cannabis Cup, just months removed from an ACL surgery.

People like Charles? Hell, he got his first shot within 6 months of walking in the door. 

Allow me to drill into yer’ thick head how our struggle has been different, bubby. Weeks ago you said that I was handed opportunity after opportunity, that I cry when I don’t get my way- yet, In the 5 years since you’ve debuted, you’ve been granted more opportunities at the Uni than I have in double the time.

As much as Charles has played the role of some scorned renegade who’s blocked at every turn by the powers that be, in reality, he’s been a fan favorite of XWF management. The perfect lap dog, who has no values, who has no moral compass, who would soon put on a suit and tie and slit the throat of his own children if they told him it might help him win…. And that’s exactly what he’s done.

Charles’ entire quest this year was never about redeeming LSM. The fact is, when he returned to the XWF, Charles was just a hollowed out, overplayed rape joke with no direction. After years of pushing away everyone in his life, literally murdering the only person who believed in him, Charles had nothing. No purpose. A loser who could never hold his own, and always needs something to cling to. Something to lean on.

Whether it was me years ago, or Jim Jimson, or the Bastards, or Marf, or your Demos mask, or the drugs, or Geppettoo, or now his corporate tuxedo he wears… Charles is trying to finally wash his asshole after years of neglect, but not even the XWF has the type of resources to wash away the stench of five years of the crusted-over taint that is Charles Nickles.

I’ve had my dark moments in XWF, and who could blame me? I tried to fight their cruelty with a brand of my own. If they were going to swindle, then so too would I! I’ve made terrible mistakes, and I’ve done my best to atone, and grow. I’ve leaned on my share of crutches over the years too, but at least mine was never my dead daughter. I never had to murder my child to make myself look tough. And for what? Because Charles was being made to look impotent in an OCW tournament? Crying about Twitter banter like some stupid 4chan edgelord?

News flash, Chuck: you didn’t have to kill LSM for saying what the world already knew… that yer’ a despicable man, and a lousy wrestler… you just needed to prove them wrong. And yet, the great irony in all of this, is that by succeeding and capturing the Uni all these years later, you’ve only proven them right. That yer’ a man who will do and say literally anything if he thinks it’ll make him seem brutal and edgy.

You dug her out of the ground, paraded her body around on television, and you did all of this sober -allegedly- in her name, in her honor, only to relapse weeks later after you took another loss. Congrats Chuck, you finally climbed Geppetto's ladder, you cut away the strings… and now I’m gonna’ hang you by them.

At Leap of Faith, for the first time ever, the Universal Champion defends against a woman whose entire career is on the line. a woman who is putting her love for wrestling, and the dream that it can be a thriving and prosperous industry for all its workers and all of its fans to the forefront. A woman who is going to accomplish something never done before. Something that doesn’t involve being perverted, or digging up dead bodies. A woman who's going to unionize professional wrestling, for the first time ever, and who's damn-well capable of doing it.

At Leap of Faith, for the first time ever, The Universal Champion defends against a woman who has defeated nine former Universal Champions, including two of the last three. Names like Raven, Caedus, Bourbon, Lacklan, King, Everette-Bryce… D’Ville… all people that the current Universal Champion has never, and could never defeat… and for the first time, that woman is going to make the current Universal Champion a former one.

In a match full of “first-times” I walk into my hometown, having never won the universal championship. For the first time, Dolly Waters walks into her fourth attempt at making the childhood dream a reality. And for the first time I walk into a universal title match battling not just for myself, but for the future of professional wrestling.

At Leap of Faith, for the first time, the powers of systemic exploitation and rot within the walls of XWF will shudder in the presence of the revolution, in the presence of Dolly Waters. Their absent King be damned! Their absent management be damned!

Because for the first time ever…

I’m going to win the Universal Championship… and I’m going to give its power back to the people.

They say there’s a first time for everything. Charles Nickles knows that better than anyone.

And I say there’s no better a place than Lexington, Kentucky, and no better a time than right now.]]> <![CDATA[Through Charlie's Eyes]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49076 Sat, 19 Jul 2025 11:23:29 -0700 Charlie Nickles]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49076


I still love you like a daughter, Dolly.

Even after you stuck that knife into my back on Warfare.

All I ever wanted for you was a long life and an accomplished career.

And now, I have no choice but to take it all away…

I did everything in my power to avoid this moment.

I offered you a path to the top. I offered you a way into The Corporation.

I didn’t pull Geppetto’s Ladder up behind me: I offered it down to you.

And what did you do on Warfare?

You spat in my fuckin’ face.

That’s when I finally realized something about you, Dolly- you never valued our friendship. You never cared about me as a person. You only cared about the things I could do for you, about the belts I could add to your mantle.

I resurrected your career when I drafted you onto Charlie’s Carnies: I gave you the spotlight when you needed it most.

I still remember the summer of 21’ like it was yesterday, Dolly…don’t you?

You were about to walk away from wrestling altogether, until I convinced you to stay.

And now, you’re forcing me to end the very dream that I told you to never stop chasing. After all we’ve been through, after all I’ve done for you…you’d trade away our bond for one night in the main event. 

But thankfully, I’m prepared to meet this moment.

We both know I have what it takes to snuff out my daughter’s career.

I’ll cry for you just like I cried for Robyn…with the blood of whoever comes next.

What did I miss, Dolly?



[Image: LkEYxqp.png]




DIRECTLY FOLLOWING WARFARE



Big fuckin’ Gold. It’s the shining center of the XWF Universe, and it’s filling up your entire screen with its gleaming elegance! The golden crown on the center plate, the elaborate side plates, and the signature nameplate: all polished to perfection. Far more than just a ‘belt’, this title is the axis around which the entire XWF spins. It doesn’t just crown a champion: it anoints a ruler.

As the camera zooms out, you see that ‘Big Gold’ is exactly where it belongs: upon The Nickleman’s shoulder. Then, you hear the soundtrack kick in! A custom rendition of Drake’s new hit song blares through your speakers as the camera continues zooming out on a shirtless Nickleman.





I don't give a fuck if you love me, I don't give a fuck if you like me!

When the camera zooms out some more, you see that Charlie’s also pants-less! But not in a “deranged hobo” sort of a manner, in fact, it’s quite the opposite! He’s dressed exclusively in a pair of black Gucci boxers with matching socks, as a Cuban cigar rests between his lips. Standing in the living room of a glamourous hotel penthouse, The Nickleman holds ‘Big Gold’ up on his bare shoulder while casually ashing his cigar right onto the carpet.

Rooms like this weren’t built for men like Charlie to enjoy, not until ‘Big Gold’ gave him the key. That’s why Charlie doesn’t give a damn about the destruction he leaves behind, because Peter Principal already pledged to pay for all the damage he causes!

Askin' me, "How did it feel?" Can't say it didn't surprise me!

Charlie stares down at the skyline of Minneapolis from 20 stories high, releasing a cloud of hot smoke against the double-wide windows of his suite. His gaze inevitably drifts towards the Target Center: the building where it all went wrong. An uncomfortable feeling swirls around The Nickleman’s gut, but he buries it with another thick cloud of sweet tobacco.

As Charlie looks down at the Target Center, his vision is distorted by the thick haze of bitter smoke. As he looks out at the arena from his suite of luxury, he sees tonight’s betrayal unfolding all over again. Inside the haze he sees the memory of his former tag-team partner, rolling alongside the smoke: taunting him, and threatening to steal the only comfort Charlie has ever known.

Last time I looked to my right, Dolly Waters was standing beside me!

Charlie bit his tongue and looked away, trying to keep those feelings of vulnerability at bay. The Nickleman never let anyone get close to him: because he knew, at the end of the day, he always destroyed the things he loved. Marriages. Friendships. Children. Nothing was immune to this bastard’s touch of decay…but sometimes, a few genuine relationships would slip through the cracks in Charlie’s facade.

How can some people I love, hang around pussies who try me?

Charlie’s heart pounded against his chest, feeling as if it were about to burst and shatter. His deep pain came from the fact that this time, it wasn’t -him- who had thrown it all away…but instead, it was his dearest friend. A friendship that should never have existed in the first place, was now coming back to haunt him at the apex of his power.

Let’s go!

Charlie grimaced at the memory of tonight’s betrayal, clutching ‘Big Gold’ against his broken heart like a shield. How could Dolly turn against him? This question clawed at his mind, over and over again.

What did I miss?

Charlie rolls a hand through his freshly cut hair, closing his eyes as he asks himself the all-important question.

When Charlie opens his eyes, he exhales another cloud of smoke: and sees another reminder of tonight’s setbacks. In the cloud of smoke, Charlie sees Peter Principal falling prey to a vicious attack from The Black Rainbow. With Peter Principal pushed out of the picture, the weight of ‘Big Gold’ felt heavier than ever. Now, the weight of The Corporation’s survival fell squarely upon Charlie’s shoulders: and he could sense the pressure building.

It's love for my brothers and death to a traitor, let's go!

The Nickleman shakes his head with firm resolve, accepting the realization that he is all alone in this battle to preserve the XWF. With no one left to watch his back, Charlie takes one last drag of his cigar. When all that’s left is ash, The Nickleman drops the cigar before stomping it out with his designer socks.

“Now that I’m all alone in this fight, there’s no one left to hold me back!”

As a snarl spreads across Charlie’s face, two scantily clad call girls appear from the bedroom. Wearing matching lingerie sets, the only difference between the girls seems to be in their hair color. One of the women wears her purple hair all the way down to her waist, while the other woman is simply a ginger.

“Well, you’re not -all- alone, daddy!”

The call girls giggle as they approach The Nickleman in a playful manner. Charlie’s snarl turns to a smirk as he turns around to greet the escorts he’s been ‘wrestling’ with since Warfare went off the air.

“I love the energy, Lycana- but remember what I asked you to call me.”

The ginger giggles as she playfully elbows the other call-girl.

“We’re sorry Geppetto, we promise to be good girls from here on out!”

“That’s a good Betsy! Now, how about we all go back to the bedroom and I’ll show you ladies what a no-clothes Nelson looks like!”

Charlie places his arms atop the women’s shoulders as he guides them towards the bedroom. The musical track fades out, and the sound of mechanical whirring can be heard in its place. The women seem to hear it, too, because they turn around and look directly at the camera in shock!

The escorts push Charlie away as they scramble to pick up their clothes!

“What the hell is that thing!”

The ginger woman points directly at the camera as she tries to cover her immodest figure.

“Have you been filming us this whole time, you sick creep?!”

“Woah, ladies, calm down! It’s not what it looks like! That camera isn’t filming you, it’s just filming me! The XWF has drones that follow all the talent around, so that way it can always film promotional material for our matches!”

The girls look at Charlie with a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief.

“You’re telling me you guys don’t have regular camera-men? I call B.S.!”

“No, it’s true! I swear! It has been established in XWF media TIME and TIME again that there is an army of surveillance drones following the talent around to film their promos! I swear this isn’t going to wind up on Pornhub!”

The call-girls look at each other with disgust, both barely half-clothed. They make their way towards the door as they gather all their belongings.

“Yeah, well, call us back when you’re done working! We told you we don’t consent to being filmed!”

The women slam the door shut behind them, leaving Charlie all alone for real this time. The Nickleman snaps his fingers in cartoonish fashion as he watches the 10/10 babes leave the scene.

“Damn it! Peter paid for six hours, and I only got three!”

The Nickleman shakes his head with exasperated disappointment before turning back towards the drone’s camera. Charlie cocks his head to the side as he listens to the soft whirring of the drone’s propellors.

“The cameras…that follow all the talent around…”

A sinister grin spread across Charlie’s bearded lips as an idea starts forming in his head. Dolly’s great betrayal had taken Charlie completely by surprise, but in this moment, Charlie pledged that he would never let himself be vulnerable again. From here on out, Charlie promised to never be caught off-guard.

Because his eyes in the sky would always be watching.



What did I miss, Dolly?

I was always there for you when you needed me.

Don’t you remember the summer of 21’, when your career was falling apart? You had just turned 18, and you could no longer hang your hat on being a ‘child prodigy’. Instead, you were finally being treated like everyone else: and your fragile little ego couldn’t handle it.

When it came time for you to STEP UP, you STEPPED BACK! You were missing bookings, skipping shows, and tucking your tail. The year that I drafted you to Charlie’s Carnies with my second-round pick, you had only won a single match on Warfare.

One.

Match.

In seven months.

Your career was thrashing around like a rat caught in the XWF’s garbage disposal: half-dead, screaming, and circling the drain!

No wonder everyone ridiculed me for wasting a pick on you! You were bringing nothing to the table all year long, you were nothing but a risk when I picked you. But I saw something in you that no one else did, Dolly. I saw a young woman who was true and genuine, a troubled girl who loved wrestling just as much as I did.

And, even more so…

I saw the blue-eyed, blonde-haired daughter that I never had.

So I took a chance on you, even knowing that it could end up costing me in the end…and boy did it cost me!

But in the process of costing my team the win…I MADE YOU A STAR!

Charlie’s Carnies giftwrapped you the X-treme Championship, and you still couldn’t get the job done for us!

I helped you pin Jim Caedus. I helped you pin Bobby Bourbon. I put you in a position to blow the doors off the XWF and win it all! With my guiding hand pressed gently upon your back, I pushed you all the way to the finish line, with nothing but my grit and determination.

And then, of course, you laid down for Corey Smith and Alias like the dumb dog you are.

They’re your new best friends, right? I suppose you just couldn’t bring yourself to strike them! Or maybe you were just so dope-sick from all that meth you smoked before the match, that you ran out of gas?

I didn’t forget, Dolly: that your fiendish habits cost us both in the end. But it was okay, Dolly…I didn’t mind. Because your dark addictions just reminded me of home. They reminded me of myself.

I resurrected your career when I drafted you to ‘Charlie’s Carnies’. I gave you the spotlight when you needed it most. You can deny it now, four years down the line, but we both know the truth:

I saved your career!

And I never even asked for a thank you. I never demanded your obedience. All I asked for was your friendship, and maybe some damn respect!

But I guess that was just too much for you to give.

Now that I think of it…this is just like the Summer of 21’ playing out all over again, ain’t it?

Dolly’s career is spiraling fast, she hasn’t won a real match in MONTHS, and she’s been avoiding TV tapings like the plague!

But still, she comes sauntering down that ramp on Warfare, expecting Charlie Nickles to make her star shine again. She hasn’t put the work in, she hasn’t captivated the audience, she hasn’t done anything but disappear for weeks on-end!

So this time, Dolly?

I won’t play along with your little ego-trip.

It’s true Dolly, the things you said last Warfare broke my heart...but I’m going to pay the favor back to you a thousand times over when we meet inside that ring.

I’ve already pinned you once before…

So this time, Dolly?

I’m zipping the fuckin’ body bag!




We cut to a shot of the XWF corporate boardroom, the morning after the attack on Peter Principal. 

Charlie Nickles sits at the head of the table with his feet up on the desk and ‘Big Gold’ proudly positioned in front of him. Across from the comically large table sits Elon Musk and Nadine, Peter Principle's personal secretary. Elon Musk is burying his face in a laptop computer as Nadine is stuck on hold with the local emergency room. Charlie stares down his corporate partners with a grizzled look of disdain.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me Dolly Waters was in the building?”

“W-well, ehrm, we didn’t know she was in the building!”

The Nickleman rolls his eyes at Elon’s answer, clearly finding it inadequate. He refixes his gaze upon Nadine, who is still waiting on hold with the hospital.

“Is that your answer, too?”

“That’s what happened, Charlie! No one knew she was coming back, we had no idea until she was standing there in front of us!”

The Nickleman leans back in his chair as he considers his next move.

“The XWF has an army of video surveillance drones that film every promo, but you’re telling me no one knew where Dolly Waters was?”

Elon and Nadine look betwixt each other nervously.

“We have hundreds of drones, we have blood samples from everyone on the roster, we have social security numbers, birth certificates, and home addresses- but we can’t keep track of one little hussy?!”

Elon looks up from his laptop and coughs into his hands before trying to appease The Nickleman.

“Erhm, well Charlie, the drones record everything, but it’s not monitored live! All the footage gets dumped into one giant data bank, and the XWF producers comb through it manually to build the vignettes. Real-time tracking would take a full AI-powered rebuild!”

“So rebuild it.”

The Nickleman slides his feet off the desk, throwing them against the floor with a decisive finality. Nadine shoots a look of exasperated disbelief towards Elon, but Musk doesn’t even notice her subtle dissent. Elon just slams his laptop shut as his eyes go wide with excitement. 

“Oh my god, yes.

YES!

You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to implement threat-based behavioral monitoring and constant surveillance in the XWF! We can film all talent 24/7, and have our proprietary AI software constantly analyze their level of loyalty to The Corporation!”

Nadine waves her hands in the air, trying to get everyone’s attention.

“Now hold on guys, we can’t do anything like that! That would be a huge violation of privacy, and not to mention, we don’t have anything close to the budget for a complete rebuild!

Charlie lets her comments linger in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time. Then, he stands up from his chair and makes a beeline towards Nadine. The secretary looks incredibly uncomfortable as The Nickleman kneels right next to her.

“Wait a second…did you just tell me that I *can’t* do something?”

The Nickleman cocks his head to the side as he measures Nadine’s nervous response. He taps the nameplate on his championship belt exactly three times.

“You see this right here? This means I can do whatever the fuck I want, and -you- can’t tell me shit.

Got it?”

Nadine leans away from Charlie as she stumbles through her response. Elon pipes up nervously, trying to defuse the situation.

“Ehrm well, hold on now Charlie…she does make a good point about the budget! We will have to look for creative ways to free up funding, perhaps by routing it through one of my shell companies!”

The Nickleman shoots a chilling glare in Elon’s direction.

“Zip it, Muskrat!”

Elon’s eyes go wide before Charlie shoots his gaze back towards Nadine.

“I’m just saying, I can’t greenlight any new expenditures without Peter here! I really want to Charlie, I really do! But I just don’t have the authorization to rebuild our drone program, only the General Manager does!”

A snarl curls across Charlie’s lips.

“Really? Is that so?”

Charlie leans in closer.

“Because I don’t remember anyone authorizing you as the arbiter of the 24/7 hallways.”

Charlie pauses, considering his next words carefully as Nadine remains frozen in fear.

“You screwed Dickie Watson out of his championship…

Are you trying to do the same fucking thing to me, Nadine?”

Charlie stared into Nadine’s eyes with an unmatched intensity. As he cocked his to the side, he considered where Nadine’s allegiances may truly lie. Was she a revolutionary asset, put in place to stall his agenda? Or even worse, could she have been bought off by remnants of Gorgo’s Rainbow?

As Charlie considered the possibilities, Nadine did her best to clear the air of suspicion between them!

“No, Charlie, of course not! I LOVE what you’re doing as champion! I’m totally behind this project 100%! We just need the General Manager to sign off on it, and that’s why I’m on the line with the hospital right now trying to get a hold of him!”

Charlie finally stepped away from Nadine as Elon started drawing seemingly complex, yet absolutely simplistic diagrams all over the whiteboard on the wall.

“With a new fleet of drones powered by my propriety AI software, we will be able to cross-reference promos, backstage cam feeds, and even crowd reactions! You want 24/7 operations? You’ll know who needs watching before they even know they’re a problem!”

Charlie grins, his eyes glittering as he steps up to the whiteboard.

“Now that’s the kind of paranoia I’m talking about!”

Nadine cuts in one last time, trying to hold the line.

“I totally love this, all of it! I couldn’t agree more!...Buuuuuut we can’t do any of this without Peter here! And he’s still in the emergency room at the Hennepin County Medical Center!”

Charlie and Elon share a groan of disdain as they look back at Nadine with frustration. Charlie shakes his head with a snarl before making his way towards the exit, with ‘Big Gold’ slung over shoulder.

“Fine then. I’ll go get the son of a bitch!”

The door to the boardroom slams shut behind Charlie Nickles, quietly rattling on its hinges as Nadine slumps down in her chair.

“He’s really going to do this, isn’t he?”





I'll be asking the questions around here!

So tell me Dolly...just who the fuck do you think you are?

I know who you’re acting like.

You’re acting just like Lycana, just like Betsy Granger, just like that Latina Submission Machina…

3 women who tempted fate with The Nickleman, and were never seen in the XWF again.

You’re making the exact same mistake every one of them made, and you don’t even realize it. You’re walking in the footsteps of women who are far more talented than you’ll ever be: and you can’t even recognize their shadows on the road!

But that’s the hubris of youth. That’s the unabashed arrogance of Dolly Waters. Since Rebellion went off the air, you’ve done nothing but sit on your couch and diddle your bean…until all of a sudden you decide to come out and demand a shot at MY title?

How about you try EARNING something for once in your life, Dolly?

Now that I’ve climbed the proverbial mountain, the XWF’s resident socialist thinks she’s just entitled to the things I work so fucking hard for! The things which I bleed so very much for. She wants it for herself: my myth, my legend, my glory. But she couldn’t bear my pain. She doesn’t want my scars, my chains.

She wants my gold, but she doesn’t want my sacrifice.

How typical.

Dolly’s never earned a damn thing in her life! She’s just made a career out of standing beside people who did! Holy fuck, no wonder I couldn’t win a War Games until I got you off my team! All you ever wanted was the spotlight, not the sacrifice. You were nothing but deadweight, being dragged along on mine and Robert Main’s coattails.

But riding coattails is your specialty, ain’t it, Dolly?

Carrying someone else’s gold, that’s peak Dolly Waters!  She learned early on in her career that it’s easier to win gold when someone else does the wrestling, and bam-voila a tag-team star was born!

She’ll team with anyone, so long as they can drag her sorry ass across the finish line. They can be a “Revolutionary” like Schism, or a “Cunt-servative” like Dyson: so long as they’re willing to do the hard work for her, she’ll happily tag along! But as soon as her partner needs even a little bit of help, she’ll drop em’ on a dime and swap em’ right out!

Don’t ask me how I know…

So is that why they call you one of the greatest “tag” champions of all time, Dolly? Because all you ever do is “tag” along for the reigns?

You cost Madison Dyson the belts at Rebellion, and then you disappeared from the XWF for an entire month! Why the fuck should that qualify you for the main event at Leap of Faith? I mean, think about it! You haven’t been leading a revolution. You’ve been sitting at home, crying into your blankie ever since Peter Principal put you in time-out!

What kind of revolutionary sits at home for weeks on-end, simply because their boss told them to?

An obedient one, that’s for damn sure!

Is Dolly Waters a revolutionary, or is she a golden fucking retriever?

When Peter tells that bitch to stay, she stays her ass at home! Peter said ‘sit’, and Dolly sat her ass on the couch for a whole damn month!

You told Peter that you will “risk your career” against me for this match, Dolly?

You stupid bitch.

How did you not stop and realize, that as soon as you dared to stand against me…your career was already on the line!

You’re no better than Granger, than Caedus, than Lycana, than Lynx, than Marshall, than each and every name I already have hanging on my mantle!

I’ll put you out to pasture along with the rest of em’, you ungrateful little shit.

This is how you treat me, after all I’ve done for you?

Go ahead, Dolly: I already know what you’re going to say. You’re going to condemn me for ending that young woman’s XWF career. You’re going to say exactly what Aurora already said, exactly what Mark Flynn already said…because that’s what Dolly Waters is known for! It’s what makes you such a legend in the tag division…the fact that you work best when someone else is pulling the strings.

But please, remind me again: which young woman’s career are Aurora and Mark talking about? 

Lycana’s?

Betsy’s?

…Or yours, Dolly?

Come Leap of Faith, you won’t have anyone left in your corner to bail you out. All your “revolutionary” sidekicks, all those tag-team partners you’ve cut loose- they won’t be around to save you this time.

Because there’s only one kind of ‘tag’ in the XWF main event:

The fuckin’ toe-tag on all my challengers!







[Image: henne.jpg?fit=1000%2C750&ssl=1]



An ambulance idles outside Hennepin County Medical Center, just blocks away from the Target Center. The back doors swing open as paramedics wheel out a patient on a gurney. The ER doors slide apart, and a wave of screams rush out: the cries of the dying. Two unbothered security guards stand off to the side, chatting into their radios as they share a smoke break.

The camera zooms in as the guards puff on their cigarettes. As the black trails rise, the smoke slowly curls into one cloud. The faint outline of the reaper appears in the smoke just before it dissipates.

Or at least, that’s what The Nickleman sees as he pulls up to the hospital’s curb!

Rolling in a red hummer limousine, The Nickleman steps out of the backseat with his championship belt, but only once his driver finally opens the door. Dressed in a pin-striped suit and wearing a pair of Louis Vuitton’s on his feet, The Nickleman gives his chauffeur a smile and a patronizing pat on the head as he steps out.

“Thanks for the lift, Jack.

And here, for your troubles…”

The Nickleman reaches into his wallet and pulls out exactly 1 X-bux, shoving it into his driver’s tuxedo pocket.

“Wow, thanks, Mr. Nickleman!”

“Hey, it’s the least I can do!”

Charlie turns to walk away…then stops, and starts patting his pockets like he’s lost something! He immediately turns around and fishes the X-bux right out of the driver’s pocket!

“Actually… no. That was the least I could do.

Now get your ass back in the limo and wait for me like a good little bitch!”

Charlie tucks the X-bux into his wallet with a cheap laugh before strolling off towards the hospital. The driver watches him walk away with slumped shoulders, but that didn’t bother Charlie one bit: because now, it was finally his turn to push people around and call the shots!  And Charlie planned on cherishing every moment of malice.

The sliding doors open with a hiss as the Universal Champion steps through the hospital’s front gate.

The Nickleman came to the ER to find Peter Principal, so that he could get authorization to launch his new drone surveillance program- but inside the maze of Hennepin’s hallways, that would be anything but easy!

As Charlie moved through the hospital, he could barely hear himself think over the cries of the screaming junkies and gunshot victims filling up the emergency room!  The ER staff moved fast, speaking in hushed tones as they rushed from patient to patient, from flatline to flatline. Monotone monitors beeped in rhythm with the ticking clocks posted outside every room.

Each tick was like a judge’s gavel, counting down the seconds of borrowed time.

Tick—

The ventilator in Room 134 hisses out its last breath.

Tick—

A father screams as his daughter’s pulse vanishes from the screen in Room 182.

Tick—

A doctor closes the eyes of a young blonde woman as he places the toe-tag on her foot.

The whole ward runs like clockwork: efficient, mechanical, and indifferent to the winds of death. As the cold air drifted between rooms, the ER staff moved with it, gliding from patient to patient dressed like pale horsemen in white coats. Charlie walks through this downtown valley of death like a man untouchable, ‘Big Gold’ slung over his shoulder like a badge of impunity.

Charlie wanders around the emergency room, but he can’t find Peter’s room anywhere. He can’t even find a nurse’s station! He’s completely lost in the innards of Hennepin’s labyrinth, wandering through corridors he was never meant to find.

Closed doors lined both walls, muffling the moans of mortal misery behind them. The air grew thick with the smell of rusted iron, seeping in through the cracks in the walls. Charlie plugs one of his nostrils and snorts hard, letting that familiar scent of scarlet fill his nose.  When he blinks, the hallway seemingly shifts. Almost as if he had stolen a random pill off the nurse’s cart and stuffed it up his nose, right then and there!

The fluorescent lights overhead now flicker in rhythm with the clocks, with each ‘tick’ shrouding the corridor in intermittent darkness. The linoleum tiles are suddenly covered with oozing ichor, leaking out from the cracking walls. The doors to the patient’s rooms are no longer made of cold metal, instead, they’ve turned into old wood: scorched from the bottom up as if the fires of hell had raged behind them.

“What the…”

That’s when Charlie spots a janitor at the end of the hall, slowly dragging his mop back and forth across the same oozing spot. The janitor’s strokes are jagged yet deliberate, like a puppet whose strings are being pulled by an unseen hand.

“Hey! Can you tell me where Peter’s room is?”

As the janitor lifts his head to reply, Charlie is frozen in shock. The man has a pale, leathery face that’s been pulled gaunt across his cheekbones. Thin strands of dead hair hang down to the man’s shoulders, but what troubled Charlie most was the man’s eyes.

Or lack thereof!

Two empty holes stared back at Charlie where eye sockets used to be. Yet somehow, Charlie feels the man staring not just at him, but through him!

“Peter? Oh, Peter hasn’t been a janitor here in years…not since you drove him off. Not since that night in the cage.”

Charlie stiffens. He tries to sniff again, but the hallway doesn’t return to normal.

“That stuff with Peter was just business.”

“Business is blood, Mr. Nickles. You spilled his… and then you spilled everyone else’s too. That’s why it never stops. It stains deeper the more you pour.”

Charlie’s jaw drops as he looks down and realizes that he’s standing in a pool of blood.

“You’re talking like I made this mess!”

The janitor drags the mop again. A wet shlick, like a slit throat. The ooze swirls, but it never goes away. New ichor constantly bleeds in through the edges.

“You keep adding names to the list. Bodies to the pile. I’m mopping blood that ain’t even finished falling.”

Charlie takes a half-step back, clutching ‘Big Gold’ as the janitor keeps sloshing blood across the floor.

“You don’t know what you’re seeing, you freak! You don’t even have any fuckin’ eyes!”

“But…you’re the one who stole my eyes. After you and your friend leave here today, you’re taking everyone’s eyes. How else could you keep watch over the entire XWF?”

That’s when Charlie Nickles feels something spherical sliding around in his pockets. He reaches in hesitantly, grabbing ahold of the slippery orbs. When Charlie opens his palms to look at his new possessions, he sees a pair of eyeballs staring back at him: his own!

The world suddenly goes black as the muscle’s holding Charlie’s eyes in place are severed.

“Just keep mopping, just keep mopping…”

“Tell me where Peter Principal is, god damn it!”

Charlie demands, trying desperately to assert some kind of control over the apparition. Suddenly, Charlie’s vision returns as the janitor points to the left with a bony finger. His arm creaks as it moves, the sleeve soaked in fresh blood, flowing down freely from his empty eye sockets.

“Down that hall, to the left. Past the screams you drowned. You’ll find him waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“For Geppetto to pull his strings.”

Charlie doesn’t wait for it to make sense. He just takes off, headed in the direction the apparition pointed. It's not long until he finally finds the room where Peter Principle is laying still upon a soiled mattress. Peter's limbs are sickly thin, and his skin has gone ghostly pale. Drool hangs down from Peter’s motionless lips. A silver bell sits on the tray next to him.

"Jesus fucking Christ Peter! All they did was throw you into a vending machine and make you gargle SmartWater…how the fuck could you end up this bad?"

Peter didn’t look, he didn’t even blink as Charlie approached the bed…as if he didn’t have eyes at all.

“For fucks sake, I’ve seen better-looking corpses in the trunk of my car!”

Charlie leaned in with apparent shock, clearly taken aback by Peter’s frail condition.

“Can you even talk, Peter? What the fuck happened to you, man?”

DING!

The Nickleman raised his eyebrow as his eyes darted over towards the silver bell. Peter’s finger tapped it once more for good measure.

DING!

Charlie smirked as he looked back up at the disintegrating body of Warfare’s General Manager.

“Good. That means you can still say ‘yes’ to me.”

DING!

Peter’s head lolled slightly, maybe on purpose, but maybe not. Regardless, Charlie pulled a folded piece of paper out from his blazer, placing it next to Peter’s bell. 

“Here’s the deal, Peter: the days of peaceful coexistence with these fucking rebels is over. They tried to scratch you out of the picture, and now they’re gunning for me next.

I’m not gonna’ let that happen.

This paper right here, it makes me your legal proxy. It gives me full authority to act as Warfare’s General Manager in your stead, at least until you can walk again.

And my first order of business?

Is destroying this fucking Revolution at Leap of Faith!

DING!

DING!

DING!

An excessive amount of drool slips out of Peter’s mouth as he taps his bell an excessive amount of times. Charlie grabs hold of Peter’s wrist, forcing him to stop playing with the bell.

“Just one time for ‘yes’, and two times for ‘no’.”

Peter could tell that it wasn’t a request. Charlie pulled a pen out of his blazer and nestled it inside of Peter’s limp hand. Then, Charlie guided Peter’s hand across the signature line. Charlie’s eyes went wide as the faint mark made it’s way onto the paper.

“Now that’s what I call consent! We’re going to clean house at Leap of Faither, Peter. Revolutionaries. Rainbow freaks. Every last one of em’. You and me: we’re bringing law and order back to the XWF.”

DING!

“But mostly me.

In fact, damn near exclusively me!”

Charlie threw his head back with a victorious guffaw before stuffing the signed authorization form back into his blazer. Charlie quickly stepped away from Peter, determined to get the hell out of this hospital now that he had gotten what he wanted…but Peter’s incessant ringing of the bell caused Charlie to pause.

DING!

DING!

DING!

DING!

Charlie looked back at Peter, laying there motionless on the bed, and he felt something tugging at his heart…was this, sympathy?

Charlie looked around the lonely hospital room, and reflected on everything he had seen so far inside the Hennepin County Medical Center. Patients were dying left and right, the hospital staff moved between rooms like ghosts, and the janitors left the place so dirty, it was like they didn’t even have eyes!

As Charlie looked around the room, his gaze fell upon a suspiciously shiny plaque hanging in the corner of the room. It was a medical degree, and when Charlie squinted at it, he could finally read the name on it:

Dr. Emilia Glazkov


Charlie’s jaw dropped as he finally put two and two together…or so he thought! But then again, reading never was Charlie’s strong suite. Nevertheless, Charlie turned back towards Peter Principal with a look of alarm.

“Are those Rainbow freaks running this E.R.?! Is that why everyone’s fucking dying and shit?!”

DING!

DING!

“Just one ding for ‘yes’, Peter, god damn it!”

The Nickleman rushed the hospital bed, and for a moment Peter was terrified: until he realized that Charlie wasn’t attacking him. Instead, The Nickleman picked Peter Principal up and placed him on his shoulder opposite the universal championship. Charlie pocketed the silver bell before his eyes darted towards the exit.

“Those Rainbow freaks almost killed you, but I’ll be damned if I let them finish the job on my watch! We’re breaking you out of here!”

With Peter on his shoulder and the signed permission forms in his pocket, Charlie took off through the exit! Dashing past the terrified nurses, Charlie wasted no time in escaping from the treacherous maze of Hennepin Hospital; he didn’t slow down until he reached that stretch hummer limousine, still patiently waiting for him alongside the curb.



The revolution just happened, Dolly- and you’re late.

Nobody thought I would ever be the Universal Champion, but here I stand, the one man in charge of the whole fuckin’ show! Nobody believed in me. No one from the Old Guard, and none of the New Bloods- not a damn soul besides myself ever believed. But I didn’t rest on my laurels and complain about it. Instead, I grabbed the entire XWF Universe by it’s damn throat!

The revolution just happened, Dolly- and Peter’s signature is the proof!

The XWF wouldn’t just “give” me the crown…so I had to steal it for myself. And now, there’s not a damn one of you who can take it off me! I never had to ‘sell out’ to make it this far. I just needed XWF Management to finally ‘buy in’!

So welcome to my new regime, Dolly- now get ready for me to take full control, not just of the XWF: but also the narrative around your phony little revolution!

Dolly always craved the spotlight, this bullshit is just her latest ploy to get it. Seriously, what does this chick think she’s going to do? Rebuild the USSR, but with her as Stalin? Rebuild China, but with her as Mao?

Get a fucking grip, girly!

I’M ALREADY DOING THAT!

Revolution or Corporation: it’s all just smoke and mirrors for control. Me and Dolly are two peas in a pod: always have been, always will be. We might come in different shapes and sizes, but at the end of the day, we’re both just clinging to power however we can grab it!

So what kind of Universal Champion would Dolly Waters be?

Look at her track record: whenever she gets a singles belt, she slips up. She doesn’t STEP UP, she only ever STEPS BACK! But not me…when I get my hands on gold, I don’t make mistakes. I only make history!

I’ve been on every show since March Madness, my influence stretched across the entire universe long before my head was ever crowned. My reign of terror stretched across two divisions for months; there was no one who could stop me. And now, there’s nowhere left for my enemies to hide.

The entire Universe is before my eyes! And I won’t stop setting my sights higher and higher, until I find God himself and steal his crown!

After I put Dolly’s career out of it’s misery, I’m going to take out the remnants of The Rainbow. Then, I’m going to behead Kieran King and show everyone that the era of monarchs is over! Now, it’s the age of The Corporation.

Anything you try to accomplish with this belt will pale in comparison, Dolly, because you’ve already hitched your wagon to a dead horse.

Let’s be frank, sweetheart: nobody is held back unfairly in the XWF. If the ‘Thugz’ wanted a pay raise, they would just start wrestling better! If Tatiana Jolee deserved a championship belt, she’d have one!

You get exactly what you give in this company, and that’s why hard-working men like me get EVERYTHING, and entitled brats like you get NOTHING!

This company wasn’t built for people like me, but still I scratched and clawed my way to the top! I don’t have a family legacy. I wasn’t born with the “right” last name. I didn’t come into this industry with connections and guidance.

I’ve got no ‘Uncle Edgar.’

No ‘Sugar Daddy Duke.’

No ‘Waters Family Legacy’.

I had to EARN my place in this company, by climbing Geppetto’s Ladder one rung, one body, one soul at a time! The suffering, the agony, the pain: I had to make it my home. I had to learn to live with my anguish, to THRIVE with it, to climb the ranks. I had to fight my way across TWO divisions at ONCE just to earn my shot at the big one!

Dolly can’t even understand the sacrifices I made to get here!

Dolly doesn’t know how to climb, not like I do.

All she can do is chirp, moan, and bitch while she waits for someone else to come and save the day. Like a damn crack whore in distress, Dolly can never fight her own battles: all she can do is trade away her dignity for one night’s sugar rush.

Dolly Waters didn’t EARN this match at Leap of Faith. Losing Madison Dyson’s spare belt doesn’t qualify you for a shot at ‘Big Gold’. Disappearing from TV for months at a time doesn’t qualify you. And just blatantly stealing Bacchus’ gimmick after he leaves certainly doesn’t earn you a shot!

Dolly got this match for one reason and one reason only:

Because she begged for it.

And the kicker?

Dolly isn’t even serious about retiring! She already has herself booked for the Smashed Supershow! She’s just throwing a tempter tantrum, and threatening to leave the XWF if we don’t give her what she wants.

But all I’m fixin’ to give this bitch is a knuckle-fuckin’-sandwich!

What a whiney brat you’ve turned into, Dolly. Threatening to take your ball and go to York’s house if Daddy Duke doesn’t give in to your hysterics. You’re just pulling this stunt so you can pull on the heartstrings of the XWF’s dumbest, and most gullible fans.

But I didn’t raise you to be a liar, Dolly.  So when we meet in that ring at Leap of Faith, I’m going to end your career for real.

You want to stick up for Robyn so badly?

Then you can rot beside her, for good.

I already forgave myself for what I did wrong, Dolly…but I will never forgive you for this betrayal.





We cut to a wide shot of Kroger Field, on the eve of Leap of Faith. Waiting just outside of an XWF-branded video truck, we see Charlie Nickles and his corporate crew standing in a cordoned off section of the parking lot. Charlie, Elon, Nadine and Peter are all in attendance.

“I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long, long time.”

The Nickleman bares a sadistic smile as he repositions ‘Big Gold’ upon his shoulder. Nadine attends to Peter’s drooling mouth as Elon steps forward to hype up his newest invention.

“You’re going to love it Charlie, I promise! I built it all according to your exact specifications! Erm, well, my engineers technically designed it and day laborers technically constructed it, but my point still stands!

This is the panopticon of the 21st century. A mobile surveillance headquarters, able to tap into any feed, at any time! With live action behavior monitoring and constant AI-powered analysis, my invention ensures that The Corporation will never be taken by surprise again!”

DING!

Peter excitedly rings his bell as The Nickleman nods along with Elon’s words. Nadine is the only who shows any hesitation at all, but she’s doing her best to hide it, lest Charlie see!

“It is my pleasure to introduce you to….The NickleNet!”

The door to the truck finally opens when Elon bangs loudly on the side of the vehicle. The Corporation stands outside the truck in bewilderment, just staring in at all the fancy lights and monitors. Elon gestures for Charlie to step aboard.

“Be my guest, Charlie. We built it for you, after all!”

Charlie grins as he ascends the stairs into The NickleNet’s mobile HQ. As the champion looks around, he can’t help but be impressed by the size and scope of it all. Inside this mobile HQ, dozens of monitors display dozens of live video feeds. All of your favorite XWF Superstars flash across a screen in real time, being constantly monitored by The Corporation’s own AI software.

Seated in a metal chair in the middle of the truck, “The Grok” remains perfectly still, hooked up to a super-computer that empowers him to analyze the loyalty of any XWF wrestler at a moment’s notice.

“It’s…beautiful.”

As “The Grok” constantly analyzes the live footage being captured by drones, Charlie can’t help but feel a wave of relaxation washing over him. No longer trapped in a world of deception and betrayal, The Nickleman would now know the truth long before it could ever be used to stab him in the back again.

From this moment on, The Nickleman’s eyes would finally stretch across the entire XWF Universe!
]]>


I still love you like a daughter, Dolly.

Even after you stuck that knife into my back on Warfare.

All I ever wanted for you was a long life and an accomplished career.

And now, I have no choice but to take it all away…

I did everything in my power to avoid this moment.

I offered you a path to the top. I offered you a way into The Corporation.

I didn’t pull Geppetto’s Ladder up behind me: I offered it down to you.

And what did you do on Warfare?

You spat in my fuckin’ face.

That’s when I finally realized something about you, Dolly- you never valued our friendship. You never cared about me as a person. You only cared about the things I could do for you, about the belts I could add to your mantle.

I resurrected your career when I drafted you onto Charlie’s Carnies: I gave you the spotlight when you needed it most.

I still remember the summer of 21’ like it was yesterday, Dolly…don’t you?

You were about to walk away from wrestling altogether, until I convinced you to stay.

And now, you’re forcing me to end the very dream that I told you to never stop chasing. After all we’ve been through, after all I’ve done for you…you’d trade away our bond for one night in the main event. 

But thankfully, I’m prepared to meet this moment.

We both know I have what it takes to snuff out my daughter’s career.

I’ll cry for you just like I cried for Robyn…with the blood of whoever comes next.

What did I miss, Dolly?



[Image: LkEYxqp.png]




DIRECTLY FOLLOWING WARFARE



Big fuckin’ Gold. It’s the shining center of the XWF Universe, and it’s filling up your entire screen with its gleaming elegance! The golden crown on the center plate, the elaborate side plates, and the signature nameplate: all polished to perfection. Far more than just a ‘belt’, this title is the axis around which the entire XWF spins. It doesn’t just crown a champion: it anoints a ruler.

As the camera zooms out, you see that ‘Big Gold’ is exactly where it belongs: upon The Nickleman’s shoulder. Then, you hear the soundtrack kick in! A custom rendition of Drake’s new hit song blares through your speakers as the camera continues zooming out on a shirtless Nickleman.





I don't give a fuck if you love me, I don't give a fuck if you like me!

When the camera zooms out some more, you see that Charlie’s also pants-less! But not in a “deranged hobo” sort of a manner, in fact, it’s quite the opposite! He’s dressed exclusively in a pair of black Gucci boxers with matching socks, as a Cuban cigar rests between his lips. Standing in the living room of a glamourous hotel penthouse, The Nickleman holds ‘Big Gold’ up on his bare shoulder while casually ashing his cigar right onto the carpet.

Rooms like this weren’t built for men like Charlie to enjoy, not until ‘Big Gold’ gave him the key. That’s why Charlie doesn’t give a damn about the destruction he leaves behind, because Peter Principal already pledged to pay for all the damage he causes!

Askin' me, "How did it feel?" Can't say it didn't surprise me!

Charlie stares down at the skyline of Minneapolis from 20 stories high, releasing a cloud of hot smoke against the double-wide windows of his suite. His gaze inevitably drifts towards the Target Center: the building where it all went wrong. An uncomfortable feeling swirls around The Nickleman’s gut, but he buries it with another thick cloud of sweet tobacco.

As Charlie looks down at the Target Center, his vision is distorted by the thick haze of bitter smoke. As he looks out at the arena from his suite of luxury, he sees tonight’s betrayal unfolding all over again. Inside the haze he sees the memory of his former tag-team partner, rolling alongside the smoke: taunting him, and threatening to steal the only comfort Charlie has ever known.

Last time I looked to my right, Dolly Waters was standing beside me!

Charlie bit his tongue and looked away, trying to keep those feelings of vulnerability at bay. The Nickleman never let anyone get close to him: because he knew, at the end of the day, he always destroyed the things he loved. Marriages. Friendships. Children. Nothing was immune to this bastard’s touch of decay…but sometimes, a few genuine relationships would slip through the cracks in Charlie’s facade.

How can some people I love, hang around pussies who try me?

Charlie’s heart pounded against his chest, feeling as if it were about to burst and shatter. His deep pain came from the fact that this time, it wasn’t -him- who had thrown it all away…but instead, it was his dearest friend. A friendship that should never have existed in the first place, was now coming back to haunt him at the apex of his power.

Let’s go!

Charlie grimaced at the memory of tonight’s betrayal, clutching ‘Big Gold’ against his broken heart like a shield. How could Dolly turn against him? This question clawed at his mind, over and over again.

What did I miss?

Charlie rolls a hand through his freshly cut hair, closing his eyes as he asks himself the all-important question.

When Charlie opens his eyes, he exhales another cloud of smoke: and sees another reminder of tonight’s setbacks. In the cloud of smoke, Charlie sees Peter Principal falling prey to a vicious attack from The Black Rainbow. With Peter Principal pushed out of the picture, the weight of ‘Big Gold’ felt heavier than ever. Now, the weight of The Corporation’s survival fell squarely upon Charlie’s shoulders: and he could sense the pressure building.

It's love for my brothers and death to a traitor, let's go!

The Nickleman shakes his head with firm resolve, accepting the realization that he is all alone in this battle to preserve the XWF. With no one left to watch his back, Charlie takes one last drag of his cigar. When all that’s left is ash, The Nickleman drops the cigar before stomping it out with his designer socks.

“Now that I’m all alone in this fight, there’s no one left to hold me back!”

As a snarl spreads across Charlie’s face, two scantily clad call girls appear from the bedroom. Wearing matching lingerie sets, the only difference between the girls seems to be in their hair color. One of the women wears her purple hair all the way down to her waist, while the other woman is simply a ginger.

“Well, you’re not -all- alone, daddy!”

The call girls giggle as they approach The Nickleman in a playful manner. Charlie’s snarl turns to a smirk as he turns around to greet the escorts he’s been ‘wrestling’ with since Warfare went off the air.

“I love the energy, Lycana- but remember what I asked you to call me.”

The ginger giggles as she playfully elbows the other call-girl.

“We’re sorry Geppetto, we promise to be good girls from here on out!”

“That’s a good Betsy! Now, how about we all go back to the bedroom and I’ll show you ladies what a no-clothes Nelson looks like!”

Charlie places his arms atop the women’s shoulders as he guides them towards the bedroom. The musical track fades out, and the sound of mechanical whirring can be heard in its place. The women seem to hear it, too, because they turn around and look directly at the camera in shock!

The escorts push Charlie away as they scramble to pick up their clothes!

“What the hell is that thing!”

The ginger woman points directly at the camera as she tries to cover her immodest figure.

“Have you been filming us this whole time, you sick creep?!”

“Woah, ladies, calm down! It’s not what it looks like! That camera isn’t filming you, it’s just filming me! The XWF has drones that follow all the talent around, so that way it can always film promotional material for our matches!”

The girls look at Charlie with a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief.

“You’re telling me you guys don’t have regular camera-men? I call B.S.!”

“No, it’s true! I swear! It has been established in XWF media TIME and TIME again that there is an army of surveillance drones following the talent around to film their promos! I swear this isn’t going to wind up on Pornhub!”

The call-girls look at each other with disgust, both barely half-clothed. They make their way towards the door as they gather all their belongings.

“Yeah, well, call us back when you’re done working! We told you we don’t consent to being filmed!”

The women slam the door shut behind them, leaving Charlie all alone for real this time. The Nickleman snaps his fingers in cartoonish fashion as he watches the 10/10 babes leave the scene.

“Damn it! Peter paid for six hours, and I only got three!”

The Nickleman shakes his head with exasperated disappointment before turning back towards the drone’s camera. Charlie cocks his head to the side as he listens to the soft whirring of the drone’s propellors.

“The cameras…that follow all the talent around…”

A sinister grin spread across Charlie’s bearded lips as an idea starts forming in his head. Dolly’s great betrayal had taken Charlie completely by surprise, but in this moment, Charlie pledged that he would never let himself be vulnerable again. From here on out, Charlie promised to never be caught off-guard.

Because his eyes in the sky would always be watching.



What did I miss, Dolly?

I was always there for you when you needed me.

Don’t you remember the summer of 21’, when your career was falling apart? You had just turned 18, and you could no longer hang your hat on being a ‘child prodigy’. Instead, you were finally being treated like everyone else: and your fragile little ego couldn’t handle it.

When it came time for you to STEP UP, you STEPPED BACK! You were missing bookings, skipping shows, and tucking your tail. The year that I drafted you to Charlie’s Carnies with my second-round pick, you had only won a single match on Warfare.

One.

Match.

In seven months.

Your career was thrashing around like a rat caught in the XWF’s garbage disposal: half-dead, screaming, and circling the drain!

No wonder everyone ridiculed me for wasting a pick on you! You were bringing nothing to the table all year long, you were nothing but a risk when I picked you. But I saw something in you that no one else did, Dolly. I saw a young woman who was true and genuine, a troubled girl who loved wrestling just as much as I did.

And, even more so…

I saw the blue-eyed, blonde-haired daughter that I never had.

So I took a chance on you, even knowing that it could end up costing me in the end…and boy did it cost me!

But in the process of costing my team the win…I MADE YOU A STAR!

Charlie’s Carnies giftwrapped you the X-treme Championship, and you still couldn’t get the job done for us!

I helped you pin Jim Caedus. I helped you pin Bobby Bourbon. I put you in a position to blow the doors off the XWF and win it all! With my guiding hand pressed gently upon your back, I pushed you all the way to the finish line, with nothing but my grit and determination.

And then, of course, you laid down for Corey Smith and Alias like the dumb dog you are.

They’re your new best friends, right? I suppose you just couldn’t bring yourself to strike them! Or maybe you were just so dope-sick from all that meth you smoked before the match, that you ran out of gas?

I didn’t forget, Dolly: that your fiendish habits cost us both in the end. But it was okay, Dolly…I didn’t mind. Because your dark addictions just reminded me of home. They reminded me of myself.

I resurrected your career when I drafted you to ‘Charlie’s Carnies’. I gave you the spotlight when you needed it most. You can deny it now, four years down the line, but we both know the truth:

I saved your career!

And I never even asked for a thank you. I never demanded your obedience. All I asked for was your friendship, and maybe some damn respect!

But I guess that was just too much for you to give.

Now that I think of it…this is just like the Summer of 21’ playing out all over again, ain’t it?

Dolly’s career is spiraling fast, she hasn’t won a real match in MONTHS, and she’s been avoiding TV tapings like the plague!

But still, she comes sauntering down that ramp on Warfare, expecting Charlie Nickles to make her star shine again. She hasn’t put the work in, she hasn’t captivated the audience, she hasn’t done anything but disappear for weeks on-end!

So this time, Dolly?

I won’t play along with your little ego-trip.

It’s true Dolly, the things you said last Warfare broke my heart...but I’m going to pay the favor back to you a thousand times over when we meet inside that ring.

I’ve already pinned you once before…

So this time, Dolly?

I’m zipping the fuckin’ body bag!




We cut to a shot of the XWF corporate boardroom, the morning after the attack on Peter Principal. 

Charlie Nickles sits at the head of the table with his feet up on the desk and ‘Big Gold’ proudly positioned in front of him. Across from the comically large table sits Elon Musk and Nadine, Peter Principle's personal secretary. Elon Musk is burying his face in a laptop computer as Nadine is stuck on hold with the local emergency room. Charlie stares down his corporate partners with a grizzled look of disdain.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me Dolly Waters was in the building?”

“W-well, ehrm, we didn’t know she was in the building!”

The Nickleman rolls his eyes at Elon’s answer, clearly finding it inadequate. He refixes his gaze upon Nadine, who is still waiting on hold with the hospital.

“Is that your answer, too?”

“That’s what happened, Charlie! No one knew she was coming back, we had no idea until she was standing there in front of us!”

The Nickleman leans back in his chair as he considers his next move.

“The XWF has an army of video surveillance drones that film every promo, but you’re telling me no one knew where Dolly Waters was?”

Elon and Nadine look betwixt each other nervously.

“We have hundreds of drones, we have blood samples from everyone on the roster, we have social security numbers, birth certificates, and home addresses- but we can’t keep track of one little hussy?!”

Elon looks up from his laptop and coughs into his hands before trying to appease The Nickleman.

“Erhm, well Charlie, the drones record everything, but it’s not monitored live! All the footage gets dumped into one giant data bank, and the XWF producers comb through it manually to build the vignettes. Real-time tracking would take a full AI-powered rebuild!”

“So rebuild it.”

The Nickleman slides his feet off the desk, throwing them against the floor with a decisive finality. Nadine shoots a look of exasperated disbelief towards Elon, but Musk doesn’t even notice her subtle dissent. Elon just slams his laptop shut as his eyes go wide with excitement. 

“Oh my god, yes.

YES!

You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to implement threat-based behavioral monitoring and constant surveillance in the XWF! We can film all talent 24/7, and have our proprietary AI software constantly analyze their level of loyalty to The Corporation!”

Nadine waves her hands in the air, trying to get everyone’s attention.

“Now hold on guys, we can’t do anything like that! That would be a huge violation of privacy, and not to mention, we don’t have anything close to the budget for a complete rebuild!

Charlie lets her comments linger in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time. Then, he stands up from his chair and makes a beeline towards Nadine. The secretary looks incredibly uncomfortable as The Nickleman kneels right next to her.

“Wait a second…did you just tell me that I *can’t* do something?”

The Nickleman cocks his head to the side as he measures Nadine’s nervous response. He taps the nameplate on his championship belt exactly three times.

“You see this right here? This means I can do whatever the fuck I want, and -you- can’t tell me shit.

Got it?”

Nadine leans away from Charlie as she stumbles through her response. Elon pipes up nervously, trying to defuse the situation.

“Ehrm well, hold on now Charlie…she does make a good point about the budget! We will have to look for creative ways to free up funding, perhaps by routing it through one of my shell companies!”

The Nickleman shoots a chilling glare in Elon’s direction.

“Zip it, Muskrat!”

Elon’s eyes go wide before Charlie shoots his gaze back towards Nadine.

“I’m just saying, I can’t greenlight any new expenditures without Peter here! I really want to Charlie, I really do! But I just don’t have the authorization to rebuild our drone program, only the General Manager does!”

A snarl curls across Charlie’s lips.

“Really? Is that so?”

Charlie leans in closer.

“Because I don’t remember anyone authorizing you as the arbiter of the 24/7 hallways.”

Charlie pauses, considering his next words carefully as Nadine remains frozen in fear.

“You screwed Dickie Watson out of his championship…

Are you trying to do the same fucking thing to me, Nadine?”

Charlie stared into Nadine’s eyes with an unmatched intensity. As he cocked his to the side, he considered where Nadine’s allegiances may truly lie. Was she a revolutionary asset, put in place to stall his agenda? Or even worse, could she have been bought off by remnants of Gorgo’s Rainbow?

As Charlie considered the possibilities, Nadine did her best to clear the air of suspicion between them!

“No, Charlie, of course not! I LOVE what you’re doing as champion! I’m totally behind this project 100%! We just need the General Manager to sign off on it, and that’s why I’m on the line with the hospital right now trying to get a hold of him!”

Charlie finally stepped away from Nadine as Elon started drawing seemingly complex, yet absolutely simplistic diagrams all over the whiteboard on the wall.

“With a new fleet of drones powered by my propriety AI software, we will be able to cross-reference promos, backstage cam feeds, and even crowd reactions! You want 24/7 operations? You’ll know who needs watching before they even know they’re a problem!”

Charlie grins, his eyes glittering as he steps up to the whiteboard.

“Now that’s the kind of paranoia I’m talking about!”

Nadine cuts in one last time, trying to hold the line.

“I totally love this, all of it! I couldn’t agree more!...Buuuuuut we can’t do any of this without Peter here! And he’s still in the emergency room at the Hennepin County Medical Center!”

Charlie and Elon share a groan of disdain as they look back at Nadine with frustration. Charlie shakes his head with a snarl before making his way towards the exit, with ‘Big Gold’ slung over shoulder.

“Fine then. I’ll go get the son of a bitch!”

The door to the boardroom slams shut behind Charlie Nickles, quietly rattling on its hinges as Nadine slumps down in her chair.

“He’s really going to do this, isn’t he?”





I'll be asking the questions around here!

So tell me Dolly...just who the fuck do you think you are?

I know who you’re acting like.

You’re acting just like Lycana, just like Betsy Granger, just like that Latina Submission Machina…

3 women who tempted fate with The Nickleman, and were never seen in the XWF again.

You’re making the exact same mistake every one of them made, and you don’t even realize it. You’re walking in the footsteps of women who are far more talented than you’ll ever be: and you can’t even recognize their shadows on the road!

But that’s the hubris of youth. That’s the unabashed arrogance of Dolly Waters. Since Rebellion went off the air, you’ve done nothing but sit on your couch and diddle your bean…until all of a sudden you decide to come out and demand a shot at MY title?

How about you try EARNING something for once in your life, Dolly?

Now that I’ve climbed the proverbial mountain, the XWF’s resident socialist thinks she’s just entitled to the things I work so fucking hard for! The things which I bleed so very much for. She wants it for herself: my myth, my legend, my glory. But she couldn’t bear my pain. She doesn’t want my scars, my chains.

She wants my gold, but she doesn’t want my sacrifice.

How typical.

Dolly’s never earned a damn thing in her life! She’s just made a career out of standing beside people who did! Holy fuck, no wonder I couldn’t win a War Games until I got you off my team! All you ever wanted was the spotlight, not the sacrifice. You were nothing but deadweight, being dragged along on mine and Robert Main’s coattails.

But riding coattails is your specialty, ain’t it, Dolly?

Carrying someone else’s gold, that’s peak Dolly Waters!  She learned early on in her career that it’s easier to win gold when someone else does the wrestling, and bam-voila a tag-team star was born!

She’ll team with anyone, so long as they can drag her sorry ass across the finish line. They can be a “Revolutionary” like Schism, or a “Cunt-servative” like Dyson: so long as they’re willing to do the hard work for her, she’ll happily tag along! But as soon as her partner needs even a little bit of help, she’ll drop em’ on a dime and swap em’ right out!

Don’t ask me how I know…

So is that why they call you one of the greatest “tag” champions of all time, Dolly? Because all you ever do is “tag” along for the reigns?

You cost Madison Dyson the belts at Rebellion, and then you disappeared from the XWF for an entire month! Why the fuck should that qualify you for the main event at Leap of Faith? I mean, think about it! You haven’t been leading a revolution. You’ve been sitting at home, crying into your blankie ever since Peter Principal put you in time-out!

What kind of revolutionary sits at home for weeks on-end, simply because their boss told them to?

An obedient one, that’s for damn sure!

Is Dolly Waters a revolutionary, or is she a golden fucking retriever?

When Peter tells that bitch to stay, she stays her ass at home! Peter said ‘sit’, and Dolly sat her ass on the couch for a whole damn month!

You told Peter that you will “risk your career” against me for this match, Dolly?

You stupid bitch.

How did you not stop and realize, that as soon as you dared to stand against me…your career was already on the line!

You’re no better than Granger, than Caedus, than Lycana, than Lynx, than Marshall, than each and every name I already have hanging on my mantle!

I’ll put you out to pasture along with the rest of em’, you ungrateful little shit.

This is how you treat me, after all I’ve done for you?

Go ahead, Dolly: I already know what you’re going to say. You’re going to condemn me for ending that young woman’s XWF career. You’re going to say exactly what Aurora already said, exactly what Mark Flynn already said…because that’s what Dolly Waters is known for! It’s what makes you such a legend in the tag division…the fact that you work best when someone else is pulling the strings.

But please, remind me again: which young woman’s career are Aurora and Mark talking about? 

Lycana’s?

Betsy’s?

…Or yours, Dolly?

Come Leap of Faith, you won’t have anyone left in your corner to bail you out. All your “revolutionary” sidekicks, all those tag-team partners you’ve cut loose- they won’t be around to save you this time.

Because there’s only one kind of ‘tag’ in the XWF main event:

The fuckin’ toe-tag on all my challengers!







[Image: henne.jpg?fit=1000%2C750&ssl=1]



An ambulance idles outside Hennepin County Medical Center, just blocks away from the Target Center. The back doors swing open as paramedics wheel out a patient on a gurney. The ER doors slide apart, and a wave of screams rush out: the cries of the dying. Two unbothered security guards stand off to the side, chatting into their radios as they share a smoke break.

The camera zooms in as the guards puff on their cigarettes. As the black trails rise, the smoke slowly curls into one cloud. The faint outline of the reaper appears in the smoke just before it dissipates.

Or at least, that’s what The Nickleman sees as he pulls up to the hospital’s curb!

Rolling in a red hummer limousine, The Nickleman steps out of the backseat with his championship belt, but only once his driver finally opens the door. Dressed in a pin-striped suit and wearing a pair of Louis Vuitton’s on his feet, The Nickleman gives his chauffeur a smile and a patronizing pat on the head as he steps out.

“Thanks for the lift, Jack.

And here, for your troubles…”

The Nickleman reaches into his wallet and pulls out exactly 1 X-bux, shoving it into his driver’s tuxedo pocket.

“Wow, thanks, Mr. Nickleman!”

“Hey, it’s the least I can do!”

Charlie turns to walk away…then stops, and starts patting his pockets like he’s lost something! He immediately turns around and fishes the X-bux right out of the driver’s pocket!

“Actually… no. That was the least I could do.

Now get your ass back in the limo and wait for me like a good little bitch!”

Charlie tucks the X-bux into his wallet with a cheap laugh before strolling off towards the hospital. The driver watches him walk away with slumped shoulders, but that didn’t bother Charlie one bit: because now, it was finally his turn to push people around and call the shots!  And Charlie planned on cherishing every moment of malice.

The sliding doors open with a hiss as the Universal Champion steps through the hospital’s front gate.

The Nickleman came to the ER to find Peter Principal, so that he could get authorization to launch his new drone surveillance program- but inside the maze of Hennepin’s hallways, that would be anything but easy!

As Charlie moved through the hospital, he could barely hear himself think over the cries of the screaming junkies and gunshot victims filling up the emergency room!  The ER staff moved fast, speaking in hushed tones as they rushed from patient to patient, from flatline to flatline. Monotone monitors beeped in rhythm with the ticking clocks posted outside every room.

Each tick was like a judge’s gavel, counting down the seconds of borrowed time.

Tick—

The ventilator in Room 134 hisses out its last breath.

Tick—

A father screams as his daughter’s pulse vanishes from the screen in Room 182.

Tick—

A doctor closes the eyes of a young blonde woman as he places the toe-tag on her foot.

The whole ward runs like clockwork: efficient, mechanical, and indifferent to the winds of death. As the cold air drifted between rooms, the ER staff moved with it, gliding from patient to patient dressed like pale horsemen in white coats. Charlie walks through this downtown valley of death like a man untouchable, ‘Big Gold’ slung over his shoulder like a badge of impunity.

Charlie wanders around the emergency room, but he can’t find Peter’s room anywhere. He can’t even find a nurse’s station! He’s completely lost in the innards of Hennepin’s labyrinth, wandering through corridors he was never meant to find.

Closed doors lined both walls, muffling the moans of mortal misery behind them. The air grew thick with the smell of rusted iron, seeping in through the cracks in the walls. Charlie plugs one of his nostrils and snorts hard, letting that familiar scent of scarlet fill his nose.  When he blinks, the hallway seemingly shifts. Almost as if he had stolen a random pill off the nurse’s cart and stuffed it up his nose, right then and there!

The fluorescent lights overhead now flicker in rhythm with the clocks, with each ‘tick’ shrouding the corridor in intermittent darkness. The linoleum tiles are suddenly covered with oozing ichor, leaking out from the cracking walls. The doors to the patient’s rooms are no longer made of cold metal, instead, they’ve turned into old wood: scorched from the bottom up as if the fires of hell had raged behind them.

“What the…”

That’s when Charlie spots a janitor at the end of the hall, slowly dragging his mop back and forth across the same oozing spot. The janitor’s strokes are jagged yet deliberate, like a puppet whose strings are being pulled by an unseen hand.

“Hey! Can you tell me where Peter’s room is?”

As the janitor lifts his head to reply, Charlie is frozen in shock. The man has a pale, leathery face that’s been pulled gaunt across his cheekbones. Thin strands of dead hair hang down to the man’s shoulders, but what troubled Charlie most was the man’s eyes.

Or lack thereof!

Two empty holes stared back at Charlie where eye sockets used to be. Yet somehow, Charlie feels the man staring not just at him, but through him!

“Peter? Oh, Peter hasn’t been a janitor here in years…not since you drove him off. Not since that night in the cage.”

Charlie stiffens. He tries to sniff again, but the hallway doesn’t return to normal.

“That stuff with Peter was just business.”

“Business is blood, Mr. Nickles. You spilled his… and then you spilled everyone else’s too. That’s why it never stops. It stains deeper the more you pour.”

Charlie’s jaw drops as he looks down and realizes that he’s standing in a pool of blood.

“You’re talking like I made this mess!”

The janitor drags the mop again. A wet shlick, like a slit throat. The ooze swirls, but it never goes away. New ichor constantly bleeds in through the edges.

“You keep adding names to the list. Bodies to the pile. I’m mopping blood that ain’t even finished falling.”

Charlie takes a half-step back, clutching ‘Big Gold’ as the janitor keeps sloshing blood across the floor.

“You don’t know what you’re seeing, you freak! You don’t even have any fuckin’ eyes!”

“But…you’re the one who stole my eyes. After you and your friend leave here today, you’re taking everyone’s eyes. How else could you keep watch over the entire XWF?”

That’s when Charlie Nickles feels something spherical sliding around in his pockets. He reaches in hesitantly, grabbing ahold of the slippery orbs. When Charlie opens his palms to look at his new possessions, he sees a pair of eyeballs staring back at him: his own!

The world suddenly goes black as the muscle’s holding Charlie’s eyes in place are severed.

“Just keep mopping, just keep mopping…”

“Tell me where Peter Principal is, god damn it!”

Charlie demands, trying desperately to assert some kind of control over the apparition. Suddenly, Charlie’s vision returns as the janitor points to the left with a bony finger. His arm creaks as it moves, the sleeve soaked in fresh blood, flowing down freely from his empty eye sockets.

“Down that hall, to the left. Past the screams you drowned. You’ll find him waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“For Geppetto to pull his strings.”

Charlie doesn’t wait for it to make sense. He just takes off, headed in the direction the apparition pointed. It's not long until he finally finds the room where Peter Principle is laying still upon a soiled mattress. Peter's limbs are sickly thin, and his skin has gone ghostly pale. Drool hangs down from Peter’s motionless lips. A silver bell sits on the tray next to him.

"Jesus fucking Christ Peter! All they did was throw you into a vending machine and make you gargle SmartWater…how the fuck could you end up this bad?"

Peter didn’t look, he didn’t even blink as Charlie approached the bed…as if he didn’t have eyes at all.

“For fucks sake, I’ve seen better-looking corpses in the trunk of my car!”

Charlie leaned in with apparent shock, clearly taken aback by Peter’s frail condition.

“Can you even talk, Peter? What the fuck happened to you, man?”

DING!

The Nickleman raised his eyebrow as his eyes darted over towards the silver bell. Peter’s finger tapped it once more for good measure.

DING!

Charlie smirked as he looked back up at the disintegrating body of Warfare’s General Manager.

“Good. That means you can still say ‘yes’ to me.”

DING!

Peter’s head lolled slightly, maybe on purpose, but maybe not. Regardless, Charlie pulled a folded piece of paper out from his blazer, placing it next to Peter’s bell. 

“Here’s the deal, Peter: the days of peaceful coexistence with these fucking rebels is over. They tried to scratch you out of the picture, and now they’re gunning for me next.

I’m not gonna’ let that happen.

This paper right here, it makes me your legal proxy. It gives me full authority to act as Warfare’s General Manager in your stead, at least until you can walk again.

And my first order of business?

Is destroying this fucking Revolution at Leap of Faith!

DING!

DING!

DING!

An excessive amount of drool slips out of Peter’s mouth as he taps his bell an excessive amount of times. Charlie grabs hold of Peter’s wrist, forcing him to stop playing with the bell.

“Just one time for ‘yes’, and two times for ‘no’.”

Peter could tell that it wasn’t a request. Charlie pulled a pen out of his blazer and nestled it inside of Peter’s limp hand. Then, Charlie guided Peter’s hand across the signature line. Charlie’s eyes went wide as the faint mark made it’s way onto the paper.

“Now that’s what I call consent! We’re going to clean house at Leap of Faither, Peter. Revolutionaries. Rainbow freaks. Every last one of em’. You and me: we’re bringing law and order back to the XWF.”

DING!

“But mostly me.

In fact, damn near exclusively me!”

Charlie threw his head back with a victorious guffaw before stuffing the signed authorization form back into his blazer. Charlie quickly stepped away from Peter, determined to get the hell out of this hospital now that he had gotten what he wanted…but Peter’s incessant ringing of the bell caused Charlie to pause.

DING!

DING!

DING!

DING!

Charlie looked back at Peter, laying there motionless on the bed, and he felt something tugging at his heart…was this, sympathy?

Charlie looked around the lonely hospital room, and reflected on everything he had seen so far inside the Hennepin County Medical Center. Patients were dying left and right, the hospital staff moved between rooms like ghosts, and the janitors left the place so dirty, it was like they didn’t even have eyes!

As Charlie looked around the room, his gaze fell upon a suspiciously shiny plaque hanging in the corner of the room. It was a medical degree, and when Charlie squinted at it, he could finally read the name on it:

Dr. Emilia Glazkov


Charlie’s jaw dropped as he finally put two and two together…or so he thought! But then again, reading never was Charlie’s strong suite. Nevertheless, Charlie turned back towards Peter Principal with a look of alarm.

“Are those Rainbow freaks running this E.R.?! Is that why everyone’s fucking dying and shit?!”

DING!

DING!

“Just one ding for ‘yes’, Peter, god damn it!”

The Nickleman rushed the hospital bed, and for a moment Peter was terrified: until he realized that Charlie wasn’t attacking him. Instead, The Nickleman picked Peter Principal up and placed him on his shoulder opposite the universal championship. Charlie pocketed the silver bell before his eyes darted towards the exit.

“Those Rainbow freaks almost killed you, but I’ll be damned if I let them finish the job on my watch! We’re breaking you out of here!”

With Peter on his shoulder and the signed permission forms in his pocket, Charlie took off through the exit! Dashing past the terrified nurses, Charlie wasted no time in escaping from the treacherous maze of Hennepin Hospital; he didn’t slow down until he reached that stretch hummer limousine, still patiently waiting for him alongside the curb.



The revolution just happened, Dolly- and you’re late.

Nobody thought I would ever be the Universal Champion, but here I stand, the one man in charge of the whole fuckin’ show! Nobody believed in me. No one from the Old Guard, and none of the New Bloods- not a damn soul besides myself ever believed. But I didn’t rest on my laurels and complain about it. Instead, I grabbed the entire XWF Universe by it’s damn throat!

The revolution just happened, Dolly- and Peter’s signature is the proof!

The XWF wouldn’t just “give” me the crown…so I had to steal it for myself. And now, there’s not a damn one of you who can take it off me! I never had to ‘sell out’ to make it this far. I just needed XWF Management to finally ‘buy in’!

So welcome to my new regime, Dolly- now get ready for me to take full control, not just of the XWF: but also the narrative around your phony little revolution!

Dolly always craved the spotlight, this bullshit is just her latest ploy to get it. Seriously, what does this chick think she’s going to do? Rebuild the USSR, but with her as Stalin? Rebuild China, but with her as Mao?

Get a fucking grip, girly!

I’M ALREADY DOING THAT!

Revolution or Corporation: it’s all just smoke and mirrors for control. Me and Dolly are two peas in a pod: always have been, always will be. We might come in different shapes and sizes, but at the end of the day, we’re both just clinging to power however we can grab it!

So what kind of Universal Champion would Dolly Waters be?

Look at her track record: whenever she gets a singles belt, she slips up. She doesn’t STEP UP, she only ever STEPS BACK! But not me…when I get my hands on gold, I don’t make mistakes. I only make history!

I’ve been on every show since March Madness, my influence stretched across the entire universe long before my head was ever crowned. My reign of terror stretched across two divisions for months; there was no one who could stop me. And now, there’s nowhere left for my enemies to hide.

The entire Universe is before my eyes! And I won’t stop setting my sights higher and higher, until I find God himself and steal his crown!

After I put Dolly’s career out of it’s misery, I’m going to take out the remnants of The Rainbow. Then, I’m going to behead Kieran King and show everyone that the era of monarchs is over! Now, it’s the age of The Corporation.

Anything you try to accomplish with this belt will pale in comparison, Dolly, because you’ve already hitched your wagon to a dead horse.

Let’s be frank, sweetheart: nobody is held back unfairly in the XWF. If the ‘Thugz’ wanted a pay raise, they would just start wrestling better! If Tatiana Jolee deserved a championship belt, she’d have one!

You get exactly what you give in this company, and that’s why hard-working men like me get EVERYTHING, and entitled brats like you get NOTHING!

This company wasn’t built for people like me, but still I scratched and clawed my way to the top! I don’t have a family legacy. I wasn’t born with the “right” last name. I didn’t come into this industry with connections and guidance.

I’ve got no ‘Uncle Edgar.’

No ‘Sugar Daddy Duke.’

No ‘Waters Family Legacy’.

I had to EARN my place in this company, by climbing Geppetto’s Ladder one rung, one body, one soul at a time! The suffering, the agony, the pain: I had to make it my home. I had to learn to live with my anguish, to THRIVE with it, to climb the ranks. I had to fight my way across TWO divisions at ONCE just to earn my shot at the big one!

Dolly can’t even understand the sacrifices I made to get here!

Dolly doesn’t know how to climb, not like I do.

All she can do is chirp, moan, and bitch while she waits for someone else to come and save the day. Like a damn crack whore in distress, Dolly can never fight her own battles: all she can do is trade away her dignity for one night’s sugar rush.

Dolly Waters didn’t EARN this match at Leap of Faith. Losing Madison Dyson’s spare belt doesn’t qualify you for a shot at ‘Big Gold’. Disappearing from TV for months at a time doesn’t qualify you. And just blatantly stealing Bacchus’ gimmick after he leaves certainly doesn’t earn you a shot!

Dolly got this match for one reason and one reason only:

Because she begged for it.

And the kicker?

Dolly isn’t even serious about retiring! She already has herself booked for the Smashed Supershow! She’s just throwing a tempter tantrum, and threatening to leave the XWF if we don’t give her what she wants.

But all I’m fixin’ to give this bitch is a knuckle-fuckin’-sandwich!

What a whiney brat you’ve turned into, Dolly. Threatening to take your ball and go to York’s house if Daddy Duke doesn’t give in to your hysterics. You’re just pulling this stunt so you can pull on the heartstrings of the XWF’s dumbest, and most gullible fans.

But I didn’t raise you to be a liar, Dolly.  So when we meet in that ring at Leap of Faith, I’m going to end your career for real.

You want to stick up for Robyn so badly?

Then you can rot beside her, for good.

I already forgave myself for what I did wrong, Dolly…but I will never forgive you for this betrayal.





We cut to a wide shot of Kroger Field, on the eve of Leap of Faith. Waiting just outside of an XWF-branded video truck, we see Charlie Nickles and his corporate crew standing in a cordoned off section of the parking lot. Charlie, Elon, Nadine and Peter are all in attendance.

“I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long, long time.”

The Nickleman bares a sadistic smile as he repositions ‘Big Gold’ upon his shoulder. Nadine attends to Peter’s drooling mouth as Elon steps forward to hype up his newest invention.

“You’re going to love it Charlie, I promise! I built it all according to your exact specifications! Erm, well, my engineers technically designed it and day laborers technically constructed it, but my point still stands!

This is the panopticon of the 21st century. A mobile surveillance headquarters, able to tap into any feed, at any time! With live action behavior monitoring and constant AI-powered analysis, my invention ensures that The Corporation will never be taken by surprise again!”

DING!

Peter excitedly rings his bell as The Nickleman nods along with Elon’s words. Nadine is the only who shows any hesitation at all, but she’s doing her best to hide it, lest Charlie see!

“It is my pleasure to introduce you to….The NickleNet!”

The door to the truck finally opens when Elon bangs loudly on the side of the vehicle. The Corporation stands outside the truck in bewilderment, just staring in at all the fancy lights and monitors. Elon gestures for Charlie to step aboard.

“Be my guest, Charlie. We built it for you, after all!”

Charlie grins as he ascends the stairs into The NickleNet’s mobile HQ. As the champion looks around, he can’t help but be impressed by the size and scope of it all. Inside this mobile HQ, dozens of monitors display dozens of live video feeds. All of your favorite XWF Superstars flash across a screen in real time, being constantly monitored by The Corporation’s own AI software.

Seated in a metal chair in the middle of the truck, “The Grok” remains perfectly still, hooked up to a super-computer that empowers him to analyze the loyalty of any XWF wrestler at a moment’s notice.

“It’s…beautiful.”

As “The Grok” constantly analyzes the live footage being captured by drones, Charlie can’t help but feel a wave of relaxation washing over him. No longer trapped in a world of deception and betrayal, The Nickleman would now know the truth long before it could ever be used to stab him in the back again.

From this moment on, The Nickleman’s eyes would finally stretch across the entire XWF Universe!
]]> <![CDATA[The Faith of A King 1: After Every Leap Comes A Fall]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49075 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 23:59:18 -0700 Isaiah King]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49075 The Faith of A King 1: After Every Leap Comes A Fall

"If above link isn't working: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pTLT...sp=sharing"
]]> The Faith of A King 1: After Every Leap Comes A Fall

"If above link isn't working: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pTLT...sp=sharing"
]]> <![CDATA[Vs 'Allegedly' Michael Graves [Anarchy Title]]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49074 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 23:58:00 -0700 TactilizingOne]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49074 "I want to carry that with me into Leap of Faith, and show that I can play at the level of such a standard bearer.”




XWF S01E12
"Transition"
Click Here
]]> "I want to carry that with me into Leap of Faith, and show that I can play at the level of such a standard bearer.”




XWF S01E12
"Transition"
Click Here
]]> <![CDATA[Second Chances]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49073 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 23:42:46 -0700 Lucy Wylde]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49073 Second Chances]]> Second Chances]]> <![CDATA[Dream (vs. Kieran King)]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49072 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 22:47:45 -0700 Messenger]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49072
It's a cruel world out there, folks. Don't forget to:

DREAM]]>
It's a cruel world out there, folks. Don't forget to:

DREAM]]> <![CDATA[A Taste of the Prohibited]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49071 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 21:59:02 -0700 Blizzard]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49071

In which Aidan starts to see some old habits resurface

https://godkiller.io/a-taste-of-the-prohibited
[Word count: 3937]]]>

In which Aidan starts to see some old habits resurface

https://godkiller.io/a-taste-of-the-prohibited
[Word count: 3937]]]> <![CDATA[Gate IX - The Suture Who Laughs]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49070 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 21:48:15 -0700 emiliaglazkov]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49070 Author’s Note
These is not neutral accounts. The Obsidian Gates was written by Emilia Glazkov many years after the events it describes, when the truth had already begun to fracture. At the time of writing, she is older, fluent, and dangerously self-aware. The voice you’ll read is hers—refined by time, sharpened by belief—but she is recounting the early days, before the cult called the Black Rainbow took shape. Before the world changed. And while she tells it all as memory, make no mistake: this is still scripture.


[Image: the-suture-that-laughs.webp]

THE SUTURE WHO LAUGHS

In Gate IX, the Black Rainbow reconvenes beneath the Vale. Fresh off their championship victory, Emilia is summoned by Maraeth to reflect on past failures, vanished allies, and a timeline gone sideways. In a chamber stitched from memory and flesh, the truth is named: Maraeth will return. A new mind will be taken. And the reckoning begins on August 4th. This is not a celebration. It is a correction. And it will not be denied a second time.]]> Author’s Note
These is not neutral accounts. The Obsidian Gates was written by Emilia Glazkov many years after the events it describes, when the truth had already begun to fracture. At the time of writing, she is older, fluent, and dangerously self-aware. The voice you’ll read is hers—refined by time, sharpened by belief—but she is recounting the early days, before the cult called the Black Rainbow took shape. Before the world changed. And while she tells it all as memory, make no mistake: this is still scripture.


[Image: the-suture-that-laughs.webp]

THE SUTURE WHO LAUGHS

In Gate IX, the Black Rainbow reconvenes beneath the Vale. Fresh off their championship victory, Emilia is summoned by Maraeth to reflect on past failures, vanished allies, and a timeline gone sideways. In a chamber stitched from memory and flesh, the truth is named: Maraeth will return. A new mind will be taken. And the reckoning begins on August 4th. This is not a celebration. It is a correction. And it will not be denied a second time.]]> <![CDATA["Micheal Graves" in "A Puppet and an Action Figure"]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49069 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 21:47:54 -0700 Mark Flynn]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49069 There I lay.

Having fallen two stories through the Mall-of-America.

Franky Marigold and I… driven through a table pyramid.

Like a lost soul attending a riverside religious revival.

I submerged myself in X-Treme.

Re-baptised in my own blood.

…

After wandering through a desert of hopelessness…

Fighting a ceaseless tide of corporate oppression…

For a moment?

I felt cleansed.

Hopeful.

My eyes fluttered as a glimmering light shone upon my blood-soaked face…

I imagined the clouds parting…

Knowing my holy mission’s next phase would stream fully-formed into my mind…

The light would answer my question…

How can I make things better?

And that light?

…

The neon glow.

Of a god-DAMNED Panda Express.

…

What a fool I’ve been.

Thinking that match would purify my soul.

Lifting the XWF’s corporate interests upon my back…

Wrestling a match with more product placement than any other in XWF history.

I screamed for the workers to rise…

As the moneymen’s box offices overflowed.

Charging for every syllable streaming out my goddamn gullet.

…

I imagined myself.

Stalemated against the all-consuming corporate machine.

…

In that light, I saw clearly.

I’d been powering the machine.

My mission to bring the Revolutionary Dream to life…

Commodified by my corporate masters.

My oath to create a fairer world for my son?

Split into YouTube shorts, TikToks, Reels…

Converting mindless masses into zealots of the product.

A year of my purest efforts to make this world better?

Currently on sale, lining bargain bins around the globe.

[Image: XzfN5nk.png]

…

A puppet.

Strings tugged effortlessly by management.

…

At this moment?

Who do I encounter?

Larry FUCKING Tact.

An active player in the poisoning of the sport I love.

Not a puppet.

An action-figure.


”Kids, get your butts on the couch and your daddy’s credit card on standby! It’s another TACTILIZING episode of…”

[Image: 8qUxcND.png]
”With his sidekick, Jakey!”

[Image: lEJR0U9.jpeg]

”Wowie-zowie, Mister Tact! What are we doing here?” Jakey ponders, realistic lips moving on his cartoon face.

[Image: FvDpwu3.gif]

”My TACTILIZING senses…” ‘Tact’ replies, sounding suspiciously like Flynn ‘Graves’. ”Indicate there are nearby sucker… er… people! Needing… Tactilizing!”


Inside the tent, stereotypical robbers haul cash into crates…

”Excellent, fellow criminals! XWF’s shareholders will never realize we’ve stolen their dividends!”

”And we’ll use that money for world domination!”

”Egad! Those Robbers want world domination!”

”Even worse, chum! They’re depriving the shareholders of their hard-earned dividends! Time to Tactilize!”

”Not so fast!”

Our heroes…

Surrounded by the robbers!

”*gulp*”


COMMERCIAL BREAK


”Children! DEMAND your parents buy…”

[Image: LrpEfPg.png]

”Larry Tact’s Tact-ion Figure™!”

”With five catchphrases! Three more than Real Larry!”

”TACTILIZING!”

$27.50!



Larry and Jakey are tied-up!

”Mister Tact! How will we escape this mess?”

”Reach for your pocket!”

Jakey strains! His thin hands worms downwards...

”...There! Want the bobby pin I keep for emergen-”

”Get your wallet.”

”...What?”

”$2750! That’s what Tactilizing Yourself costs!”

”...I don’t have cash…”

”I take credit cards.”

Tact’s arm whips over the ropes, a Stripe plugged into his cellphone.

”...Wait, are you even tied up?”

…

Tact wiggles the card reader expectantly.


The robbers continue loading crates.

Our heroes emerge!

”Stealing from the wealthy is wrong, scum!”

”Or from anyone!”

”...Eh.”

Larry attacks using Tact Enterprises’ ENTIRE ANIMATION BUDGET!

[Image: zrDicID.gif]

”The shareholder’s dividends are safe!”

”Mister Tact!!”

Two robbers have taken Jakey!

”I paid you $2750! Save me!”

Thinking quickly, Larry whips out…

…A disclaimer-of-warranty.

”The Tactilize Yourself™ program does not guarantee success.”

The robbers shove Jakey into a car!

“Results shown in commercials are neither typical nor guaranteed.”

The robbers escape!

…As Larry sighs, relieved.

”Phew, got the warranty out… No liability for Tact Enterprises!”

“Larry saves the day!”


A dark room…

Two hands maneuver…

[Image: XzfN5nk.png]

“Micheal Graves” DVDs…

Into a pyramid…

…Above that pyramid…

…Atop a DVD stack…

A Tact-ion Figure.

Its legs springload…

It leapfrogs airborne!

And thuds onto the pyramid.

”TACTILIZING!”

”Larry.”

”I find myself surrounded…”

“By moneymen. Determined to quash my movement.”

“And monsters seeking to infect my Thursday Night worker’s paradise...”

“The Black Rainbow looms over Anarchy.”

…

“Know what’s funny, Larry?”

“The wicked creatures?”

“Threatening the XWF’s way-of-life?”

“Jam product placement galore into their ‘invasion’”

“Waterboarding Peter Principle… with Smart Water?”

“Luring Aurora to an ambush… at a M3GAN 2.0 screening?”

…

“That’s my landscape… Corporate suits, preserving the status quo, standing on the working wrestler’s throats.”

“And the evil invaders… seeking world domination.”

“To take THEIR turn…”

“Standing on those same throats.”

“Then, there’s YOU, Lar-Bear.”

“The parasite.”

“Finding the helpless who can’t fight back…”

“And charging $2750 to TACTILIZE THEMSELVES.”

…

“Snake-oil salesman…”

“FRAUD.”

“Milking the last drops of hope from the hopeless.”

“Urging them not to question the system that’s created this nightmare of non-choice.”

“Don’t think!”

“Keep running!”

“Don’t question!”

“Keep spending!”

”And I *could* say I’m beating you…

“So that the world can see you.”

“For the charlatan predator you are.”

”But you’re the symptom, Lawrence.”

“Not the disease."

…

”However”

“I can *use* you…”

“To aim a message…”

“Higher.”

The hands flip a DVD over…

On its back-cover…

EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
JIMMY STARS


"Jimmy Stars."

"New Anarchy GM."

“You’re a hard guy to get ahold of, Starburst.”

“Never in your office…”

”Trying to avoid me, Jim-Jam?”

“Hoping to wait me out?”

“ALL-TIME Longest-Reigning Anarchy champion.”

“Three-hundred days-and-counting…”

The hands lift ‘Larry’…

“Thinking…Maybe… if you toss an action-figure at Ol’ Gravy?”

“The problem’ll solve itself?”

…

”You ever really look at one of these, Jimmy?”

“They appear strong.”

“Resilient.”

“But, like Larry himself?”

…SNAP. The toy snaps into chunks…

”They crack under pressure.”

”T-t-tacti-l-l-l-lizing…”

”Maybe you’re a visual learner, Star-boy.”

The hands retrieve a match…

Its light reveals the setting…

A warehouse…

Full of ‘Micheal Graves’ DVDs.

…

One hand holds the match.

The other lifts what's left of 'Tact'…

The two meet.

Instantly, 'Tact' is ablaze!

”Lead paint. Like a roman candle…”

The hand chucks ‘Tact’ toward the DVDs…

In moments, the merchandise towers?

A blazing inferno…

”Jimmy.”

“I ain’t satisfied with six-point-nine percent.”

“I’m coming for it all.”]]> There I lay.

Having fallen two stories through the Mall-of-America.

Franky Marigold and I… driven through a table pyramid.

Like a lost soul attending a riverside religious revival.

I submerged myself in X-Treme.

Re-baptised in my own blood.

…

After wandering through a desert of hopelessness…

Fighting a ceaseless tide of corporate oppression…

For a moment?

I felt cleansed.

Hopeful.

My eyes fluttered as a glimmering light shone upon my blood-soaked face…

I imagined the clouds parting…

Knowing my holy mission’s next phase would stream fully-formed into my mind…

The light would answer my question…

How can I make things better?

And that light?

…

The neon glow.

Of a god-DAMNED Panda Express.

…

What a fool I’ve been.

Thinking that match would purify my soul.

Lifting the XWF’s corporate interests upon my back…

Wrestling a match with more product placement than any other in XWF history.

I screamed for the workers to rise…

As the moneymen’s box offices overflowed.

Charging for every syllable streaming out my goddamn gullet.

…

I imagined myself.

Stalemated against the all-consuming corporate machine.

…

In that light, I saw clearly.

I’d been powering the machine.

My mission to bring the Revolutionary Dream to life…

Commodified by my corporate masters.

My oath to create a fairer world for my son?

Split into YouTube shorts, TikToks, Reels…

Converting mindless masses into zealots of the product.

A year of my purest efforts to make this world better?

Currently on sale, lining bargain bins around the globe.

[Image: XzfN5nk.png]

…

A puppet.

Strings tugged effortlessly by management.

…

At this moment?

Who do I encounter?

Larry FUCKING Tact.

An active player in the poisoning of the sport I love.

Not a puppet.

An action-figure.


”Kids, get your butts on the couch and your daddy’s credit card on standby! It’s another TACTILIZING episode of…”

[Image: 8qUxcND.png]
”With his sidekick, Jakey!”

[Image: lEJR0U9.jpeg]

”Wowie-zowie, Mister Tact! What are we doing here?” Jakey ponders, realistic lips moving on his cartoon face.

[Image: FvDpwu3.gif]

”My TACTILIZING senses…” ‘Tact’ replies, sounding suspiciously like Flynn ‘Graves’. ”Indicate there are nearby sucker… er… people! Needing… Tactilizing!”


Inside the tent, stereotypical robbers haul cash into crates…

”Excellent, fellow criminals! XWF’s shareholders will never realize we’ve stolen their dividends!”

”And we’ll use that money for world domination!”

”Egad! Those Robbers want world domination!”

”Even worse, chum! They’re depriving the shareholders of their hard-earned dividends! Time to Tactilize!”

”Not so fast!”

Our heroes…

Surrounded by the robbers!

”*gulp*”


COMMERCIAL BREAK


”Children! DEMAND your parents buy…”

[Image: LrpEfPg.png]

”Larry Tact’s Tact-ion Figure™!”

”With five catchphrases! Three more than Real Larry!”

”TACTILIZING!”

$27.50!



Larry and Jakey are tied-up!

”Mister Tact! How will we escape this mess?”

”Reach for your pocket!”

Jakey strains! His thin hands worms downwards...

”...There! Want the bobby pin I keep for emergen-”

”Get your wallet.”

”...What?”

”$2750! That’s what Tactilizing Yourself costs!”

”...I don’t have cash…”

”I take credit cards.”

Tact’s arm whips over the ropes, a Stripe plugged into his cellphone.

”...Wait, are you even tied up?”

…

Tact wiggles the card reader expectantly.


The robbers continue loading crates.

Our heroes emerge!

”Stealing from the wealthy is wrong, scum!”

”Or from anyone!”

”...Eh.”

Larry attacks using Tact Enterprises’ ENTIRE ANIMATION BUDGET!

[Image: zrDicID.gif]

”The shareholder’s dividends are safe!”

”Mister Tact!!”

Two robbers have taken Jakey!

”I paid you $2750! Save me!”

Thinking quickly, Larry whips out…

…A disclaimer-of-warranty.

”The Tactilize Yourself™ program does not guarantee success.”

The robbers shove Jakey into a car!

“Results shown in commercials are neither typical nor guaranteed.”

The robbers escape!

…As Larry sighs, relieved.

”Phew, got the warranty out… No liability for Tact Enterprises!”

“Larry saves the day!”


A dark room…

Two hands maneuver…

[Image: XzfN5nk.png]

“Micheal Graves” DVDs…

Into a pyramid…

…Above that pyramid…

…Atop a DVD stack…

A Tact-ion Figure.

Its legs springload…

It leapfrogs airborne!

And thuds onto the pyramid.

”TACTILIZING!”

”Larry.”

”I find myself surrounded…”

“By moneymen. Determined to quash my movement.”

“And monsters seeking to infect my Thursday Night worker’s paradise...”

“The Black Rainbow looms over Anarchy.”

…

“Know what’s funny, Larry?”

“The wicked creatures?”

“Threatening the XWF’s way-of-life?”

“Jam product placement galore into their ‘invasion’”

“Waterboarding Peter Principle… with Smart Water?”

“Luring Aurora to an ambush… at a M3GAN 2.0 screening?”

…

“That’s my landscape… Corporate suits, preserving the status quo, standing on the working wrestler’s throats.”

“And the evil invaders… seeking world domination.”

“To take THEIR turn…”

“Standing on those same throats.”

“Then, there’s YOU, Lar-Bear.”

“The parasite.”

“Finding the helpless who can’t fight back…”

“And charging $2750 to TACTILIZE THEMSELVES.”

…

“Snake-oil salesman…”

“FRAUD.”

“Milking the last drops of hope from the hopeless.”

“Urging them not to question the system that’s created this nightmare of non-choice.”

“Don’t think!”

“Keep running!”

“Don’t question!”

“Keep spending!”

”And I *could* say I’m beating you…

“So that the world can see you.”

“For the charlatan predator you are.”

”But you’re the symptom, Lawrence.”

“Not the disease."

…

”However”

“I can *use* you…”

“To aim a message…”

“Higher.”

The hands flip a DVD over…

On its back-cover…

EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
JIMMY STARS


"Jimmy Stars."

"New Anarchy GM."

“You’re a hard guy to get ahold of, Starburst.”

“Never in your office…”

”Trying to avoid me, Jim-Jam?”

“Hoping to wait me out?”

“ALL-TIME Longest-Reigning Anarchy champion.”

“Three-hundred days-and-counting…”

The hands lift ‘Larry’…

“Thinking…Maybe… if you toss an action-figure at Ol’ Gravy?”

“The problem’ll solve itself?”

…

”You ever really look at one of these, Jimmy?”

“They appear strong.”

“Resilient.”

“But, like Larry himself?”

…SNAP. The toy snaps into chunks…

”They crack under pressure.”

”T-t-tacti-l-l-l-lizing…”

”Maybe you’re a visual learner, Star-boy.”

The hands retrieve a match…

Its light reveals the setting…

A warehouse…

Full of ‘Micheal Graves’ DVDs.

…

One hand holds the match.

The other lifts what's left of 'Tact'…

The two meet.

Instantly, 'Tact' is ablaze!

”Lead paint. Like a roman candle…”

The hand chucks ‘Tact’ toward the DVDs…

In moments, the merchandise towers?

A blazing inferno…

”Jimmy.”

“I ain’t satisfied with six-point-nine percent.”

“I’m coming for it all.”]]> <![CDATA[And the Sky Spat Back]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49067 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 21:05:58 -0700 Matthias Syn]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49067 This particular town had no name.

It existed between places, stitched into the folds of an old map by a cartographer who had long since hung himself in the bell tower. A memory left fermenting in the cellar of the world. And at its center, where the air throbbed like a migraine and time molted in strips off the rusted street signs, there stood a scaffold.

Not built but grown. Like a tumor.

It rose from the meat of the earth, a lattice of jointed femurs and rusted screws, creaking with every breath of wind that didn’t blow. The bones were warm. The marrow wept. It didn’t reach heaven, heaven was a dead language here. It just rose. Thirty feet, maybe more, high enough to kill the body, low enough to make the soul hesitate.

And below it, the townspeople gathered. Not people. Not really. Shadows of choices unmade. Regrets in hats. They shuffled forward, each carrying their own dream in a burlap sack, a title, a crown, a name in lights, and they climbed. One by one. By instinct. By need. The scaffold called to them like an old hymn sung by dying mothers.

Some looked up and saw salvation. Others saw a mirror. One saw nothing at all and kept climbing anyway.

That’s the trick of faith, isn’t it? You don’t leap because you know. You leap because you can’t. You leap because something inside your chest keeps whispering, “maybe this time.”

But the scaffold doesn’t care what you believe.

It doesn’t care that your name used to matter. That your daddy didn’t love you. That you’re undefeated or unloved or just tired of being overlooked. The scaffold only asks one question:

How much blood will you spend to be remembered?

And once the spine cracks and the flesh splits, they’ll all leap. Some in desperation. Some in hope. Some in agony.

And one in absolute clarity.



Black sky. No stars. No moon. Just a canopy stretched over an arena of meat, devoid of light.

The scaffold rises. Not bolted to the arena floor, but grown from it. The ring is gone. Replaced by pulsing red flesh that twitches when stepped on. Blood runs uphill.

Seven figures surround me. Each a butchered caricature of their waking selves:

Keeton is made of IV bags and stitched chemo ports, eyes replaced with the hands of a broken clock. He hunches like time’s puppet.

Dickie is skin and tape and hollow laughter, jaw unhinged, eyes bleeding bookmarks.

King walks barefoot through shards of stained glass, his fists wrapped in childhood screams. His chest etched with gangland tattoos that morph into crucifixes as he climbs.

Sebastian is made of broken mirrors, stitched together with Sloane’s handwriting. Every step he takes slices deeper. His mouth sewn shut with Clemence’s voice.

Scoops is dust held together by nicotine and guilt, he reeks of wet rot and old apologies. One arm ends in a splintered shovel, he digs a grave with every motion.

Shark wears his own face like a mask stretched too thin beneath. Nothing but static and search results. Flashes of old sex tapes and title wins flicker in the hollow of his skull.

Blizzard is made of winter coats filled with nothing. No body. No voice. Just shivering memory. He moves like static, vanishing between frames.

They climb.

Not to escape. Not to win.

They climb because something hungers.

The briefcases chime like tumors beneath the platforms, steel growing veins, twitching like they know who will touch them. I climb with them. Graceful. Detached. Laughing like a lit cigarette tossed on gasoline.

One by one, they reach the top. One by one, they open their boxes.

Keeton’s holds his mother’s ashes, still warm. He tries to speak, but chokes on bone dust.

Dickie’s holds a wedding ring in a jar of acid. The note reads, "You’ll never be enough."

King’s opens to a loaded gun and a cracked photograph of the boy he used to be. He puts it to his head. Nothing happens. It only clicks.

Sebastian’s bursts open, paperbacks spill out, all blank, all bleeding. A child’s drawing of Sloane with a knife in her back flutters down. Clemence’s voice reads every page out loud.

Scoops’ plays audio: his grandkids calling someone else "grandpa." He screams, and dirt pours from his mouth.

Shark’s contains a TV screen playing his greatest hits on loop. But no one’s watching. The screen slowly fizzles out into liveleak static.

Blizzard’s is empty. He stares in confusion. Then forgets where he is. A voice says, “You never existed.”

They scream. Some fall. Others beg.

I watch. Eyes like black oil.

Then my case appears.

It breathes. It weeps. I open it.

Inside: a single organ. Still beating. A heart that isn’t mine. Familiar. Tender. It whispers:

Say my name and make it end.

I grip it in one hand. Tight. The scaffold groans. Cracks. The world shakes like it's having a seizure.

I look down at the others. They’re not competitors. They’re offerings.

And Matthias Syn-

I am the altar.

With a visceral scream that cracks the sky like a wound, I leap, not for glory, not for gold.

I leap to erase.

I plummet. Forever. Laughing. Clutching that heart like a grenade with no pin.

The world goes dark.

A voice, feminine, familiar, detached:

"Matthias? Wake up. You’re still falling."





4:04 am - Syn’s hotel bathroom mirror - Cincinnati, Ohio

Smoke coils like nooses in reverse. The towel’s soaked red, blood or warning, unclear. In the glass, the scaffold grows behind him, twitching like it’s alive. The camera sways, drunk, dreaming, or both.


The heart in my briefcase wasn’t mine, but it sure as hell ain’t yours either. Every one of you came to Leap of Faith hoping for gold, for greatness, but you forgot: every altar needs sacrifice, and I’m the knife with a god complex.

You climbed thinking you’d grab salvation. A shot at immortality.

Keeton, your body’s a library of scar tissue. You opened your case and found your mom’s ashes. You tried to scream “I do this for her!” but all that came out was bone dust and regret. You’re not fighting for a future, you’re dragging a corpse uphill, praying it smells less than last week.

Dickie, you want to be the martyr. Mr. Trauma Porn. Mr. Broken In All The Right Ways. But the ring doesn't love you like your fan fiction does. The acid ring in your briefcase? That’s your conscience dissolving what’s left of it. You could’ve been a hero, Dickie. But you’re just a poem no one wants to finish.

King. You walk like vengeance but talk like scripture. And when you opened that case? There wasn’t salvation. Just a pistol and a picture of the boy you used to be, before the streets owned your name. Click. Click. No bang. Because even the devil doesn't want you back. You ain’t a monster. You’re a warning label.

Sebastian, pretty prince of paper cuts. You built your throne from soft spine fiction and women who keep leaving you. When you opened your case, the blank pages bled, didn’t they? Because the truth is, your life ain’t a novel, it’s a eulogy. And Sloane? She’s the final chapter you’ll never get to read. You're not a king, Seb. You’re an epilogue.

Scoops. You old bitch. You came crawling up that scaffold hoping it was a ladder back to relevance. But when the briefcase opened and your grandkids were calling someone else Grandpa? That wasn’t fiction. That was the legacy you traded for blood and barbed wire. They don't remember your name, Scoops, they remember your screams.

Shark. The punchline to a joke no one's telling anymore. When your box opened, it showed you your greatest hits. Problem is, there’s no audience left. You’re a TikTok highlight with brain damage. A pornstar with stage fright. You’re the scream in the porn theater when the lights come on.

Blizz. You opened your case and it was empty. You know what that means? Nothing. Because that’s what you are. A memory stuttering in real time. The “Who was that again?” backstage. You are the static. The white noise. The muffled gasp before the hangman pulls the lever. They gave you the wrong name, Aiden. You’re not “Blizzard.” You’re frostbite on a corpse. You don’t kill. You decay.

You all climbed for a future. I climbed for a funeral.




Only a lunatic would stand still on a burning bridge


The taste of copper in his mouth. Burnt ozone in the lungs. This is where we begin.

They say nothing grows on scorched earth, but I like it that way. The stench of gasoline lingers in the corners of his mind. Sweet, toxic, almost divine. From the ash of better men rises the last bastard left standing.

Leap of Faith. What a fucking joke.

This isn’t faith. It’s famine.

Sebastian Everett-Bryce. You smell like antique cologne and generational decay. You dress like a man trying to outrun the hand me downs of ghosts, but even your shadow’s too fucking refined to betray you.

And I’ve seen you, Sebastian. Sitting there all poetic in your ruined suits, scribbling your trauma on the backs of your enemies’ inheritance checks. You’re a prince who never earned his crown, a puppet who mistook the strings for veins. I see right through your bibliophile chic and that whisper thin moral compass you keep polishing between betrayals. You thought you were the story. But you're the spine cracked in the middle.

Sloane? Saoirse? Daddy? The whole rotisserie of women you orbit around like a satellite of shame. It’s a long list of graves you’re digging with the dull end of your guilt. The white knight bends the knee because he can’t bear the weight of his own reflection.

I watched you in that feminist fortress you called Page Turner. Like a moth in a firework factory, trying so hard to prove you belong. Fingering the spines of romances like they’re switches you can flip. Quoting booktok like scripture. “You could rattle the stars…”

Fuck your paperback poetry. Fuck your curated trauma.

You’re a weak man dressing his guilt in hardback. You want to sell me on this idea that you’re doing it all to protect people? Nah. You’re just a coward with a thesaurus. You don’t protect the people you love, you write eulogies while they bleed out. And I can fucking see you.

Clemence owns your little pet, and she still crawled into your lap to feel something resembling safety. That’s not loyalty, that’s addiction. And it’s going to cost her. Cost you.

Your white knight complex is a kink for catastrophe, and I’ll make damn sure you finish this story the way you were always meant to, face down, spine snapped. You’re not just fighting me at Leap of Faith. You’re fighting the idea of failure, and that’s funny, because it already hollowed you out and wore your body like a meat coat.


Isaiah King. Prince Adeyemi. Whatever the fuck you're calling yourself today. You ain't royalty. You're a paper crown soaked in gasoline. I thought you were all crown and ash. I thought maybe the streets raised a king. But you're just another war dog licking boots for camera time. The ghost of Brooklyn. You’ve spent your whole life outrunning your past and building yourself into a monument of solitude. But you don't stand alone out of pride, you stand alone because everyone who’s ever loved you gave up.

You are abandonment incarnate. A weapon with no cause. A boxer with no corner. You’ve traded family for fists, and fists for silence, but I don't need to beat you, young King. I just need to talk loud enough that your demons hear me. They'll do the rest. At Leap of Faith, I'm not stepping in the ring with a warrior. I’m stepping into the ring with a gravestone that punches back.

Dickie Watson.The chaotic conscience. The broken mirror no one dares to look too long at. The almost champion. You beat Aurora, and before your name was even etched in gold, Kline turned it into a joke. They don't want you to win, Dickie. They want you to almost win. Because your pain makes better content.

I like you though, Dickie. Not because we’re the same. Because you’re what happens when hope refuses to die. Even when it should've been strangled in its sleep years ago. You want this to mean something. You beg for this to be real. No shortcuts. No lies. No cheating. Good Guy Dickie. But here's the truth, the system isn't broken, it's rigged. And every time that you try to fight with honor, you become the easiest one to break.

You fight like you still think it matters. Like pain is proof. Like the scars are gospel. But when you’re up there, slipping on blood, falling toward oblivion, I’ll be the one whispering, It never mattered at all. You, never mattered at all.

JC Keeton? Mr. Shepherd of the Exiled. I should’ve known your gimmick came with a warning label and a half off coupon for group therapy. You’ve turned concussions into character development. That’s cute. But you can’t manifest destiny with a brain full of static and a mother shaped hole in your chest. Listen close, Miracle boy. You beat cancer, sure. But cancer never climbed scaffolding with a box cutter and hate in its veins. I'll finish what the tumors started. Because I don't care what you survived. I care how fast your body folds when I reintroduce you to the chemo ghost that lives in your lungs.

You climb to be remembered. I climb to make people forget that you ever existed.

Scoops. You’re not a legend. You’re a leftover. A retirement plan gone wrong. Your joints pop like bubble wrap, and your best days were broadcast in 4:3 resolution. Stay on the ground, Scoops. Because if you climb that scaffold, the only thing falling faster than you is your hip integrity.

You're 63 years old, Scoops. You bleed nostalgia. A monument to concussions and stubberness. I'm going to euthanize you on live tv and piss on the decade you were relevant. You're not chasing one last title, you're trying to prove your divorce was worth it.

It wasn't.


And Aiden Collins. The frozen echo of a comeback that no one asked for. You shine in the moment, they say. Clutch. You rise. But what happens when you rise for the last time? When your spine finally gives and the lights go black? The crowd loves watching you rise, don't they? But only because they know that the falls coming. And this match? This match was designed for you to finally not get up.

You joined a Tribe to feel young again. But Solomon Kline? That kids a tumor and you're feeding it with your own blood. You're not rising to the moment anymore, you're just trying to die on your feet instead of on your knees.

I’m not here to leap. I’m here to burn the scaffolds down with all of you on them.

Let the briefcases fall like false idols. Let them burst open and spill your last hopes into the sewage you crawled from. The real prize isn’t the contract, it’s survival. And I don’t give a fuck who wins the game when I’m the one setting the rules on fire.

Leap of Faith isn’t a match. It’s a funeral pyre.

And I’m the one lighting the goddamn match.

I want your pain. I want your secrets. I want your endings.

You leap for hope. I climb to crucify it.




Somewhere between a dream and a waking seizure.

It grows out of nowhere. No architects. No blueprints. No god to bless its construction. Just a shuddering mutation of steel and suffering, arcing across a sky like cracked porcelain stretched over the mouth of Hell.

The Bridge.

Held together by rusted bolts and the prayers of addicts. Planks made from asylum doors and splintered altars. Nails still scream if you lean too hard. There are signs every twenty feet in a language no one remembers, but they all say the same thing:


THIS WAY TO TRANSCENDENCE. OR WHATEVER’S LEFT OF YOU.


Below it? A thousand foot freefall into memory loss. A gorge paved with the names of better men who fell before you. Some jumped. Most slipped.

Matthias Syn stands where the sky coughs blood and the wind tastes like chewed aspirin. The briefcases hang like severed heads above the center scaffold. And seven rats to chase them.

He watches the others cross their  planks, tightropes made of delusion. Shark. Collins. Seb. Scoops. King. Dickie. Keeton. Pilgrims of ego. Martyrs of myth.

They don’t know yet. But none of them are walking off this thing clean.


They call this a Leap of Faith. But what they never say is who built the bridge. Or why the fall feels so familiar.


I’ve seen this place before.

In a fever dream behind a broken urinal in Detroit. In a cracked mirror backstage at Warfare. In the way the light bends around a man’s skull just before you cave it in. This isn’t a match. This isn’t a scaffold.

It’s a goddamn confession booth.

And you seven? You’re not competitors. You’re confessions waiting to be carved into skin. Your sins are leaking out of you with every step, every breath, every bullshit post you drop on Twitter pretending this matters to anyone but yourselves.

You all still believe in the fall meaning something.

I’m here to remind you what the fall costs.

This match isn’t about a title shot. It’s about peeling back the layers and finding out what’s left underneath the costume. No audience. No music. No legacy.

Just the bridge, the fall, and me, waiting at the bottom, holding a scalpel made of every lie you’ve ever told yourselves.





James Shark. The ghost of locker rooms past. Daddy James, Twitter fingers, “bitches and belts” bravado. But your crown is plastic, and your throne is built on rap lyrics you barely understood. You used to matter. You're a punchline with a podcast. You’re the guy still quoting himself from 2012 and calling it evolution. You won’t leap because you’re scared of silence. Scared the crowd’s cheer might be the echo of a career that already died. When you fall, it won’t be dramatic. Just… sad. Like watching an aging porn star try to cum one more time for the camera.

Blizz. Your Tribe podcast? A geriatric bachelor party skit where you fake snort Pixy Stix because the real vices quit returning your calls. You drape half awake OnlyFans decor around your corpse and purr about temptation like a deacon in a strip mall chapel. Then brag that you’d never touch them. Of course you wouldn’t. Even your libido checked your pulse and called an Uber.

You tell the world you’re a family man while your kid rots at voicemail, but you still have time to sprinkle day glow sugar on Solomon Kline’s baby teeth and call it mentorship. He’s not your protege, he’s a scarecrow you jammed into your hollow legacy so no one notices the crows already nesting in your ribs. And spare me the “Truth Until Death” tagline. Your truth died the first time you signed alimony checks with blood money and convinced yourself that counted as parenting. Now you’re reduced to cosplay Tommy Lee, huffing nostalgia and calling it oxygen.

No redemption. No encore. Just the echo of your failure and the stink of cold sweat desperation.

Welcome to temptation, Aidan. I’m its final, choking dose. And I'm going to cut your fucking throat.

SEB. Oh, how the mighty have mommy and daddy issues. You walk like you’re allergic to guilt but wear it like cologne. You fucked a spy, got burned, and now you’re acting like it’s Shakespeare. Saoirse didn’t betray you. She reflected you. You loved the damsel because it made you feel like a knight. And when she showed you she was made of razor blades instead of velvet? You wanted to bleed for her. That's not love. That’s addiction. You’re not tragic, Seb. You’re pathetic. A rich boy who never learned to stop setting himself on fire for applause.


Scoops. This one’s easy. You're the fossil. The stiff. A Vietnam War flashback in sweatpants. Your whole legacy smells like mothballs and Marlboros. You’re not a threat anymore. You’re a fucking retirement gift that still walks. I don’t respect your era. I don’t respect your pain tolerance. I don’t care how many barbed wire matches you survived with duct tape and a whiskey chaser. You should’ve died in '04, but you’re here instead, slow, winded, half blind, and I will show you why we shoot horses when they can’t run anymore.


King. You ever seen a dog fight itself in the mirror? That’s you. Scarred, bitter, alone. You think being hard makes you untouchable? You think being friendless makes you free? It just makes you a caged animal nobody mourns when it’s finally put down. You lost everything and turned into stone so no one could hurt you again. But stone cracks. And when I drop you from the scaffold, the pieces are going to spell “should’ve trusted someone.”

Dickie. Little, tired Dickie. You call it integrity, I call it terminal idealism. You still play the game like it matters who cheats and who doesn’t. Like there’s honor in this ring. Like it’s not all just claws in the dark. You want to be seen as the realest one in the room? Newsflash: no one cares. We’re all monsters. Some of us are just honest about it. You refuse to cheat because you think it keeps you clean. But the truth is, you’re just too scared of what you’d become if you stopped pretending.

JC Keeton. Second gen silver spoon syndrome. Talent with a fuse. Gifted with a soft skull. You see visions because your head’s been dented like a soda can, and now you hallucinate greatness. You’ve got a body built for gold but a brain wired for breakdowns. Every concussion rewrites the story you’re trying to tell, and I promise, I’ll write the final chapter. Spoiler: you fall.

And the only thing waiting at the bottom is your father’s disappointment and a cold steel plate in your neck.




They call it the Leap of Faith.

But faith is for cowards.

Faith is what you whisper when the noose tightens and you still think someone’s coming to save you. Faith is the lullaby you sing when your teeth hit the mat and your friends look the other way.

This isn’t faith.

It’s a trap.

And I’m the bastard who set it.

So go ahead. Leap.

Climb the scaffold. Reach for your lies. Scream your legacy to the crowd like they haven’t already turned away. Try to be something more than meat.

But know this…

The bridge does not forget.

And neither do I.




So here it is, the Last Gospel.

Read it in blood. Chant it through broken teeth. And know that this is your burial hymn.

When I climb the scaffold, I’m not reaching for hope. I’m not playing make believe with legacy or respect or whatever filthy romantic bullshit you nerds still jerk off to in your hotel bathtubs. I’m climbing with rotted knuckles and a crowbar in my soul, because that briefcase doesn't crown a king.

It coronates a plague.

And I am the motherfucking contagion.

And when the smoke clears? When all your bones are soup and your careers are chalk outlines? I’ll still be standing. With blood on my knuckles, piss on your prayers, and that 24/7 contract clutched like a throat in my palm.

I am the bridge, the burning, and the fall.

And tonight?

Everyone burns with me.


STATIC
]]> This particular town had no name.

It existed between places, stitched into the folds of an old map by a cartographer who had long since hung himself in the bell tower. A memory left fermenting in the cellar of the world. And at its center, where the air throbbed like a migraine and time molted in strips off the rusted street signs, there stood a scaffold.

Not built but grown. Like a tumor.

It rose from the meat of the earth, a lattice of jointed femurs and rusted screws, creaking with every breath of wind that didn’t blow. The bones were warm. The marrow wept. It didn’t reach heaven, heaven was a dead language here. It just rose. Thirty feet, maybe more, high enough to kill the body, low enough to make the soul hesitate.

And below it, the townspeople gathered. Not people. Not really. Shadows of choices unmade. Regrets in hats. They shuffled forward, each carrying their own dream in a burlap sack, a title, a crown, a name in lights, and they climbed. One by one. By instinct. By need. The scaffold called to them like an old hymn sung by dying mothers.

Some looked up and saw salvation. Others saw a mirror. One saw nothing at all and kept climbing anyway.

That’s the trick of faith, isn’t it? You don’t leap because you know. You leap because you can’t. You leap because something inside your chest keeps whispering, “maybe this time.”

But the scaffold doesn’t care what you believe.

It doesn’t care that your name used to matter. That your daddy didn’t love you. That you’re undefeated or unloved or just tired of being overlooked. The scaffold only asks one question:

How much blood will you spend to be remembered?

And once the spine cracks and the flesh splits, they’ll all leap. Some in desperation. Some in hope. Some in agony.

And one in absolute clarity.



Black sky. No stars. No moon. Just a canopy stretched over an arena of meat, devoid of light.

The scaffold rises. Not bolted to the arena floor, but grown from it. The ring is gone. Replaced by pulsing red flesh that twitches when stepped on. Blood runs uphill.

Seven figures surround me. Each a butchered caricature of their waking selves:

Keeton is made of IV bags and stitched chemo ports, eyes replaced with the hands of a broken clock. He hunches like time’s puppet.

Dickie is skin and tape and hollow laughter, jaw unhinged, eyes bleeding bookmarks.

King walks barefoot through shards of stained glass, his fists wrapped in childhood screams. His chest etched with gangland tattoos that morph into crucifixes as he climbs.

Sebastian is made of broken mirrors, stitched together with Sloane’s handwriting. Every step he takes slices deeper. His mouth sewn shut with Clemence’s voice.

Scoops is dust held together by nicotine and guilt, he reeks of wet rot and old apologies. One arm ends in a splintered shovel, he digs a grave with every motion.

Shark wears his own face like a mask stretched too thin beneath. Nothing but static and search results. Flashes of old sex tapes and title wins flicker in the hollow of his skull.

Blizzard is made of winter coats filled with nothing. No body. No voice. Just shivering memory. He moves like static, vanishing between frames.

They climb.

Not to escape. Not to win.

They climb because something hungers.

The briefcases chime like tumors beneath the platforms, steel growing veins, twitching like they know who will touch them. I climb with them. Graceful. Detached. Laughing like a lit cigarette tossed on gasoline.

One by one, they reach the top. One by one, they open their boxes.

Keeton’s holds his mother’s ashes, still warm. He tries to speak, but chokes on bone dust.

Dickie’s holds a wedding ring in a jar of acid. The note reads, "You’ll never be enough."

King’s opens to a loaded gun and a cracked photograph of the boy he used to be. He puts it to his head. Nothing happens. It only clicks.

Sebastian’s bursts open, paperbacks spill out, all blank, all bleeding. A child’s drawing of Sloane with a knife in her back flutters down. Clemence’s voice reads every page out loud.

Scoops’ plays audio: his grandkids calling someone else "grandpa." He screams, and dirt pours from his mouth.

Shark’s contains a TV screen playing his greatest hits on loop. But no one’s watching. The screen slowly fizzles out into liveleak static.

Blizzard’s is empty. He stares in confusion. Then forgets where he is. A voice says, “You never existed.”

They scream. Some fall. Others beg.

I watch. Eyes like black oil.

Then my case appears.

It breathes. It weeps. I open it.

Inside: a single organ. Still beating. A heart that isn’t mine. Familiar. Tender. It whispers:

Say my name and make it end.

I grip it in one hand. Tight. The scaffold groans. Cracks. The world shakes like it's having a seizure.

I look down at the others. They’re not competitors. They’re offerings.

And Matthias Syn-

I am the altar.

With a visceral scream that cracks the sky like a wound, I leap, not for glory, not for gold.

I leap to erase.

I plummet. Forever. Laughing. Clutching that heart like a grenade with no pin.

The world goes dark.

A voice, feminine, familiar, detached:

"Matthias? Wake up. You’re still falling."





4:04 am - Syn’s hotel bathroom mirror - Cincinnati, Ohio

Smoke coils like nooses in reverse. The towel’s soaked red, blood or warning, unclear. In the glass, the scaffold grows behind him, twitching like it’s alive. The camera sways, drunk, dreaming, or both.


The heart in my briefcase wasn’t mine, but it sure as hell ain’t yours either. Every one of you came to Leap of Faith hoping for gold, for greatness, but you forgot: every altar needs sacrifice, and I’m the knife with a god complex.

You climbed thinking you’d grab salvation. A shot at immortality.

Keeton, your body’s a library of scar tissue. You opened your case and found your mom’s ashes. You tried to scream “I do this for her!” but all that came out was bone dust and regret. You’re not fighting for a future, you’re dragging a corpse uphill, praying it smells less than last week.

Dickie, you want to be the martyr. Mr. Trauma Porn. Mr. Broken In All The Right Ways. But the ring doesn't love you like your fan fiction does. The acid ring in your briefcase? That’s your conscience dissolving what’s left of it. You could’ve been a hero, Dickie. But you’re just a poem no one wants to finish.

King. You walk like vengeance but talk like scripture. And when you opened that case? There wasn’t salvation. Just a pistol and a picture of the boy you used to be, before the streets owned your name. Click. Click. No bang. Because even the devil doesn't want you back. You ain’t a monster. You’re a warning label.

Sebastian, pretty prince of paper cuts. You built your throne from soft spine fiction and women who keep leaving you. When you opened your case, the blank pages bled, didn’t they? Because the truth is, your life ain’t a novel, it’s a eulogy. And Sloane? She’s the final chapter you’ll never get to read. You're not a king, Seb. You’re an epilogue.

Scoops. You old bitch. You came crawling up that scaffold hoping it was a ladder back to relevance. But when the briefcase opened and your grandkids were calling someone else Grandpa? That wasn’t fiction. That was the legacy you traded for blood and barbed wire. They don't remember your name, Scoops, they remember your screams.

Shark. The punchline to a joke no one's telling anymore. When your box opened, it showed you your greatest hits. Problem is, there’s no audience left. You’re a TikTok highlight with brain damage. A pornstar with stage fright. You’re the scream in the porn theater when the lights come on.

Blizz. You opened your case and it was empty. You know what that means? Nothing. Because that’s what you are. A memory stuttering in real time. The “Who was that again?” backstage. You are the static. The white noise. The muffled gasp before the hangman pulls the lever. They gave you the wrong name, Aiden. You’re not “Blizzard.” You’re frostbite on a corpse. You don’t kill. You decay.

You all climbed for a future. I climbed for a funeral.




Only a lunatic would stand still on a burning bridge


The taste of copper in his mouth. Burnt ozone in the lungs. This is where we begin.

They say nothing grows on scorched earth, but I like it that way. The stench of gasoline lingers in the corners of his mind. Sweet, toxic, almost divine. From the ash of better men rises the last bastard left standing.

Leap of Faith. What a fucking joke.

This isn’t faith. It’s famine.

Sebastian Everett-Bryce. You smell like antique cologne and generational decay. You dress like a man trying to outrun the hand me downs of ghosts, but even your shadow’s too fucking refined to betray you.

And I’ve seen you, Sebastian. Sitting there all poetic in your ruined suits, scribbling your trauma on the backs of your enemies’ inheritance checks. You’re a prince who never earned his crown, a puppet who mistook the strings for veins. I see right through your bibliophile chic and that whisper thin moral compass you keep polishing between betrayals. You thought you were the story. But you're the spine cracked in the middle.

Sloane? Saoirse? Daddy? The whole rotisserie of women you orbit around like a satellite of shame. It’s a long list of graves you’re digging with the dull end of your guilt. The white knight bends the knee because he can’t bear the weight of his own reflection.

I watched you in that feminist fortress you called Page Turner. Like a moth in a firework factory, trying so hard to prove you belong. Fingering the spines of romances like they’re switches you can flip. Quoting booktok like scripture. “You could rattle the stars…”

Fuck your paperback poetry. Fuck your curated trauma.

You’re a weak man dressing his guilt in hardback. You want to sell me on this idea that you’re doing it all to protect people? Nah. You’re just a coward with a thesaurus. You don’t protect the people you love, you write eulogies while they bleed out. And I can fucking see you.

Clemence owns your little pet, and she still crawled into your lap to feel something resembling safety. That’s not loyalty, that’s addiction. And it’s going to cost her. Cost you.

Your white knight complex is a kink for catastrophe, and I’ll make damn sure you finish this story the way you were always meant to, face down, spine snapped. You’re not just fighting me at Leap of Faith. You’re fighting the idea of failure, and that’s funny, because it already hollowed you out and wore your body like a meat coat.


Isaiah King. Prince Adeyemi. Whatever the fuck you're calling yourself today. You ain't royalty. You're a paper crown soaked in gasoline. I thought you were all crown and ash. I thought maybe the streets raised a king. But you're just another war dog licking boots for camera time. The ghost of Brooklyn. You’ve spent your whole life outrunning your past and building yourself into a monument of solitude. But you don't stand alone out of pride, you stand alone because everyone who’s ever loved you gave up.

You are abandonment incarnate. A weapon with no cause. A boxer with no corner. You’ve traded family for fists, and fists for silence, but I don't need to beat you, young King. I just need to talk loud enough that your demons hear me. They'll do the rest. At Leap of Faith, I'm not stepping in the ring with a warrior. I’m stepping into the ring with a gravestone that punches back.

Dickie Watson.The chaotic conscience. The broken mirror no one dares to look too long at. The almost champion. You beat Aurora, and before your name was even etched in gold, Kline turned it into a joke. They don't want you to win, Dickie. They want you to almost win. Because your pain makes better content.

I like you though, Dickie. Not because we’re the same. Because you’re what happens when hope refuses to die. Even when it should've been strangled in its sleep years ago. You want this to mean something. You beg for this to be real. No shortcuts. No lies. No cheating. Good Guy Dickie. But here's the truth, the system isn't broken, it's rigged. And every time that you try to fight with honor, you become the easiest one to break.

You fight like you still think it matters. Like pain is proof. Like the scars are gospel. But when you’re up there, slipping on blood, falling toward oblivion, I’ll be the one whispering, It never mattered at all. You, never mattered at all.

JC Keeton? Mr. Shepherd of the Exiled. I should’ve known your gimmick came with a warning label and a half off coupon for group therapy. You’ve turned concussions into character development. That’s cute. But you can’t manifest destiny with a brain full of static and a mother shaped hole in your chest. Listen close, Miracle boy. You beat cancer, sure. But cancer never climbed scaffolding with a box cutter and hate in its veins. I'll finish what the tumors started. Because I don't care what you survived. I care how fast your body folds when I reintroduce you to the chemo ghost that lives in your lungs.

You climb to be remembered. I climb to make people forget that you ever existed.

Scoops. You’re not a legend. You’re a leftover. A retirement plan gone wrong. Your joints pop like bubble wrap, and your best days were broadcast in 4:3 resolution. Stay on the ground, Scoops. Because if you climb that scaffold, the only thing falling faster than you is your hip integrity.

You're 63 years old, Scoops. You bleed nostalgia. A monument to concussions and stubberness. I'm going to euthanize you on live tv and piss on the decade you were relevant. You're not chasing one last title, you're trying to prove your divorce was worth it.

It wasn't.


And Aiden Collins. The frozen echo of a comeback that no one asked for. You shine in the moment, they say. Clutch. You rise. But what happens when you rise for the last time? When your spine finally gives and the lights go black? The crowd loves watching you rise, don't they? But only because they know that the falls coming. And this match? This match was designed for you to finally not get up.

You joined a Tribe to feel young again. But Solomon Kline? That kids a tumor and you're feeding it with your own blood. You're not rising to the moment anymore, you're just trying to die on your feet instead of on your knees.

I’m not here to leap. I’m here to burn the scaffolds down with all of you on them.

Let the briefcases fall like false idols. Let them burst open and spill your last hopes into the sewage you crawled from. The real prize isn’t the contract, it’s survival. And I don’t give a fuck who wins the game when I’m the one setting the rules on fire.

Leap of Faith isn’t a match. It’s a funeral pyre.

And I’m the one lighting the goddamn match.

I want your pain. I want your secrets. I want your endings.

You leap for hope. I climb to crucify it.




Somewhere between a dream and a waking seizure.

It grows out of nowhere. No architects. No blueprints. No god to bless its construction. Just a shuddering mutation of steel and suffering, arcing across a sky like cracked porcelain stretched over the mouth of Hell.

The Bridge.

Held together by rusted bolts and the prayers of addicts. Planks made from asylum doors and splintered altars. Nails still scream if you lean too hard. There are signs every twenty feet in a language no one remembers, but they all say the same thing:


THIS WAY TO TRANSCENDENCE. OR WHATEVER’S LEFT OF YOU.


Below it? A thousand foot freefall into memory loss. A gorge paved with the names of better men who fell before you. Some jumped. Most slipped.

Matthias Syn stands where the sky coughs blood and the wind tastes like chewed aspirin. The briefcases hang like severed heads above the center scaffold. And seven rats to chase them.

He watches the others cross their  planks, tightropes made of delusion. Shark. Collins. Seb. Scoops. King. Dickie. Keeton. Pilgrims of ego. Martyrs of myth.

They don’t know yet. But none of them are walking off this thing clean.


They call this a Leap of Faith. But what they never say is who built the bridge. Or why the fall feels so familiar.


I’ve seen this place before.

In a fever dream behind a broken urinal in Detroit. In a cracked mirror backstage at Warfare. In the way the light bends around a man’s skull just before you cave it in. This isn’t a match. This isn’t a scaffold.

It’s a goddamn confession booth.

And you seven? You’re not competitors. You’re confessions waiting to be carved into skin. Your sins are leaking out of you with every step, every breath, every bullshit post you drop on Twitter pretending this matters to anyone but yourselves.

You all still believe in the fall meaning something.

I’m here to remind you what the fall costs.

This match isn’t about a title shot. It’s about peeling back the layers and finding out what’s left underneath the costume. No audience. No music. No legacy.

Just the bridge, the fall, and me, waiting at the bottom, holding a scalpel made of every lie you’ve ever told yourselves.





James Shark. The ghost of locker rooms past. Daddy James, Twitter fingers, “bitches and belts” bravado. But your crown is plastic, and your throne is built on rap lyrics you barely understood. You used to matter. You're a punchline with a podcast. You’re the guy still quoting himself from 2012 and calling it evolution. You won’t leap because you’re scared of silence. Scared the crowd’s cheer might be the echo of a career that already died. When you fall, it won’t be dramatic. Just… sad. Like watching an aging porn star try to cum one more time for the camera.

Blizz. Your Tribe podcast? A geriatric bachelor party skit where you fake snort Pixy Stix because the real vices quit returning your calls. You drape half awake OnlyFans decor around your corpse and purr about temptation like a deacon in a strip mall chapel. Then brag that you’d never touch them. Of course you wouldn’t. Even your libido checked your pulse and called an Uber.

You tell the world you’re a family man while your kid rots at voicemail, but you still have time to sprinkle day glow sugar on Solomon Kline’s baby teeth and call it mentorship. He’s not your protege, he’s a scarecrow you jammed into your hollow legacy so no one notices the crows already nesting in your ribs. And spare me the “Truth Until Death” tagline. Your truth died the first time you signed alimony checks with blood money and convinced yourself that counted as parenting. Now you’re reduced to cosplay Tommy Lee, huffing nostalgia and calling it oxygen.

No redemption. No encore. Just the echo of your failure and the stink of cold sweat desperation.

Welcome to temptation, Aidan. I’m its final, choking dose. And I'm going to cut your fucking throat.

SEB. Oh, how the mighty have mommy and daddy issues. You walk like you’re allergic to guilt but wear it like cologne. You fucked a spy, got burned, and now you’re acting like it’s Shakespeare. Saoirse didn’t betray you. She reflected you. You loved the damsel because it made you feel like a knight. And when she showed you she was made of razor blades instead of velvet? You wanted to bleed for her. That's not love. That’s addiction. You’re not tragic, Seb. You’re pathetic. A rich boy who never learned to stop setting himself on fire for applause.


Scoops. This one’s easy. You're the fossil. The stiff. A Vietnam War flashback in sweatpants. Your whole legacy smells like mothballs and Marlboros. You’re not a threat anymore. You’re a fucking retirement gift that still walks. I don’t respect your era. I don’t respect your pain tolerance. I don’t care how many barbed wire matches you survived with duct tape and a whiskey chaser. You should’ve died in '04, but you’re here instead, slow, winded, half blind, and I will show you why we shoot horses when they can’t run anymore.


King. You ever seen a dog fight itself in the mirror? That’s you. Scarred, bitter, alone. You think being hard makes you untouchable? You think being friendless makes you free? It just makes you a caged animal nobody mourns when it’s finally put down. You lost everything and turned into stone so no one could hurt you again. But stone cracks. And when I drop you from the scaffold, the pieces are going to spell “should’ve trusted someone.”

Dickie. Little, tired Dickie. You call it integrity, I call it terminal idealism. You still play the game like it matters who cheats and who doesn’t. Like there’s honor in this ring. Like it’s not all just claws in the dark. You want to be seen as the realest one in the room? Newsflash: no one cares. We’re all monsters. Some of us are just honest about it. You refuse to cheat because you think it keeps you clean. But the truth is, you’re just too scared of what you’d become if you stopped pretending.

JC Keeton. Second gen silver spoon syndrome. Talent with a fuse. Gifted with a soft skull. You see visions because your head’s been dented like a soda can, and now you hallucinate greatness. You’ve got a body built for gold but a brain wired for breakdowns. Every concussion rewrites the story you’re trying to tell, and I promise, I’ll write the final chapter. Spoiler: you fall.

And the only thing waiting at the bottom is your father’s disappointment and a cold steel plate in your neck.




They call it the Leap of Faith.

But faith is for cowards.

Faith is what you whisper when the noose tightens and you still think someone’s coming to save you. Faith is the lullaby you sing when your teeth hit the mat and your friends look the other way.

This isn’t faith.

It’s a trap.

And I’m the bastard who set it.

So go ahead. Leap.

Climb the scaffold. Reach for your lies. Scream your legacy to the crowd like they haven’t already turned away. Try to be something more than meat.

But know this…

The bridge does not forget.

And neither do I.




So here it is, the Last Gospel.

Read it in blood. Chant it through broken teeth. And know that this is your burial hymn.

When I climb the scaffold, I’m not reaching for hope. I’m not playing make believe with legacy or respect or whatever filthy romantic bullshit you nerds still jerk off to in your hotel bathtubs. I’m climbing with rotted knuckles and a crowbar in my soul, because that briefcase doesn't crown a king.

It coronates a plague.

And I am the motherfucking contagion.

And when the smoke clears? When all your bones are soup and your careers are chalk outlines? I’ll still be standing. With blood on my knuckles, piss on your prayers, and that 24/7 contract clutched like a throat in my palm.

I am the bridge, the burning, and the fall.

And tonight?

Everyone burns with me.


STATIC
]]> <![CDATA[Chapter III: Short and Sweet: The Life of Celeste]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49066 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 21:00:09 -0700 XXXVI]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49066

It was the greatest moment of his life, the day XXXVI became a father. His partner, Annaliese, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl in 2015. After the tragic loss of his immediate family in the year before, it was something to celebrate. To be clear, the man behind the mask was a shell of himself, but he gave his all to this little girl. She was his light, his life. He got a solid job. Provided financially. He was going to therapy. Doing all the work. Life was good.

She was a happy baby and the parents were challenged more than they ever had been. They had very little support, as Annaliese's family lived far away. Despite the challenges, they persisted, even thrived at times. There were ups and downs, sure, but for once, XXVI felt something he hadn’t felt recently; peace.

But all good things must come to an end. At four years old, they received the terrible news that Celeste was sick. Not just sick. She had leukemia. They reckoned with it. Fought. Cried. Did chemo. Cried even more. Through it all, Celeste was a beacon of hope. She loved on and went out of her way to help the other kids in the ward. She made friends and got to see some of them achieve remission and go home. She was a light in the darkness. She made it to five. They got to celebrate her birthday. But ultimately, the cancer took her and with it, the last piece of humanity in XXXVI. He started to shut his partner out. Started to check out at work, which led to his firing. He was a man lost at sea, with no compass, rudderless, distraught.

It wasn’t easy on either of them, but Annaliese chose to fight. She fought for their relationship, tried to keep it together for the both of them, but it takes two to tango. The man who was once vibrant and full of life had become something else entirely. Darkness settled in. He still had a name. He still had an identity, but barely. He spent months in the depths of despair and finally agreed to go back to therapy, couples counseling. Things were improving, but every night, he was out at bars, drinking himself nearly to death and Annaliese had enough. The two never wed and no longer had their daughter, so one night, when he came home at three in morning, piss drunk, she was gone. She cleared out her things and left, never to return. He lost his family, then his daughter and now her. For the first time, XXXVI was truly alone and then COVID hit. He had become so acquainted with losing and now, due to his inability to cope, he had lost everyone he held dear. Already on an island, he now found himself marooned. For a time, he thought he’d never be whole again.


Behind the mask
“Congratulations, mister Keeton. You and I took each other to the limit and you won out. Now you will face my counterpart, Ozymandias for a chance to fight for the Revolution championship. I do hope it doesn’t consume you in the process. So here it is, my first foray into Pay-Per-View since my return to that sacred squared circle. Management could have capitalized on my debut at Rebellion and booked me against the mysterious figure called Inquisition. Allowed him a chance at revenge, but no, they saw fit to grant me a chance at the Anarchy tag team championships. Now, I am not one to join partnerships, at least not lightly. I am a one man army. I need no tribe. I don’t chase leprechauns’ gold somewhere over the rainbow and I don’t need others to raise a revolution. I make my own luck, but I do understand the contract I signed with the XWF. If I am placed in a situation, I will make the best of it.”

“Mr. Oz last Anarchy faced two competitors who are no good. I faced a bastard, but now we…or shall I say I alone, face Them No Good Bastards. This is a tall task for any team, even one well established, as many have fallen at the hands of TNGB. Their reputation precedes them. So, the brilliant minds behind such concepts of War Games and the Leap of Faith match itself couldn’t find me a partner a bit more willing to compete? Now Ozymandias, the epitome of ‘break a few eggs to make an omelet’ won’t even step into the kitchen? Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

“Thunder Knuckles and Bobby Bourbon are the reigning, defending tag team champions of the A show. Only the second ever in its short history. They are singlehandedly bringing prestige to the championships and they have to date proved to be formidable if not nigh unstoppable. If I am to fight them on my own, the odds are against me, but damn it, I will bring the fight. I rebuilt myself from the ground up after losing everything I ever cared about. I am fighting for tag team titles alongside a partner who is loyal to my opponents. I have nothing to lose, but TNGB have everything to lose here. If they lose to me, they not only lose those precious titles, but their credibility. The masked jester unseated you by himself? Not a good look.”

“But let us not pretend that Thunder Knuckles is focused on this defense. He thinks he has it in the bag, with little lap dog Ozzy unwilling to lay a finger on him, he thinks he can simply pin his friend and move on to win more gold against Justin York later that night, unseating the king himself from his throne. I would be careful, TK. You have shown that you can usually back up your trash talk, but if you look past me, I can make sure you don’t even make it to your Revolution title opportunity in one piece. Ask Mr. Marigold what happens when you do. And that leaves Bourbon, someone who has been all too comfortable riding the coattails of the knuckle dragger. You two may have an unfair advantage at Leap of Faith, but don’t get comfortable. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. So how about it, loudmouths? Let’s put your money where your mouths are and on Sunday…let’s dance, boys!” ]]>

It was the greatest moment of his life, the day XXXVI became a father. His partner, Annaliese, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl in 2015. After the tragic loss of his immediate family in the year before, it was something to celebrate. To be clear, the man behind the mask was a shell of himself, but he gave his all to this little girl. She was his light, his life. He got a solid job. Provided financially. He was going to therapy. Doing all the work. Life was good.

She was a happy baby and the parents were challenged more than they ever had been. They had very little support, as Annaliese's family lived far away. Despite the challenges, they persisted, even thrived at times. There were ups and downs, sure, but for once, XXVI felt something he hadn’t felt recently; peace.

But all good things must come to an end. At four years old, they received the terrible news that Celeste was sick. Not just sick. She had leukemia. They reckoned with it. Fought. Cried. Did chemo. Cried even more. Through it all, Celeste was a beacon of hope. She loved on and went out of her way to help the other kids in the ward. She made friends and got to see some of them achieve remission and go home. She was a light in the darkness. She made it to five. They got to celebrate her birthday. But ultimately, the cancer took her and with it, the last piece of humanity in XXXVI. He started to shut his partner out. Started to check out at work, which led to his firing. He was a man lost at sea, with no compass, rudderless, distraught.

It wasn’t easy on either of them, but Annaliese chose to fight. She fought for their relationship, tried to keep it together for the both of them, but it takes two to tango. The man who was once vibrant and full of life had become something else entirely. Darkness settled in. He still had a name. He still had an identity, but barely. He spent months in the depths of despair and finally agreed to go back to therapy, couples counseling. Things were improving, but every night, he was out at bars, drinking himself nearly to death and Annaliese had enough. The two never wed and no longer had their daughter, so one night, when he came home at three in morning, piss drunk, she was gone. She cleared out her things and left, never to return. He lost his family, then his daughter and now her. For the first time, XXXVI was truly alone and then COVID hit. He had become so acquainted with losing and now, due to his inability to cope, he had lost everyone he held dear. Already on an island, he now found himself marooned. For a time, he thought he’d never be whole again.


Behind the mask
“Congratulations, mister Keeton. You and I took each other to the limit and you won out. Now you will face my counterpart, Ozymandias for a chance to fight for the Revolution championship. I do hope it doesn’t consume you in the process. So here it is, my first foray into Pay-Per-View since my return to that sacred squared circle. Management could have capitalized on my debut at Rebellion and booked me against the mysterious figure called Inquisition. Allowed him a chance at revenge, but no, they saw fit to grant me a chance at the Anarchy tag team championships. Now, I am not one to join partnerships, at least not lightly. I am a one man army. I need no tribe. I don’t chase leprechauns’ gold somewhere over the rainbow and I don’t need others to raise a revolution. I make my own luck, but I do understand the contract I signed with the XWF. If I am placed in a situation, I will make the best of it.”

“Mr. Oz last Anarchy faced two competitors who are no good. I faced a bastard, but now we…or shall I say I alone, face Them No Good Bastards. This is a tall task for any team, even one well established, as many have fallen at the hands of TNGB. Their reputation precedes them. So, the brilliant minds behind such concepts of War Games and the Leap of Faith match itself couldn’t find me a partner a bit more willing to compete? Now Ozymandias, the epitome of ‘break a few eggs to make an omelet’ won’t even step into the kitchen? Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

“Thunder Knuckles and Bobby Bourbon are the reigning, defending tag team champions of the A show. Only the second ever in its short history. They are singlehandedly bringing prestige to the championships and they have to date proved to be formidable if not nigh unstoppable. If I am to fight them on my own, the odds are against me, but damn it, I will bring the fight. I rebuilt myself from the ground up after losing everything I ever cared about. I am fighting for tag team titles alongside a partner who is loyal to my opponents. I have nothing to lose, but TNGB have everything to lose here. If they lose to me, they not only lose those precious titles, but their credibility. The masked jester unseated you by himself? Not a good look.”

“But let us not pretend that Thunder Knuckles is focused on this defense. He thinks he has it in the bag, with little lap dog Ozzy unwilling to lay a finger on him, he thinks he can simply pin his friend and move on to win more gold against Justin York later that night, unseating the king himself from his throne. I would be careful, TK. You have shown that you can usually back up your trash talk, but if you look past me, I can make sure you don’t even make it to your Revolution title opportunity in one piece. Ask Mr. Marigold what happens when you do. And that leaves Bourbon, someone who has been all too comfortable riding the coattails of the knuckle dragger. You two may have an unfair advantage at Leap of Faith, but don’t get comfortable. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. So how about it, loudmouths? Let’s put your money where your mouths are and on Sunday…let’s dance, boys!” ]]> <![CDATA[The Exiles Take on... Empathy? - (W/ Isaiah King)]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49065 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 16:46:33 -0700 Sebastian Everett-Bryce]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49065 [Image: s-i.png]

]]> [Image: s-i.png]

]]> <![CDATA[vs The Amazing Lucy Wylde <3]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49064 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 16:42:43 -0700 FaceTheDoll]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49064



LIGAF (I DO)]]>



LIGAF (I DO)]]> <![CDATA[Taking The Leap - (Leap of Faith Match RP)]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49063 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 16:28:43 -0700 Sebastian Everett-Bryce]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49063 TAKING THE LEAP]]> TAKING THE LEAP]]> <![CDATA[Kieran King in: YEAR 2 - The Gentle Art of Making Enemies]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49062 Fri, 18 Jul 2025 06:17:18 -0700 Kieran King]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=49062 //Played around with a few things in this one so it's written a little different than my usual stuff. Hopefully still fun.


Kieran WAS king. No... Kieran IS king.
(word count: 3818)

]]> //Played around with a few things in this one so it's written a little different than my usual stuff. Hopefully still fun.


Kieran WAS king. No... Kieran IS king.
(word count: 3818)

]]>