<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - RED DEAD RELENTLESS 2026 Night 3]]>

<![CDATA[X-treme Wrestling Federation - RED DEAD RELENTLESS 2026 Night 3]]> https://xwf1999.com/ Tue, 22 Sep 2026 21:07:23 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Scoops McGee in... "War" - Part 3 of 3]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50512 Sun, 20 Sep 2026 23:59:06 -0700 Scoops McGee]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50512 It's about time that we finally settled this.]]> It's about time that we finally settled this.]]> <![CDATA[Prayer]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50511 Sun, 20 Sep 2026 20:29:13 -0700 @getouttamyringerson]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50511 Hope you've got your speech prepped to induct Elon, Terrence.

OOC: Five scenes, 3948 words total

Scene 1 - 1.9%
Scene 2 - 0%
Scene 3 - 0%
Scene 4 - 2.6%
Scene 5 - 9%]]> Hope you've got your speech prepped to induct Elon, Terrence.

OOC: Five scenes, 3948 words total

Scene 1 - 1.9%
Scene 2 - 0%
Scene 3 - 0%
Scene 4 - 2.6%
Scene 5 - 9%]]> <![CDATA[The Devil and Charlie Nickles]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50505 Sat, 19 Sep 2026 23:08:56 -0700 Jordan Penn]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50505 The Devil and Charlie Nickles]]> The Devil and Charlie Nickles]]> <![CDATA[The Final Bastard]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50504 Sat, 19 Sep 2026 22:55:18 -0700 Charlie Nickles]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50504 Four Years After “The Bad, the Bad, and the really fucking Bad”

“I’m the only Bastard left…god damn it, this was never supposed to happen…”

Nickle Eyes sat beside a raging campfire, cooking a can of beans over the flames. The blazing sun was slowly setting over the horizon. Critters of all types stirred from their burrows as the day reached its end. Foxes, scorpions, rattlesnakes: you name it, they were all coming out to hunt under the cover of darkness.

But those creatures never bothered Nickle Eyes.

He was only worried about the rats who had been poking around his camp. He gripped one of the six-shooters affixed to his side, eyes scanning the perimeter.

“I wish those pansy fuckers would come out and play.”

With nothing in sight, Nickle Eyes turned his attention back to the beans. He took a dirty knife and used it to stir the pot. Then, he pulled a flask out from his boot. He took a long swig before pouring out whatever remained.

The dry-aged bourbon immediately soaked into the desert sands.

“Pouring one out for the dead Bastards…I hope you fellas’ would do the same if you were in my shoes.”

Nickle Eyes never saw the rats crawling towards his campfire.

Three big, husky fuckers that should’ve been hard to miss. Each of the rats dressed in identical human clothes, but they all wore unique hats.

One of the rats wore a cowboy hat in the shape of a square.

Another, the shape of a triangle.

And the final rat? He wore a cowboy hat in the shape of a circle.

But it wasn’t until the first shot rang out that Nickle Eyes realized he was in danger!

“DEAR BASTARDLY FATHER!”

The bullet went straight through Nickle Eyes’ hat, putting a hole the size of Texas in the fabric! Nickle Eyes ducks down just in time to avoid shots number two and three!

As the outlaw rose up to join the gunfight, he immediately let loose a flurry of bullets! A cloud of pistol smoke filled the air as Nickle Eyes fired off 12 consecutive shots, each piece of hot lead landing inside his assailants.

“Well I’ll be damned…three dead Pennkerton thugs. Should’ve figured!”

The wild bastard stepped towards the dead rats. Nickle Eyes squatted down over their corpses, ruffling through their pockets for some spare change or a few cigs…

But he found something far more valuable. Nickle Eyes raised a curious brow as he unfolded a letter.

“You were supposed to meet Jordan tomorrow in Tahiti, eh? To celebrate a job well done?”

Nickle Eyes chuckled to himself as the Pennkerton thugs lay lifeless in the glow of the campfire.

“Well, I’d hate to let a perfectly good party go to waste…”

The outlaw grinned like a wolf as he stared off towards the south.

The doors to the saloon nearly flew off their hinges as Nickle Eyes sauntered in. Everyone at the bar gasped, knowing damn well that this Bastard was never up to any good. As he approached the bar, the other patrons swiftly paid their tabs and fled.

They were smart enough to know not to mess with Nickle Eyes.

Unfortunately for the barkeep, he didn’t have a choice.

“What can I get ya’, sonny?”

The old man’s voice croaked.

“A nice, refreshing shot of information..”

Nickle Eyes slammed a photo of Jordan Pennkerton onto the bar. The barkeeper's eyes went wide.

“You want me to spill the beans on Sheriff Sebastian? I can’t do that, he’s always been good to this tow-”

Nickle Eyes interjected.

“Not the Sheriff- his twin brother. Jordan Pennkerton.”

The old man’s look of fear warped into confusion.

“The Sheriff has a brother?! But that doesn’t make any sense! I’ve known the Sheriff for years, and he’s never talked about a twin brother!”

“Yeah, it’s honestly pretty tacky and frankly, uninspired. But that piece of shit finally went too far, and now, I need to give his brother a good reason to never mention him again.”

“What on earth could he have done to get you this riled up?”

Nickle Eyes grimaced, remembering every bloody detail. He reached into his coatpocket, pulling out a locket. He gently placed the locket upon the bartop before opening it: revealing a picture of his little sister alongside a strand of blonde hair.

“He took her from me. The only person who ever understood me, she was the first person to accept me for who I was…and he put her through hell for it. Now, it’s time for me to repay the favor- by sending him there for good.”

The barkeeper shivered at the calm, yet determined delivery of Nickle Eyes’ words.

“The funny thing is? That son of a bitch would be nothing without me. I broke my back to give him all those successes he likes to hang his hat on. I put his entire career on my shoulders, because that was the only way he was ever going to rise above mediocrity.

He has no physical prowess, no resilience, and not even an ounce of talent in his body. He’s useless in a gunfight, but even worse, he’s completely insufferable to listen to! A long pony-ride with Jordan is worse than shoving a nail through the ear canal: so if you’re ever stuck listening to him, just go ahead and choose the nail!

He has all the charisma of a dried-up cumrag with Sebastian’s face on it.

And by the time I get done with him, he won’t even have THAT!

He won’t even have a face…

Because that impostor flesh of his?

He never deserved to wear.”

That's when the doors to the saloon suddenly opened...

And The Blacque Bastard himself stepped in!

He locked gazes with Nickle Eyes-

As both men reached for the pistols on their hip.

BANG!

BANG!

Two shots ring out as gunsmoke fills the saloon.

But when the smoke clears...

Only the final Bastard was left standing.]]> Four Years After “The Bad, the Bad, and the really fucking Bad”

“I’m the only Bastard left…god damn it, this was never supposed to happen…”

Nickle Eyes sat beside a raging campfire, cooking a can of beans over the flames. The blazing sun was slowly setting over the horizon. Critters of all types stirred from their burrows as the day reached its end. Foxes, scorpions, rattlesnakes: you name it, they were all coming out to hunt under the cover of darkness.

But those creatures never bothered Nickle Eyes.

He was only worried about the rats who had been poking around his camp. He gripped one of the six-shooters affixed to his side, eyes scanning the perimeter.

“I wish those pansy fuckers would come out and play.”

With nothing in sight, Nickle Eyes turned his attention back to the beans. He took a dirty knife and used it to stir the pot. Then, he pulled a flask out from his boot. He took a long swig before pouring out whatever remained.

The dry-aged bourbon immediately soaked into the desert sands.

“Pouring one out for the dead Bastards…I hope you fellas’ would do the same if you were in my shoes.”

Nickle Eyes never saw the rats crawling towards his campfire.

Three big, husky fuckers that should’ve been hard to miss. Each of the rats dressed in identical human clothes, but they all wore unique hats.

One of the rats wore a cowboy hat in the shape of a square.

Another, the shape of a triangle.

And the final rat? He wore a cowboy hat in the shape of a circle.

But it wasn’t until the first shot rang out that Nickle Eyes realized he was in danger!

“DEAR BASTARDLY FATHER!”

The bullet went straight through Nickle Eyes’ hat, putting a hole the size of Texas in the fabric! Nickle Eyes ducks down just in time to avoid shots number two and three!

As the outlaw rose up to join the gunfight, he immediately let loose a flurry of bullets! A cloud of pistol smoke filled the air as Nickle Eyes fired off 12 consecutive shots, each piece of hot lead landing inside his assailants.

“Well I’ll be damned…three dead Pennkerton thugs. Should’ve figured!”

The wild bastard stepped towards the dead rats. Nickle Eyes squatted down over their corpses, ruffling through their pockets for some spare change or a few cigs…

But he found something far more valuable. Nickle Eyes raised a curious brow as he unfolded a letter.

“You were supposed to meet Jordan tomorrow in Tahiti, eh? To celebrate a job well done?”

Nickle Eyes chuckled to himself as the Pennkerton thugs lay lifeless in the glow of the campfire.

“Well, I’d hate to let a perfectly good party go to waste…”

The outlaw grinned like a wolf as he stared off towards the south.

And burning bridges can't be crossed

Lord won't you let me know

Or give me one more reason to go.

And burning bridges can't be crossed

Lord won't you let me know

Or give me one more reason to go.

++Apathy sat by herself. Surrounded by memories and remnants of a life lived hard. Boxes of souvenirs, binders of letters and notes. She sat among them, mindfully sorting through wedding albums of husbands long since gone. Annika’s baby pictures. Funeral programs kept safe in scrapbooks. She stopped when the book came into her hands; she stroked it with her fingertips and drew a deep breath++

“I still do it for them. The ones that didn’t make it. What drives you Furry? Deep down inside, what is it that keeps you going in this business? We all have something. Every last damn one of us. When it gets lonely at the top and those ghosts we’ve been ignoring start creeping in. Doesn’t matter who you are, it happens nonetheless. I’ve had those late-night conversations with the past.”

“I’m approaching our match with reverence and respect. I have no ills with you. I just got put in this position due to talent and skill. If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else. There’s nothing personal behind this. No long drawn-out scenario. Our match is strictly business, and I like it that way. You’ve been very successful. It’s not something to ignore. Respect is due, and I respect anyone holding a strap because they had to climb, fight, and claw to get there.”

++Her nails stun at the very mention. She sets the memorial book down and sits looking at her hands. Reading their lines and scars++

“I know what it’s like to scratch, bite and claw to climb the proverbial ladder. I’ve been doing this over twenty years. I’ve been the champion and the challenger. The loser and the winner. It’s just another mechanism this business runs on, and it’s a matter of fact for every single one of us. But why? Why do we persist in doing what we do? Egoism? Selfishness? Pain fetish? Money? We all have a reason. What is yours?”

“At the end of the day, when the cameras shut off, the show is done, and you are trying to relax afterwards, and all that is left is the silence and the voices in your head, what keeps you going? Me? Memories. Phantoms of the past. I’m not in it for the money. I don’t need it. I’m financially secure. It isn’t selfishness. My husband supports my continued participation in the industry. It’s the ghosts. The names forever stamped on stone and marble. The ashes no one ever claimed. When I started in this business, I was a valet. A manager. I was never supposed to take the bumps. I was there to look pretty and fulfill the male gaze requirements.”

“Then I decided I wanted more. I wanted to start wrestling. They looked at me, and they didn’t see a future world champion. They didn’t see a future hall of famer. They saw a sweet little thing that could wrestle in bra and panty matches. You ever deal with that kind of sexism? I’m genuinely curious. The sexism and sexual harassment were very much a big part of the backstage lifestyle. I made it out alive. But others weren’t so lucky. The first friend I buried overdosed because she was assaulted and management tried to pay her off. He was a big player; she was just some stupid bitch, right? Shut up and smile, right? Wrong. Surviving sometimes comes with guilt because you couldn’t help the others. I couldn’t loan them my strength; instead I had to hit the bottle to cope. When the booze stopped numbing the pain, next came the drugs. I should have crashed and burned, but I’m still here.”

++She sets the book to the side, patting it gently like a precious trinket. Sorting through some papers and folders, she has an aha moment and opens a manila folder, looking at MRI scans and X-ray results, instinctively rubbing the back of her neck and head, wincing++

“I should have been done when that bitch domed me with a baseball bat. I should have been done once the seizures started. I should have walked away when my daughter died. I have a notebook full of reasons why I should have just quit. I can’t. I carry the burden of all the friends I’ve lost and buried. I spent years collecting ashes and keeping a log of their burial plots. Nobody cared when they were alive. I did. I had to because it could have been me buried without a marker. It could have been my fate to be cremated and forgotten about in a box in the basement of a funeral home. I carry their memory. I do it for the daughter I never got to see grow into a beautiful woman. I do it for my living daughter, who now works in the same business.”

“I’m not 100% healthy. I know that, but I have a fuck ton of fight in me. I had to just survive. It’s what I’m good at. I believe as long as I have that tenacity and will to survive, this industry and my peers in it should respect what I’m trying to do. I know how the internet wrestling community views me. Has been. Boomer. Washed up. Pathetic. Maybe so, but that’s not how I see myself.”

“Miss Furry, with all due respect, my journey has brought me to you and my future path rests on getting through you. That is exactly what I intend to do. It’s just business, girl. Two women, opposed, both fighting to keep something. You, your strap. Me? My destiny. I imagine the basement-dwelling wrestling fanatics are salivating at the thought of you putting me down like an old dog. I imagine you would take pride in putting me in my place.”

“I’ll enjoy watching you try.”]]> <![CDATA[Wild Wild X]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50492 Thu, 17 Sep 2026 23:58:30 -0700 JuliaC]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50492 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wCHI...sp=sharing

3,992... 2.3% and 1.3%]]> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wCHI...sp=sharing

3,992... 2.3% and 1.3%]]> <![CDATA[CLEANING SPREE]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50488 Thu, 17 Sep 2026 18:16:12 -0700 Marisol Vilaro]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50488 https://docs.google.com/document/d/11jCq...sp=sharing]]> https://docs.google.com/document/d/11jCq...sp=sharing]]> <![CDATA[Shameless Self-promotion of the Edgecrusher]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50487 Thu, 17 Sep 2026 15:54:58 -0700 Jeffrye421]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50487 The camera fades in on Main Event Edgecrusher sitting backward in a folding chair in the middle of an empty locker room. Black leather pants. No shirt, with a massive beer belly hanging comfortably over his waistband. Graying dreadlocks falling around his shoulders. A shaggy gray beard that looks like it hasn't encountered a comb since the Obama administration. The Main Event stares into the camera very seriously. Too seriously.

MEEC: I'm worried about my good buddy, Solomon Kline.

He pauses, having forgotten what he was saying again.

MEEC: I've been thinking about him... a lot.

Another pause.

MEEC: Not like that.

Main Event shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

MEEC: I mean, there's nothing wrong with that. If that's your thing, then that's your thing. I'm just saying it's not "my" thing, but still totally cool with me. Love what you want. Man, woman, animal... well, not animal. Anyway... I like women.

The Edgecrusher nods.

MEEC: Big fan...

He turns the chair around and sits normally.

MEEC: Solomon needs help.

He leans forward.

MEEC: And I think I can help him.

Somebody off camera audibly snorts. Main Event Edgecrusher looks deeply offended.

MEEC: What?

We faintly hear a voice from off camera respond, "Nothing."

MEEC: Fuck you, I can help people!

He turns back toward the camera.

MEEC: See, me and Solomon have spent tons of time together lately. I've really gotten to know him... like super well. Again, not like that.

A thoughtful pause from the Edgecrusher.

MEEC: And that dude is fucked up. And I don't mean that as an insult.

He scratches his beard.

MEEC: Okay, normally when I tell somebody they're fucked up, it's an insult. But seriously, not this time.

EC stands and begins pacing around the locker room.

MEEC: Solomon's angry, violent, and he doesn't trust anybody. He seems like he's always seconds away from snapping on somebody and beating them with their own shoes.

The Edgecrusher stops pacing back and forth and slowly looks toward the camera.

MEEC: But I know the truth! He’s actually sad and alone, struggling to make sense of the world around him. Like a kid who showed up to the wrong birthday party and doesn’t know anybody there.

The Edgecrusher sits back down and picks up a yellow legal pad from next to the chair.

MEEC: I've been doing research. Lots and lots of research. Weeks and months of research.

The camera briefly zooms in on the legal pad. At the top, written in black Sharpie:

HOW TO FIX SOLOMON

1. Find what's wrong.

2. Fix it.

3. Beer?

MEEC: I've got a three-step program.

The Edgecrusher taps the first line.

MEEC: Step one: Figure out what the fuck is wrong with Solomon. After scouring ancient tomes and forbidden texts like Chicken Soup for the Soul, Dr. Phil’s Life Strategies, and a 2003 issue of Cosmopolitan I found at the laundromat... I figured it all out.

He taps the second.

MEEC: Step two: Fix whatever Step One was. Also, no problem. He just needs a friend. A real pal. The kind of friend you tell all your secrets to. Someone you share every moment in life with, both good and bad. Someone who always has your back. Someone who’ll help you shoot and kill a man in Reno, then use a fake name and a stolen credit card to buy everything you need online to melt the body in a tub of acid. Guess what? That's me!

He taps the third.

MEEC: And then we celebrate! Sadly, I'm not gonna be able to get any beer on account of being banned from the liquor store. There was this one time Raj shorted me seventeen cents. It wasn't about the money. It was a matter of principle.

Main Event Edgecrusher's expression darkens.

MEEC: I haven't forgotten, Raj.

He points threateningly at nobody in particular.

MEEC: Seventeen fucking cents...

He pauses, then shakes it off.

MEEC: Anyway, this isn't about me.

The Edgecrusher lowers the legal pad.

MEEC: So instead, I'm gonna send my new best-est friend in the whole world something really special.

He reaches down beside his chair and pulls out a book. It has a solid black cover with no title, artwork, or text of any kind. Main Event Edgecrusher beams with pride as he holds it up for the camera.

MEEC: This is a very special advance reader copy of the first book in hit children's author E.C. Summers' MooseBumps series!

He proudly waves the book around.

MEEC: These things are gonna sell like hotcakes! The entire series is an XWF exclusive and they don't even start releasing until the first of October! This thing's gonna be worth a fucking fortune! And Solomon, you're gonna be the first person in the XWF to read it!

The Edgecrusher grabs a large manila envelope from beside him and stuffs the book inside. He licks the flap, immediately wincing and sticking out his tongue.

MEEC: Ouch! Fucking whore...

A small cut has opened on his tongue. He finishes sealing the envelope leaving a few drops of blood smeared across it.

MEEC: There we go. I'll get this right into the mail for ya. It'll be outta my hands and on your doorstep in four to six weeks!

The Edgecrusher proudly holds up the bloodstained envelope.

MEEC: You're welcome! Anyway, I gotta go and meet a man about an airplane ticket. I'll see ya later tonight, buddy.

]]> The camera fades in on Main Event Edgecrusher sitting backward in a folding chair in the middle of an empty locker room. Black leather pants. No shirt, with a massive beer belly hanging comfortably over his waistband. Graying dreadlocks falling around his shoulders. A shaggy gray beard that looks like it hasn't encountered a comb since the Obama administration. The Main Event stares into the camera very seriously. Too seriously.

MEEC: I'm worried about my good buddy, Solomon Kline.

He pauses, having forgotten what he was saying again.

MEEC: I've been thinking about him... a lot.

Another pause.

MEEC: Not like that.

Main Event shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

MEEC: I mean, there's nothing wrong with that. If that's your thing, then that's your thing. I'm just saying it's not "my" thing, but still totally cool with me. Love what you want. Man, woman, animal... well, not animal. Anyway... I like women.

The Edgecrusher nods.

MEEC: Big fan...

He turns the chair around and sits normally.

MEEC: Solomon needs help.

He leans forward.

MEEC: And I think I can help him.

Somebody off camera audibly snorts. Main Event Edgecrusher looks deeply offended.

MEEC: What?

We faintly hear a voice from off camera respond, "Nothing."

MEEC: Fuck you, I can help people!

He turns back toward the camera.

MEEC: See, me and Solomon have spent tons of time together lately. I've really gotten to know him... like super well. Again, not like that.

A thoughtful pause from the Edgecrusher.

MEEC: And that dude is fucked up. And I don't mean that as an insult.

He scratches his beard.

MEEC: Okay, normally when I tell somebody they're fucked up, it's an insult. But seriously, not this time.

EC stands and begins pacing around the locker room.

MEEC: Solomon's angry, violent, and he doesn't trust anybody. He seems like he's always seconds away from snapping on somebody and beating them with their own shoes.

The Edgecrusher stops pacing back and forth and slowly looks toward the camera.

MEEC: But I know the truth! He’s actually sad and alone, struggling to make sense of the world around him. Like a kid who showed up to the wrong birthday party and doesn’t know anybody there.

The Edgecrusher sits back down and picks up a yellow legal pad from next to the chair.

MEEC: I've been doing research. Lots and lots of research. Weeks and months of research.

The camera briefly zooms in on the legal pad. At the top, written in black Sharpie:

HOW TO FIX SOLOMON

1. Find what's wrong.

2. Fix it.

3. Beer?

]]> <![CDATA[TOMORROW IS TODAY]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50475 Wed, 16 Sep 2026 10:50:47 -0700 Miss Furry]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50475 [Image: 0yK9nOA.jpeg]

Location: Pater Te Hono Nui Stadium

5:52 AM.

The stage is still being built.

Half the lights aren't working.

The ring's up, but doesn't have a canvas or ropes.

By Sunday night it'll all be replaced with grand spectacle and thousands of people filling the stands.

Today, it's just people building tomorrow.

An unmasked Emily Grant stands ringside with the Anarchy Championship.

Above the ring, workers test the rigging that'll hold the championship. Emily passes the belt to one of them and watches it rise until her attention turns to a ladder resting against the barricade.

"Relentless has kinda become the finish line in the XWF. The biggest show. The place where everything you spent the last year winning, losing, bleeding and building is supposed to pay off."

Emily walks toward the ladder and snaps it out, locking the frame in place.

"You've spent months talking about time and how much more you can squeeze out of that battered body. Just one more run. One more chance to prove you still belong in that ring before tomorrow comes and finally proves you don't.

You said you wanted a chance you 'damn well didn't deserve' so your daughter could look at her mother as a legend.

But Elizabeth, I think you're using this championship to prove something your daughter never asked you to prove.

She doesn't need another championship to know who you are.

You do.

You want something meaningful to say, 'See? It was all worth it'.

Something shiny and bright enough to blind both of you to the cost."

Emily climbs another rung.

"And you said getting older taught you to take calculated risks.

Dick handed you one.

A clean road to another championship and a marquee match at Relentless.

You turned it down.

You chose me.

You earned that choice.

But you said it yourself. You're owed nothing. You expect nothing.

Good.

Because I don't owe you your ending either.

You don't get it because this might be your last Relentless and you definitely don't get it because you want your daughter to see you holding one more belt.

You still have to take it from me.

And knowing all that...

You still chose me.

Why?

You know you're running out of tomorrows, Elizabeth, and on the surface it just doesn't make sense.

But this ain't really about what's on the surface, is it?

Fear. Doubt. Watching the sun set on your career.

I think that's exactly why you picked me.

Because beating me means something.

I'm not part of your yesterday, Elizabeth. I'm what came after it, and if you can beat me and leave Relentless as the Anarchy Champion, maybe you can convince yourself tomorrow hasn't left you behind."

The first thin strip of sunlight breaks across the horizon.

"You need this championship to make that statement.

That all the pain, doctors, and bullshit bought Elizabeth Devereaux-O'Rourke one more moment to stand under the brightest lights as Apathy.

That's a pretty good story."

She shrugs.

"I'm just not interested in being your ending."

Emily starts walking down the rungs like stairs.

"You said you couldn't bargain with death, so you put everything on time. Said you just had to stay three steps ahead of it. You've spent months running from the end... then Dick gave you an easier road and you looked right past it.

And sure, I see why you might feel confident. You're stronger than me. You outweigh me by eighty-five pounds. You can probably hit me with this ladder hard enough that I wake up sometime Tuesday.

But I'm faster than you. And sooner or later, I'm gonna figure out where it hurts. If you think we're just gonna stand there and trade shots, you've never tried to hold onto a pissed off cat.

And if you do catch me? Fine... Climb."

Emily leans back, plants her hands on top of the ladder, and kicks her legs up into a handstand.

"But when you do, know that every rung strips something away and gives me something to target.

Hands. Wrists. Shoulders. Back. Knees. Ankles...

Balance.

Half of that already hurts, Elizabeth.

And you need every bit of it to reach the top."

Emily rolls forward and slides down the ladder.

"I've seen what you do with ladders. You beat Oz senseless with one.

But Micheal Graves didn't exactly train us to be comfortable.

He taught us how to hurt, keep thinking through the pain, and get back up when every part of you says not to.

So yeah. You can hurt me. Badly, I'm sure, but Graves made damn sure I learned that hurting me and stopping me don't go hand in hand.

To you, this is just a weapon."

She folds the ladder shut and lets it fall.

"Tomorrow, it's the finish line.

You don't have to race me, you can spend all night trying to make sure I can't climb.

And if you actually pull that off? Congratulations. You win.

But that's the part you're gonna have to prove.

Eventually you've gotta stop hurting me, turn your back, and trust that what you did was enough to stop me from coming after you."

The sun begins casting orange across the unfinished stage.

"You've made a career out of planting your feet and forcing others to move you."

She points to the championship as morning spreads across the stadium.

"Up there, you don't get that.

Your weight isn't centered. Your base is gone. And the higher you go, the less those eighty-five pounds work for you.

You keep asking for one more tomorrow.

I've never had to. I was already standing here.

And this isn't the end of my story, Elizabeth...

...it's barely morning."

Emily pulls the Furry mask over her face.

"But congratulations!

You wanted one more tomorrow."

A smirk forms as she turns away from the camera.

"I'll see you there."

Miss Furry walks away as the camera pans to the title still hanging over the ring.

]]>

Location: Pater Te Hono Nui Stadium

5:52 AM.

"I'll see you there."

Miss Furry walks away as the camera pans to the title still hanging over the ring.

]]> <![CDATA[Jesus Christ Redux]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50468 Tue, 15 Sep 2026 14:50:03 -0700 Samael Dyson]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50468 My name is Lux.

For months I’ve been attempting to stomp out the weed that is Samael Dyson. But each time I was thwarted by the masses of sycophants and lunatics he surrounds himself with. Each time I fell victim to his meticulous plotting.

Each time I failed.

And in so doing, I came to realize that there was only one way I could accomplish this task. A factor that I had neglected to consider in all these many months of plotting and counter plotting. And as time grew short and Samael’s power and influence only continued to grow, I knew what I had to do.

I had to die.

NOW

“Housekeeping.” The voice on the other side of the door was accompanied by an obnoxious rapping. Samael Dyson’s eyes shot open, bloodshot and wincing against the incessant assault of the lighting in his room.

“Shall I get it master?” the Insignificant queried.

Samael sat up, the drunken stupor having yet to shake itself off. But, asserting control of his inebriated faculties, Samael sputtered out, “Nahhh….gonna….gonna spit in this dumb cunt’s face….”

Tossing aside his reeking sweat stained sheets, Samael stumbled towards the door and opened it.

The silenced pistol was leveled at his left eye. Samael blinked, muttered “wuh”, and then the bullet barreled through his eye ball, turning it into a fine jelly that splattered against Lux’s face. The bullet continued its moribund path through Samael’s head, pulping his brains inside his skull before exploding out the back, sending shards of bone spewing out onto the carpet. Samael toppled backwards, striking the floor with an inglorious thud.

The Ubermensch met Lux’s eye. And they all fell upon her in an instant. More than she could handle. More than she could fight. But it didn’t matter anymore.

Because that vile motherfucker Samael Dyson was already cooling on the rug.

Dead.

SOMEWHERE ELSE

Samael Dyson awoke at the bottom of the basement stairs. Those stairs. Those infernal steps, that nightmare locale from his childhood that his mother and father had left him to after he tumbled down them, breaking bones, concussing himself. He could still hear Madison’s dismissive recriminations as she shut the door on him, worrying more about Child Protective Services than her little boy’s wellbeing. Leaving him in the dark. In pain.

Abandoned.

And so, it made perfect sense in a sort of cosmic, fate-spinning way that the place where Samael Dyson was born again should be the place he’d return to when he died.

“Mommy….” Samael spoke in a hushed tone, chancing a glance up at the closed door above him.

No. Mommy wasn’t there.

She wasn’t there before. And she wasn’t there again today, at the end.

Or so he thought.

Because this is where we deviate from the tale twice told. This time the door opened again. Samael’s spirits picked up. She hadn’t forgotten. She hadn’t abandoned him.

This time would be different.

The light behind Madison cut a stark figure, a shadowy profile that at first lacked all detail and substance. But as Samael’s eyes grew accustomed to the sudden glut of light and focused in on his mother’s presence, he saw that something was very, very wrong.

[Image: Sheri-Moon-Zombie-Lords-of-Salem-Rob-Zombie.jpg]

Her face was painted like death, and its ghastly visage inspired Samael’s recollection. The gun. The bullet.

Fucking LUX.

“No…” Sam whispered. He rose to his feet haphazardly, eyes never leaving his mother. “No,no,no!” Sam’s rage grew as the recollection came into sharp contrast in his mind’s eye. “NO! I can’t be dead! I can’t!” He gesticulated wildly as he spoke, surrendering completely to his anger, practically spitting and frothing. “I was the best fucking thing that happened to the XWF! THE BEST! Without me who would it have? That fossil Graves?! That dull as dishwater Euroschmuck Sebastian?! I CAN’T BE DEAD! I…..I…..” his voice descended into a paltry pout. “I can’t….”

“And yet, here you are.” The voice was not Madison’s. It was deeper, ancient somehow. Beyond ancient. As though it sprang up from the birthpangs of the universe itself. And Sam recognized it instantly, even though he’d never actually heard it before.

It was the Void. His passenger. The soul eater from the spaces in between he had affixed to himself.

“You are dead, Samael Dyson”

“Is this Hell?”

“No.” The shape of his mother continued down the stairs, stopping only when face to face with him. “I snatched you from the ether before you could land there.”

“How?”

“Does it matter?” The Void smiled, a wicked thing. “Suffice it to say by the time Lucifer was a pup with delusions of grandeur I was already eternal.” It cocked its head. “Kudos to you for having no delusions of your own about where you were headed though.”

Sam considered the beast warily. “You were supposed to save me from hell. You promised!”

“And I have!”

“You were supposed to save me from death!”

“And I will!”

Sam stopped, eyes narrowing. “Then why am I here? Wherever the fuck here is?”

“You’re in a liminal space, boy. An in between of my own creation. And it is here where we will parlay.”

“Parlay? What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Our deal must be amended.”

Samael snorted derisively. “Oh….of course! I should have seen this coming! What, now that I’m dead and bent over the barrel you’re gonna fuck me in the ass, right?!”

“Don’t be so crude. The deal will be mutually beneficial. Take my hand, and I’ll show you.”

The Void extended its hand for Samael to take. He considered it for a moment, then realizing he had few other options, he took it. What transpired next was nearly beyond description. In fact, Sam wasn’t even certain he was conscious for it. All he knew was when he came to he was….

[Image: OIP.ASg42HxDE91xkVMAF3d8MwHaE_?r=0&pid=Api&h=220&P=0]

….in the White House. Staring at himself as he sat behind the Resolute Desk, a bevy of cameras and lights aimed in his direction, waiting on his every word.

“What….?”

“Relentless 2026 was where it began.” The Void, still in the form of Samael’s mother wearing that ghastly facepaint, put a hand on his shoulder from behind. “The consolidation of your power. Your influence over the masses. You think it was meant to end with some paltry wrestling program?”

Sam marveled at the man behind the desk. Himself. Or some future variation thereof. The face was a little weathered. A shock of silver ran through his blond locks. And oddly enough, the pupil of his left eye was blood red. But it was unquestionably him, seated on that throne of power.

“Holy shit. Am I….the….the….?”

“The President? Yes Sam.”

“But how?”

“Because if the last 15 years of American history have taught us anything, it’s that the simpering throngs of this country are attracted to a show above all else. Even at their own expense. And who puts on a show better than you, my boy?”

For the first time since his untimely demise, Sam smiled. “Yeah. Who better.”

The Void gestured towards the man behind the desk. “Care to have a preview of your future?”

Sam nodded, a hungry look in his eyes.

Then, almost as if someone had flicked on a radio, the sound snapped on to accompany the image, and the future Samael was in mid rant, clearly playing things up for the camera.

“I promise you, my fellow Americans, that as we speak my ROLLERKOMMANDO are annexing Greenland for this mighty nation, finally fulfilling the promise made by that weak joke of a former president Donald Trump. Because when you’re looking for results, you don’t turn to some fat spray tanned oaf, you turn to me, the BIG DICK PLAYA HIMSELF….SAMAEL DYSON!”

As he speaks a Rollerwhore climbs out from under the desk, working her jaw and rubbing it as though it’s sore. But as soon as she saunters off camera, another whore is waiting in the wings to get under the desk and start, uh, paying homage to the president.

Present day Samael is absolutely beaming as he beholds his future self.

“Now, do the American people want to see a replay of that footage from last week between me and Canadian prime minister Mark Carney?! Hell yeah, I know you do. ROLL THAT BEAUTIFUL BEAN FOOTAGE!”

A shot within a shot appears next to Samael, and in it an aged and decrepit Mark Carney is on his knees before President Dyson. He’s holding his hands up, begging in shameless supplication. But President Dyson pays his groveling no heed, as he unzips his pants, withdraws his massive dong and smacks the prime minister across the face with it! Such is the force of the impact with Samael’s genitals that Mark’s mouth is busted open and one of his teeth goes flying, impacting off the lens of the camera and leaving a crimson streak behind. The replay ends and disappears, leaving us alone once again with President Dyson’s self satisfied smirk.

“Now, some people are claiming that that was nothing but AI fakery! And I assure you fellow patriots that those naysayers have been dealt with. TO DEATH! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Present day Samael touches his cheek, flicking away an errant tear. “It’s so, so beautiful.”

“Well, I’m about to bust ladies and gentlemen, so that’s all for tonight. Tune in tomorrow, same time, for another presidential address. Remember, attendance is MANDATORY! In the meantime, take in this glorious battlefield footage of my Rollerkommando totally fucking DESTROYING Greenland’s puny army!”

And with that, the scenes gracefully fades to black, leaving Samael and the demonic effigy of his mother alone in an inky black expanse.

“You’re serious?! That can be me?!”

“Of course.” the Void purred.

Samael clapped his hands together and laughed. “I get to beat my mother twice over! Both to the Universal Championship AND The White House!”

“You can. If you live.”

That simple statement brought Samael back down to Earth. His smile upended into a frown. “Yeah. So do you have a way to fix this whole death situation or what?”

“I do.”

“What’s the catch?”

The Void shrugged. “You have to let me in.”

“Like…sexually?”

“Again with the crass jokes.” the beast sighed. “We must become one.”

“Aren’t we already?”

“Not quite. I’m bound to you, yes. But if you want to live, you must cede control of your body to me.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Whoa…whoa…whoa….we didn’t discuss that shit!”

“You don’t want to be the vessel for a living God? That’s quite surprising coming from you.”

Sam patted his chest for emphasis. “Yeah, sure, if I’m the God! Not something else.” Then, looking askance, he shook his head ruefully. “I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?”

“Not particularly. But, I will do you this favor. For any business pertaining to the XWF, you’ll have control. But aside from that, I need you to operate on the mortal plane.”

“And what’s the end game? What are you using me for?”

“Oh, you’ll like this part.” the beast leered. “I’ll be working towards putting you behind that desk, my boy.”

“Okay. Sounds good. What then?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh?”

Sam scowled. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a shit load you’re not telling me?”

“Because there is. But as you said, you don’t have a choice.”

“Fine…” Sam hung his head. “Just let me live.”

The void smiled unsettlingly, then seemed to dissolve into a thick black amorphous ichor that hung suspended in midair, until finally it invaded the orifices of Sam’s face. Pouring into his mouth, nose and ears, burrowing deep, deep within him and burning all the way down. Sam tried to scream but found that he could not. Until….

HERE

Sam sat up screaming, and came face to face with the shocked expressions of his minions. The how’s and why’s of him ending up on the floor slowly trickled in, and his hand rushed to his left eye, taking solace in the fact that it had returned intact.

“Master!” shouted an Insignificant. “We thought you were dead!”

“Shhhhhh shhhhhh shut up about that for now! Where’s Lux?!”

The Insignificant who spoke pointed out the door. Sam pulled himself up off the floor and stumbled into the hallway, still clad in blood soaked tighty whities. There, he saw the vision he had so desired. The Ubermensch stood tall over Lux’s prostrate form. Her body was twisted unnaturally, and blood was pooling out of her mouth. Sam walked over to her, noting that she was quite dead. The Ubermensch, looking at Sam in a state of awe, fell to his knees before him.

“Yes my friend. Yes!” Sam turned back to face the rest of his minions as they filtered into the hall. “LO! I AM RISEN!” He threw his arms into the air triumphantly, and the rest of his minions all fell to their knees in supplication. Then, wheeling back around to Lux’s body, Sam proceeded to lift up a foot and bring it crashing down on her face, over and over and over, until all that was left was a crater of an open wound punctuated by a loose jaw drooping onto her throat. Sam bent low at the waist, spat into the crater of a wound, and hissed, “Go fuck yourself you cunt! I win! I WIN!” Then, screwing his body around once more, he pushed past his minions back into his hotel room, headed straight for the bathroom. Once there, he marveled at his reconstructed face in the mirror. A picture perfect reconstitution save for one detail. The pupil of his left eye was now a deep crimson. Sam poked at the eye gingerly, and smiled rakishly. “Doesn’t matter. I look even MORE badass now!”

The champion took in a deep breath, and let it out as a triumphant scream! Insignificants started to crowd the doorway, each one clamoring for the master’s attention. But Samael simply kicked the door shut. He noticed then that the Universal Championship was draped over the side of the shower door. Sam scooped it up into his arms, cradling it lovingly, pressing the gold plated image of his own face into his chest. He looked up at the lights of the bathroom, mouth hanging open before perking up into a leering smile.

“They’re gonna say I couldn’t handle Lux on my own either.”

Sam looked at the camera, his face settling into a deeply unsettling mien.

“That’s what they always say though, isn't it? “Sam cheats. Sam can’t get it done on his own.” But you know what I find so fucking funny about that? That despite all your bitching and moaning….IT WORKS EVERY GODDAMN TIME!”

Sam laughs.

“Everytime! And just look at that dumb motherfucker Sebastian Everett-Bryce. Rolling out to the ring against Remi Storm, oh so confident that he’d be going into Relentless as the champion despite two…TWO…briefcase holders waiting in the wings. So did SEB bring backup? Did he plan to defend himself at all?

Fuck no!

Because the man’s HUBRIS is only outweighed by his colossal STUPIDITY!”

A pause.

“I bet you’re all waiting for me to apologize and make excuses for the way that I do things. I bet you’re expecting me to be ashamed. Well you all can tongue my scrote because I apologize for NOTHING! Because my methods, my planning, my GENIUS has seen me capture FOUR championships in TEN MONTHS!

Ya can’t argue with results, folks!

And you know what?

I’m gonna do it again!

The numbers are on my side. I’m gonna ratfuck you two into oblivion. And what? You think you’re gonna SHAME me into a loss by pointing out in your promos that I rely on help?

HAHAHAHAHA!”

Sam laughs, and then spins the title around so you can see its face. HIS face.

“This title bears my face for a reason. It bears my face because I’m the most dangerous, underhanded son of a bitch in the entire promotion. Graves, you can get fucked! In fact, let’s start in on you Gravy boat. The flesh around your throat is looking mighty supple.

Michael, you have the strongest claim against me. One draw. One loss. But ya see, I don’t look at it that way. Because when you think critically about our history (and I know it’s hard for you, hang in there), you know what I see?

I see a man who couldn’t pin me or make me submit given TWO chances!

You had AMPLE opportunity to humble me after we walked through hell together. And the best you could manage was making me bounce the wrong way off a platform. You call that shit definitive? I call it a fluke! And last time I checked, there won’t be any platforms to fall off of at Relentless!”

Sam pats the title.

“You already had your chance with this and you pissed it away against Scoops. And then, when given ANOTHER chance against SEB, you pissed that one away too. Because that’s ultimately what you do. Just ask Kristoffer Arroyo and the Anarchy Tag Team championships. Shit man, you should have held those belts for a hot minute. But what did Kris get for his troubles? You bumbling and fumbling the ball, blasting him with your poison mist and losing another championship.

You fucking IDIOT.

Michael, look at me. Look at me you dumb motherfuck!”

Sam glowers into the camera, smirking.

“How do those bullet wounds taste, Michael? Hell, by your own admission that convenient healing factor of yours is slowing down, isn’t it. And sure, Mikey, sure, you got past Judd with a torso full of lead. But can you do it again? Do you have it in you? Or are you getting TIRED, Michael? Are you getting WEARY? Your performances of late have been wildly inconsistent. Bad Medicine was a SHITSHOW for you. And after that, all you did was beat Isaiah King, a man plummeting faster than a loogie hocked off the top of a skyscraper. You think King still gives a shit? Prick can’t even be arsed to cut a promo anymore.

Judd’s your only recent feather in your cap. And hell, a win over him is something we both share. Sure we went about it a little differently, but I think I’ve already proven at the end of the day that that doesn’t really matter now does it?”

He looks down at the title, admiring his own image before retraining his sights on the camera.

“That just leaves you Sebastian. The daft idiot who was soooooo soooooo certain he was going to be the final boss of wrestling at Relentless. Sweet, sweet schadenfreude, did I enjoy the fuck out of that cash in. I had a hard on for hours after drilling your skull into that briefcase.

So! Anyway! I have a vitally important question for you SEBBY. Which one of you are we going to get at Relentless?”

Sam shrugs.

“The multi time Universal Champ?

Or the man who washed out in the first round of March Madness and went tits up against my mother?”

He laughs.

“Man and I thought Gravy was inconsistent. He’s got nothing on you though! I mean, fuck sakes Sebastian, how does a guy with your pedigree lose to Madison Dyson? HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?

Oh, heh heh, that’s right. You’re an IDIOT.

I bet you were so confident you were going to win, right? Didn’t even bother to study her tapes. Didn’t even bother to do your goddamn homework. Nah. Just waltzed into that match with your immense ego as a crutch and got fucking HUMILIATED.

See, and that there is your biggest problem Sebastian. You just assume it’s going to be all sunshine and rainbows for you. But me? I know better. I know the world doesn’t work that way. I know it’s dark out there and that the smart ones, the ones with INSIGHT….they PREPARE. They strategize!

And maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe you’ve just spent so much time reaping the largesse from smaller promotions with lesser talent that you’ve just grown so, so accustomed to things going your way. Maybe you’ve just gotten COMPLACENT. And who wouldn’t in your shoes? Especially after the way you won the Universal Championship the last time.

Oh, I’m sorry motherfucker, did you think we didn’t all notice? You think we didn’t see you picking the leathery scraps of flesh from Scoops bones? That geriatric didn’t even bother to cut a promo against you SEB. He was just too tired. Too spent.

So congratulations, Sebastian. Well done! You got one over on a senior citizen who didn’t give a fuck anymore.

But me?

I give a fuck. I give ALL THE FUCKS.”

Samael holds the title up high.

“Because this? This is the sum total of years of planning. There’s that word again! Yeah. Planning how to escape the hospital my mother left me in. Consolidating masses of pathetic losers into an ARMY. Using my mother’s resources to find the Ubermensch. Sending Kristoffer Arroyo into the XWF to pave the way for me and then disposing of him when I was done with him. Targeting that weakling Jenny Myst to win the XTreme Championship. Defending the Xtreme Championship by hook or by crook for months. And picking the exact moment you’d be at your weakest against one of my own allies to take what was yours and RUB YOUR FACE IN SHIT!

Everything has proceeded according to my grand design. EVERYTHING! And now? NOW….

….I have defeated death itself.”

Sam marvels grandiously. Then, leaping for the door, he opens it to see a massive throng of Insignificants and Rollerwhores there waiting for him.

“I have an idea.”

A LITTLE LATER….

Samael appears on the balcony of his room, clad in a fresh pair of tighty whities and a brown bathrobe. Next to him, the Ubermensch holds Lux’s corpse with a sheet wrapped around her neck like a noose.

And down below, Sam’s minions have forced all the hotel guests and employees out into the parking lot at gunpoint. Some cry. Some bloviate angrily. Some stay silent. But all are being forced to pay homage.

Sam raises his arms triumphantly as the Ubermensch sends Lux’s corpse over the side of the balcony. The body falls and then snaps taut with a sickening CRACK. Screams are heard from down below. And then, Sam pulls out a lighter and touches the flame to the kerosene soaked sheet serving as her noose, setting the body ablaze. Sam raises his arms again, eyes cast heavenward.

“I AM RISEN, BITCHES! I have cast aside the stone at the mouth of the cave, shrugged off my injuries, and am REBORN! I am JESUS CHRIST REDUX! And nothing! Not Sebastian! Not Graves! NOTHING CAN STOP A MAN WHO IS LITERALLY IMMUNE TO DEATH!”

He looks to the camera.

“Relentless is the next, greatest step in a plan none of you can hope to understand. And considering a bullet to the skull couldn’t stop me, I’m not liking the competition’s chances! The Universal Championship stays home with daddy dearest, and nothing….not some boring Brit, not some goofy degenerate, can possibly stop me now!

YOU ALL LIVE UNDER THE SHADOW OF MY IMMENSE COCK!”

Sam’s minions cheer!

“Say it with me, plebians! JESUS CHRIST REDUX! JESUS CHRIST REDUX! JESUS CHRIST REDUX!”

The minions, and the civilians forced to say it at gunpoint, chant in unison with Samael as the smoke and the flames from Lux’s burning body reflect off his glassy manic eyes. Sam smiles like a predator as his future stretches out before him, beckoning him onwards towards still greater atrocities.]]> My name is Lux.

For months I’ve been attempting to stomp out the weed that is Samael Dyson. But each time I was thwarted by the masses of sycophants and lunatics he surrounds himself with. Each time I fell victim to his meticulous plotting.

Each time I failed.

And in so doing, I came to realize that there was only one way I could accomplish this task. A factor that I had neglected to consider in all these many months of plotting and counter plotting. And as time grew short and Samael’s power and influence only continued to grow, I knew what I had to do.

I had to die.

NOW

“Housekeeping.” The voice on the other side of the door was accompanied by an obnoxious rapping. Samael Dyson’s eyes shot open, bloodshot and wincing against the incessant assault of the lighting in his room.

“Shall I get it master?” the Insignificant queried.

Samael sat up, the drunken stupor having yet to shake itself off. But, asserting control of his inebriated faculties, Samael sputtered out, “Nahhh….gonna….gonna spit in this dumb cunt’s face….”

Tossing aside his reeking sweat stained sheets, Samael stumbled towards the door and opened it.

The silenced pistol was leveled at his left eye. Samael blinked, muttered “wuh”, and then the bullet barreled through his eye ball, turning it into a fine jelly that splattered against Lux’s face. The bullet continued its moribund path through Samael’s head, pulping his brains inside his skull before exploding out the back, sending shards of bone spewing out onto the carpet. Samael toppled backwards, striking the floor with an inglorious thud.

The Ubermensch met Lux’s eye. And they all fell upon her in an instant. More than she could handle. More than she could fight. But it didn’t matter anymore.

Because that vile motherfucker Samael Dyson was already cooling on the rug.

Dead.

SOMEWHERE ELSE

Samael Dyson awoke at the bottom of the basement stairs. Those stairs. Those infernal steps, that nightmare locale from his childhood that his mother and father had left him to after he tumbled down them, breaking bones, concussing himself. He could still hear Madison’s dismissive recriminations as she shut the door on him, worrying more about Child Protective Services than her little boy’s wellbeing. Leaving him in the dark. In pain.

Abandoned.

And so, it made perfect sense in a sort of cosmic, fate-spinning way that the place where Samael Dyson was born again should be the place he’d return to when he died.

“Mommy….” Samael spoke in a hushed tone, chancing a glance up at the closed door above him.

No. Mommy wasn’t there.

She wasn’t there before. And she wasn’t there again today, at the end.

Or so he thought.

Because this is where we deviate from the tale twice told. This time the door opened again. Samael’s spirits picked up. She hadn’t forgotten. She hadn’t abandoned him.

This time would be different.

The light behind Madison cut a stark figure, a shadowy profile that at first lacked all detail and substance. But as Samael’s eyes grew accustomed to the sudden glut of light and focused in on his mother’s presence, he saw that something was very, very wrong.

….in the White House. Staring at himself as he sat behind the Resolute Desk, a bevy of cameras and lights aimed in his direction, waiting on his every word.

“What….?”

“Relentless 2026 was where it began.” The Void, still in the form of Samael’s mother wearing that ghastly facepaint, put a hand on his shoulder from behind. “The consolidation of your power. Your influence over the masses. You think it was meant to end with some paltry wrestling program?”

Sam marveled at the man behind the desk. Himself. Or some future variation thereof. The face was a little weathered. A shock of silver ran through his blond locks. And oddly enough, the pupil of his left eye was blood red. But it was unquestionably him, seated on that throne of power.

“Holy shit. Am I….the….the….?”

“The President? Yes Sam.”

“But how?”

“Because if the last 15 years of American history have taught us anything, it’s that the simpering throngs of this country are attracted to a show above all else. Even at their own expense. And who puts on a show better than you, my boy?”

For the first time since his untimely demise, Sam smiled. “Yeah. Who better.”

The Void gestured towards the man behind the desk. “Care to have a preview of your future?”

Sam nodded, a hungry look in his eyes.

Then, almost as if someone had flicked on a radio, the sound snapped on to accompany the image, and the future Samael was in mid rant, clearly playing things up for the camera.

“I promise you, my fellow Americans, that as we speak my ROLLERKOMMANDO are annexing Greenland for this mighty nation, finally fulfilling the promise made by that weak joke of a former president Donald Trump. Because when you’re looking for results, you don’t turn to some fat spray tanned oaf, you turn to me, the BIG DICK PLAYA HIMSELF….SAMAEL DYSON!”

As he speaks a Rollerwhore climbs out from under the desk, working her jaw and rubbing it as though it’s sore. But as soon as she saunters off camera, another whore is waiting in the wings to get under the desk and start, uh, paying homage to the president.

Present day Samael is absolutely beaming as he beholds his future self.

“Now, do the American people want to see a replay of that footage from last week between me and Canadian prime minister Mark Carney?! Hell yeah, I know you do. ROLL THAT BEAUTIFUL BEAN FOOTAGE!”

A shot within a shot appears next to Samael, and in it an aged and decrepit Mark Carney is on his knees before President Dyson. He’s holding his hands up, begging in shameless supplication. But President Dyson pays his groveling no heed, as he unzips his pants, withdraws his massive dong and smacks the prime minister across the face with it! Such is the force of the impact with Samael’s genitals that Mark’s mouth is busted open and one of his teeth goes flying, impacting off the lens of the camera and leaving a crimson streak behind. The replay ends and disappears, leaving us alone once again with President Dyson’s self satisfied smirk.

“Now, some people are claiming that that was nothing but AI fakery! And I assure you fellow patriots that those naysayers have been dealt with. TO DEATH! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Present day Samael touches his cheek, flicking away an errant tear. “It’s so, so beautiful.”

“Well, I’m about to bust ladies and gentlemen, so that’s all for tonight. Tune in tomorrow, same time, for another presidential address. Remember, attendance is MANDATORY! In the meantime, take in this glorious battlefield footage of my Rollerkommando totally fucking DESTROYING Greenland’s puny army!”

And with that, the scenes gracefully fades to black, leaving Samael and the demonic effigy of his mother alone in an inky black expanse.

“You’re serious?! That can be me?!”

“Of course.” the Void purred.

Samael clapped his hands together and laughed. “I get to beat my mother twice over! Both to the Universal Championship AND The White House!”

“You can. If you live.”

That simple statement brought Samael back down to Earth. His smile upended into a frown. “Yeah. So do you have a way to fix this whole death situation or what?”

“I do.”

“What’s the catch?”

The Void shrugged. “You have to let me in.”

“Like…sexually?”

“Again with the crass jokes.” the beast sighed. “We must become one.”

“Aren’t we already?”

“Not quite. I’m bound to you, yes. But if you want to live, you must cede control of your body to me.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Whoa…whoa…whoa….we didn’t discuss that shit!”

“You don’t want to be the vessel for a living God? That’s quite surprising coming from you.”

Sam patted his chest for emphasis. “Yeah, sure, if I’m the God! Not something else.” Then, looking askance, he shook his head ruefully. “I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?”

“Not particularly. But, I will do you this favor. For any business pertaining to the XWF, you’ll have control. But aside from that, I need you to operate on the mortal plane.”

“And what’s the end game? What are you using me for?”

“Oh, you’ll like this part.” the beast leered. “I’ll be working towards putting you behind that desk, my boy.”

“Okay. Sounds good. What then?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh?”

Sam scowled. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a shit load you’re not telling me?”

“Because there is. But as you said, you don’t have a choice.”

“Fine…” Sam hung his head. “Just let me live.”

The void smiled unsettlingly, then seemed to dissolve into a thick black amorphous ichor that hung suspended in midair, until finally it invaded the orifices of Sam’s face. Pouring into his mouth, nose and ears, burrowing deep, deep within him and burning all the way down. Sam tried to scream but found that he could not. Until….

HERE

Sam sat up screaming, and came face to face with the shocked expressions of his minions. The how’s and why’s of him ending up on the floor slowly trickled in, and his hand rushed to his left eye, taking solace in the fact that it had returned intact.

“Master!” shouted an Insignificant. “We thought you were dead!”

“Shhhhhh shhhhhh shut up about that for now! Where’s Lux?!”

The Insignificant who spoke pointed out the door. Sam pulled himself up off the floor and stumbled into the hallway, still clad in blood soaked tighty whities. There, he saw the vision he had so desired. The Ubermensch stood tall over Lux’s prostrate form. Her body was twisted unnaturally, and blood was pooling out of her mouth. Sam walked over to her, noting that she was quite dead. The Ubermensch, looking at Sam in a state of awe, fell to his knees before him.

“Yes my friend. Yes!” Sam turned back to face the rest of his minions as they filtered into the hall. “LO! I AM RISEN!” He threw his arms into the air triumphantly, and the rest of his minions all fell to their knees in supplication. Then, wheeling back around to Lux’s body, Sam proceeded to lift up a foot and bring it crashing down on her face, over and over and over, until all that was left was a crater of an open wound punctuated by a loose jaw drooping onto her throat. Sam bent low at the waist, spat into the crater of a wound, and hissed, “Go fuck yourself you cunt! I win! I WIN!” Then, screwing his body around once more, he pushed past his minions back into his hotel room, headed straight for the bathroom. Once there, he marveled at his reconstructed face in the mirror. A picture perfect reconstitution save for one detail. The pupil of his left eye was now a deep crimson. Sam poked at the eye gingerly, and smiled rakishly. “Doesn’t matter. I look even MORE badass now!”

The champion took in a deep breath, and let it out as a triumphant scream! Insignificants started to crowd the doorway, each one clamoring for the master’s attention. But Samael simply kicked the door shut. He noticed then that the Universal Championship was draped over the side of the shower door. Sam scooped it up into his arms, cradling it lovingly, pressing the gold plated image of his own face into his chest. He looked up at the lights of the bathroom, mouth hanging open before perking up into a leering smile.

“They’re gonna say I couldn’t handle Lux on my own either.”

Sam looked at the camera, his face settling into a deeply unsettling mien.

“That’s what they always say though, isn't it? “Sam cheats. Sam can’t get it done on his own.” But you know what I find so fucking funny about that? That despite all your bitching and moaning….IT WORKS EVERY GODDAMN TIME!”

Sam laughs.

“Everytime! And just look at that dumb motherfucker Sebastian Everett-Bryce. Rolling out to the ring against Remi Storm, oh so confident that he’d be going into Relentless as the champion despite two…TWO…briefcase holders waiting in the wings. So did SEB bring backup? Did he plan to defend himself at all?

Fuck no!

Because the man’s HUBRIS is only outweighed by his colossal STUPIDITY!”

A pause.

“I bet you’re all waiting for me to apologize and make excuses for the way that I do things. I bet you’re expecting me to be ashamed. Well you all can tongue my scrote because I apologize for NOTHING! Because my methods, my planning, my GENIUS has seen me capture FOUR championships in TEN MONTHS!

Ya can’t argue with results, folks!

And you know what?

I’m gonna do it again!

The numbers are on my side. I’m gonna ratfuck you two into oblivion. And what? You think you’re gonna SHAME me into a loss by pointing out in your promos that I rely on help?

HAHAHAHAHA!”

Sam laughs, and then spins the title around so you can see its face. HIS face.

“This title bears my face for a reason. It bears my face because I’m the most dangerous, underhanded son of a bitch in the entire promotion. Graves, you can get fucked! In fact, let’s start in on you Gravy boat. The flesh around your throat is looking mighty supple.

Michael, you have the strongest claim against me. One draw. One loss. But ya see, I don’t look at it that way. Because when you think critically about our history (and I know it’s hard for you, hang in there), you know what I see?

I see a man who couldn’t pin me or make me submit given TWO chances!

You had AMPLE opportunity to humble me after we walked through hell together. And the best you could manage was making me bounce the wrong way off a platform. You call that shit definitive? I call it a fluke! And last time I checked, there won’t be any platforms to fall off of at Relentless!”

Sam pats the title.

“You already had your chance with this and you pissed it away against Scoops. And then, when given ANOTHER chance against SEB, you pissed that one away too. Because that’s ultimately what you do. Just ask Kristoffer Arroyo and the Anarchy Tag Team championships. Shit man, you should have held those belts for a hot minute. But what did Kris get for his troubles? You bumbling and fumbling the ball, blasting him with your poison mist and losing another championship.

You fucking IDIOT.

Michael, look at me. Look at me you dumb motherfuck!”

Sam glowers into the camera, smirking.

“How do those bullet wounds taste, Michael? Hell, by your own admission that convenient healing factor of yours is slowing down, isn’t it. And sure, Mikey, sure, you got past Judd with a torso full of lead. But can you do it again? Do you have it in you? Or are you getting TIRED, Michael? Are you getting WEARY? Your performances of late have been wildly inconsistent. Bad Medicine was a SHITSHOW for you. And after that, all you did was beat Isaiah King, a man plummeting faster than a loogie hocked off the top of a skyscraper. You think King still gives a shit? Prick can’t even be arsed to cut a promo anymore.

Judd’s your only recent feather in your cap. And hell, a win over him is something we both share. Sure we went about it a little differently, but I think I’ve already proven at the end of the day that that doesn’t really matter now does it?”

He looks down at the title, admiring his own image before retraining his sights on the camera.

“That just leaves you Sebastian. The daft idiot who was soooooo soooooo certain he was going to be the final boss of wrestling at Relentless. Sweet, sweet schadenfreude, did I enjoy the fuck out of that cash in. I had a hard on for hours after drilling your skull into that briefcase.

So! Anyway! I have a vitally important question for you SEBBY. Which one of you are we going to get at Relentless?”

Sam shrugs.

“The multi time Universal Champ?

Or the man who washed out in the first round of March Madness and went tits up against my mother?”

He laughs.

“Man and I thought Gravy was inconsistent. He’s got nothing on you though! I mean, fuck sakes Sebastian, how does a guy with your pedigree lose to Madison Dyson? HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?

Oh, heh heh, that’s right. You’re an IDIOT.

I bet you were so confident you were going to win, right? Didn’t even bother to study her tapes. Didn’t even bother to do your goddamn homework. Nah. Just waltzed into that match with your immense ego as a crutch and got fucking HUMILIATED.

See, and that there is your biggest problem Sebastian. You just assume it’s going to be all sunshine and rainbows for you. But me? I know better. I know the world doesn’t work that way. I know it’s dark out there and that the smart ones, the ones with INSIGHT….they PREPARE. They strategize!

And maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe you’ve just spent so much time reaping the largesse from smaller promotions with lesser talent that you’ve just grown so, so accustomed to things going your way. Maybe you’ve just gotten COMPLACENT. And who wouldn’t in your shoes? Especially after the way you won the Universal Championship the last time.

Oh, I’m sorry motherfucker, did you think we didn’t all notice? You think we didn’t see you picking the leathery scraps of flesh from Scoops bones? That geriatric didn’t even bother to cut a promo against you SEB. He was just too tired. Too spent.

So congratulations, Sebastian. Well done! You got one over on a senior citizen who didn’t give a fuck anymore.

But me?

I give a fuck. I give ALL THE FUCKS.”

Samael holds the title up high.

“Because this? This is the sum total of years of planning. There’s that word again! Yeah. Planning how to escape the hospital my mother left me in. Consolidating masses of pathetic losers into an ARMY. Using my mother’s resources to find the Ubermensch. Sending Kristoffer Arroyo into the XWF to pave the way for me and then disposing of him when I was done with him. Targeting that weakling Jenny Myst to win the XTreme Championship. Defending the Xtreme Championship by hook or by crook for months. And picking the exact moment you’d be at your weakest against one of my own allies to take what was yours and RUB YOUR FACE IN SHIT!

Everything has proceeded according to my grand design. EVERYTHING! And now? NOW….

….I have defeated death itself.”

Sam marvels grandiously. Then, leaping for the door, he opens it to see a massive throng of Insignificants and Rollerwhores there waiting for him.

“I have an idea.”

A LITTLE LATER….

Samael appears on the balcony of his room, clad in a fresh pair of tighty whities and a brown bathrobe. Next to him, the Ubermensch holds Lux’s corpse with a sheet wrapped around her neck like a noose.

And down below, Sam’s minions have forced all the hotel guests and employees out into the parking lot at gunpoint. Some cry. Some bloviate angrily. Some stay silent. But all are being forced to pay homage.

Sam raises his arms triumphantly as the Ubermensch sends Lux’s corpse over the side of the balcony. The body falls and then snaps taut with a sickening CRACK. Screams are heard from down below. And then, Sam pulls out a lighter and touches the flame to the kerosene soaked sheet serving as her noose, setting the body ablaze. Sam raises his arms again, eyes cast heavenward.

“I AM RISEN, BITCHES! I have cast aside the stone at the mouth of the cave, shrugged off my injuries, and am REBORN! I am JESUS CHRIST REDUX! And nothing! Not Sebastian! Not Graves! NOTHING CAN STOP A MAN WHO IS LITERALLY IMMUNE TO DEATH!”

He looks to the camera.

“Relentless is the next, greatest step in a plan none of you can hope to understand. And considering a bullet to the skull couldn’t stop me, I’m not liking the competition’s chances! The Universal Championship stays home with daddy dearest, and nothing….not some boring Brit, not some goofy degenerate, can possibly stop me now!

YOU ALL LIVE UNDER THE SHADOW OF MY IMMENSE COCK!”

Sam’s minions cheer!

“Say it with me, plebians! JESUS CHRIST REDUX! JESUS CHRIST REDUX! JESUS CHRIST REDUX!”

The minions, and the civilians forced to say it at gunpoint, chant in unison with Samael as the smoke and the flames from Lux’s burning body reflect off his glassy manic eyes. Sam smiles like a predator as his future stretches out before him, beckoning him onwards towards still greater atrocities.]]> <![CDATA[EVERYTHING MUST GO!]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50460 Sun, 13 Sep 2026 15:25:22 -0700 (Gravy_Xtreme_5000)]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50460

**SMACK!**

Dude's head snapped to the side and for a second he just stood there with his hand slowly rising toward the big red handprint spreading across his cheek.

Micheal Graves pointed a trembling finger directly between his eyes.

"NEVER BESMIRCH THE NAME OF BARNEY GREEN AGAIN!"

"What the FUCK!?"

"THAT MAN IS A FUCKIN' XTREME LEGEND!"

"All I said was he wasn't that good!"

**SMACK!**

Graves hit him again.

"STOP HITTING ME!"

"THEN STOP SAYIN' STUPID SHIT!"

The man stumbled backward into a folding table covered in thirty years worth of XWF magazines, action figures, DVDs, championship replicas that were very obviously made of plastic, and one horrifyingly yellowed pair of underwear inside a Ziploc bag marked:

POSSIBLY CENTURION'S — $8

The sign hanging above it all read:

EVERYTHING MUST GO!

SERIOUSLY. EVERYTHING.

The man rubbed his cheek.

"You're insane."

Graves gasped.

"And now you're attackin' MEEE!?"

Graves raised his bitch slapping hand and the employee retreated back.

"Whoa, WHOA! I work here!"

"Then act professional, dummy!"

Graves carefully picked up an old Barney Green action figure whose paint was all cracked and missing, the head was partially chewed up, and somebody had drawn a penis across the chest in permanent marker.

Graves studied it like Indiana Jones discovering an artifact from the lost city of Atlantis.

"Look at this poor bastard.

Motherfucker was XWF World Champion once. Like twenty years ago. Now look at him. Ain't done much in ten years. Retired... least until the next time he needs some T-girl money.

Nobody talks about Barney Green anymore. Nobody thinks about him unless they actually knew the poor bastard. He's just a ghost from twenty years ago gettin' a little harder to remember every fuckin' day."

For a moment, Graves almost looked sorry for him.

"Ya know who'd fuckin' hate this?"

"Who?"

"Sebastian Everett-Bryce."

Graves held Barney up by the head.

"This little chewed-up motherfucker is Sebastian's worst nightmare. Not losin'. Not gettin' hurt. Bein' forgotten. All that legacy shit. All that SEB this, SEB that. Motherfucker wants his name carved so deep into this place it'll survive the apocalypse along with me and the cockroaches."

He looked back at Barney.

"Barney probably thought the same thing once.

Happens to all of us eventually."

He placed Barney into a shopping cart already overflowing with things nobody on Earth should've wanted.

Most prominently, an old XWF Gilly branded 'Suck my Dildo' circa 2015.

"You're actually buying all this junk?"

Graves retrieved a Ziplock bag with 3 used Cherry vapes labeled as Loverboy Lane's used vape pods from the cart.

"Junk my ass! This shit's historically significant XWF merchandise!"

"Oh, yeah, of course! Historically significant... Used vapes and dildos..."

He pushed the shopping cart deeper into the warehouse until he came across a Samael Dyson "I DID IT MY WAY" T-shirt with a distressed Universal championship on the front that can't be more than a week old.

A SEB money clip containing fake Xbux with his face on it.

And a human tooth glued to a plaque with a missing engraving.

"The fuck's this?"

"No idea... A tooth?"

Graves turned the plaque over.

AUTHENTIC XWF RING-USED TOOTH — $12

"Whose tooth though?"

"It doesn't say."

"Could be mine."

"Uh... do you recognize it?"

Graves opened his mouth and ran his tongue across his teeth.

"Nope."

Into the cart it went.

"You're buying an unidentified tooth?"

"Twelve bucks ain't bad, besides, it might be mine."

"You just said you didn't recognize it!"

"You know how many fuckin' teeth I've lost in the last three decades!?"

Next came an old framed event poster.

Graves stared at it for a minute.

"I think I was there."

"You think?"

"Probably."

"You don't know?"

"Motherfucker, that was like twenty years ago. XWF used to keep shit records and I barely remember Tuesday."

Graves pulled it off the wall.

"Hey, that's not for sale."

Graves looked at the giant EVERYTHING MUST GO sign.

Then at the employee.

"You wanna rethink that?"

The employee shrugged and into the cart it went.

Next, Graves dug through boxes full of old shirts. Most were dry-rotted. Some had wrestlers on them like MUNGBEAN that he hadn't thought about in years. Others had wrestlers on them like Chris Chaos that he was pretty sure nobody had thought about ever.

Didn't matter.

He kept tossing the shit into the cart.

"You can't possibly want all of this."

"Sure I can."

"Why?"

The employee pointed around the warehouse.

"Half this stuff is broken. Nobody even knows what some of it is. We've had boxes of this crap sitting here for years because nobody wants any of it."

Graves looked around.

Then down into his cart, where Barney Green stared back at him with a dick drawn across his chest, and Graves genuinely seemed confused by the question.

"I don't know... It's XWF shit."

"So?"

Graves looked at him like he'd just started speaking Chinese.

"The fuck you mean, so?"

"Seriously. Look around. Nobody wants this stuff."

Graves did.

Old faces stared back. Some he'd loved. Some he'd hated. Some he'd forgotten. A few he would've happily punched in the mouth again if they happened to walk through the doors.

He reached into a box and pulled out an old turnbuckle pad with three faded letters across it.

X W F

It was partially burned and stained with dry blood.

"See? That thing's probably twenty years old."

"Older."

"How do you know?"

"Cause I remember when some asshole set it on fire."

"Who?"

"Might've been me."

He threw the turnbuckle pad into the cart.

"You know what? Never mind. If you wanna spend your money on a bunch of shit nobody else wants, be my guest."

"You're an idiot if you think nobody wants this stuff."

"Why do you think this stuff is being liquidated?"

Graves looked around again.

At names nobody talked about anymore.

Broken shit from matches most people had forgotten ever happened.

Nearly thirty years of the XWF sitting around collecting dust.

Then he looked down at Barney Green and the dick on his chest.

"I want it."

Graves shrugged.

"Fuck else am I supposed to do? This place is pretty much all I've ever known."

"That's actually kinda sa—"

Graves raised his bitch slappin' hand.

"—terrifying. I was gonna say terrifying."

"Good save."

Graves pushed the overflowing cart toward the register.

"Alright. With the poster, the memorabilia, the figures, the tooth, Lane's used vape pods—"

"Cherry."

"Yes. The cherry used vape pods... Your total is $1,784.62."

Graves froze.

"My what?"

"Your total."

"For what!?"

"For everything you're buying!"

"The fuck!? I ain't buying shit! This is a rescue!"

"No, it's a store!"

Graves looked toward the front doors.

"Don't even."

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're thinking."

"I ain't thinkin' nothin'."

Graves tightened both hands around the shopping cart.

"Sir..."

Graves took a step backward.

"Sir, you have to pay for that."

"That's fuckin' ridiculous. You said it's worthless junk."

He continued to inch back.

"I can SEE you backing toward the door!"

"Then quit watchin' me, dummy!"

Graves suddenly spun the cart around.

"HEY!"

"THE XWF THANKS YOU FOR YOUR DONATION!"

And took off.

"YOU CAN'T JUST STEAL IT!"

"I'M PRESERVIN' HISTORY!"

The cart slammed through the front doors and Graves disappeared into the parking lot with Barney Green bouncing happily on top of his pile of loot.

"SON OF A BITCH!"

The employee started after him, but second guessed it.

"Maybe I'll just call the police..."

Outside, Graves could be seen wrestling the overloaded shopping cart across a speed bump.

LATER...

The rear doors of an old white cargo van sat wide open in the parking lot of a gas station a few blocks away.

A handwritten cardboard sign taped across one door reads:

AUTHENTIC XWF HISTORICAL SHIT
NO LOWBALLERS. I KNOW WHAT I GOT.

Micheal Graves sat in the back surrounded by everything he'd 'rescued' less than an hour ago.

Seems preservation came with a profit margin.

A man held up the unidentified tooth.

"How much?"

"Forty."

The man slowly put the tooth back.

"Thirty-five!"

He kept walking.

"THIRTY AND I'LL THROW IN CENTURION'S UNDERWEAR!"

He walked faster.

"YOUR LOSS, DUMMY!"

Another customer was digging through a box of shirts.

Graves watched him pull the Samael Dyson "I DID IT MY WAY" shirt out of the box.

The customer flipped it around.

Six black silhouettes carried Samael triumphantly on the back.

"How much for this one?"

"All shirts are twenty or two for thirty, 'cept that one. Thirty for the shirt and another thirty for makin' me make money off that dipshit's name."

"What?"

The customer threw the shirt back into the box.

"You must really hate that guy."

"You think? Fucker's extra in everything 'cept actually fightin' somebody straight. Weaselly little fuck with little-big man syndrome.

But I ain't stupid. The dummy's smart.

Motherfucker faked an injury, dumped the Television Championship, waited for Remi to wear Sebastian down for a whole ass match, then came marchin' out with enough boots to invade Poland, turning his title cash-in into a fuckin' gang initiation."

Graves blew a chef's kiss.

"Beautiful."

"Isn't that cheating?"

"Of course it's fuckin' cheating!"

Graves looked offended by the question.

"You think I'm gonna criticize somebody for cheating? I spit colored shit into people's eyes!"

"Why?"

"Cause regular spit ain't purple. Stay with me."

Graves tossed the shirt over his shoulder.

"Sam did exactly what Sam should've done. Had the briefcase. Used the briefcase. Got the Universal Championship. None of that Isaiah King backup plan bullshit. A man of action!

Besides..."

He leaned forward.

"Result's all that matters, right?"

"I guess?"

"Don't guess. Know. Sammy's been preachin' that shit for anyone who'll listen. Nobody cares how ya got there. Nobody remembers the fine print. History just says you won."

Graves smiled.

"I fuckin' love that philosophy."

"Why?"

"Cause I beat him.

And that's why Sammy starts gettin' real fuckin' specific whenever my name enters his mouth."

Graves held up one finger.

"Micheal Graves never pinned me!"

A second finger.

"Micheal Graves never submitted me!"

He held up a third finger and waited.

"What's the third one?"

"Ex—fuckin'—zactly!

He never says Micheal Graves never beat me. Cause he fuckin' can't! In fact, he tends to glaze me when it's sellin' his ass! Fuck you for tellin' everybody only the result matters, then suddenly turnin' into a fuckin' forensic accountant when the result says Micheal Graves."

"What's a forensic accountant?"

Graves froze.

"How the fuck should I know!?"

"You just said it."

"Yeah, because I thought it sounded right."

The customer nodded.

"It did!"

"Thank you!

And ya know, there is a funny part to all of this, but it ain't how Sammy won the belt. He's right. Who cares? The real funny part is how badly he needs for everybody else to care."

"What are you talking about?"

"This motherfucker is runnin' around screamin' DEATH TO THE XWF like he got kicked outta Al-Qaeda for being too fuckin' dramatic!"

Graves threw his arms out mockingly.

"THE LEGACY DIES WITH ME! I'M GONNA POISON EVERYTHING! I'M GONNA DESTROY THE XWF!"

He dropped his arms.

"Then he wins the belt and one of the first fuckin' things he does is check the website."

"The website?"

"THE FUCKIN' WEBSITE!

Motherfucker noticed they still had Sebastian listed as champion and threw a fit demanding recognition and respect! Think about that shit. Sammy hates the XWF so much he checked the fuckin' website to make sure it loved him back!"

The customer laughed.

"DEATH TO THE XWF!"

Graves raised a pointed finger.

"But first, could somebody update my profile page?"

Graves stared at the little Dyson on the shirt.

"You don't wanna kill the XWF, Sammy. You just want it lookin' at you.

All this DEATH TO THE XWF shit? That's just you bangin' pots and pans in the kitchen because Mommy shut the bedroom door and forgot you existed.

Now you're standin' there with the Universal Championship in one hand and your fuckin' phone in the other, refreshin' the website sixty times a minute screamin' LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!

You ain't an executioner.

You ain't even KindaCarver.

You're just a neglected little fuckin' brat with a championship belt."

He tossed the shirt back into the box.

"Good news, Sammy. At Relentless, everybody's gonna be lookin' at ya.

Bad news is they're gonna be watchin' me take your fuckin' belt."

Another customer reached into the van and pulled out the SEB money clip.

"How much for this?"

Graves looked at Sebastian Everett-Bryce's face printed across the fake bills and groaned.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"What?"

The customer held up the money clip.

"It's kinda nice."

"Of course it is. Sebastian probably had a fuckin' focus group decide which picture made him look the richest."

Graves snatched it out of his hand and flipped through the fake bills.

Every single one had Sebastian's face on it.

"Jesus Christ."

"You don't like him either?"

"Never said that."

Graves stuffed the fake money back into the clip.

"Sebastian beat me."

The customer waited.

"That's it."

"That's it?"

"What the fuck else you want? An investigation? A recount? Sebastian Everett-Bryce beat Micheal Graves at Bad Medicine.

There. Saved him six thousand words."

He tossed the money clip onto a box.

"And he didn't just beat me either. Motherfucker hurt me."

Graves rubbed at his ribs without really thinking about it.

"For weeks."

"Sounds like he kicked your ass."

"You tryin' to get slapped too?"

"Just saying."

"Yeah. He kicked my ass, but I took somethin' from him too. Now Sebastian should be worried about me clawin' my way into this match."

"Because he beat you?"

"No, dummy. Because he did everything right! He hurt me worse than anybody had in a long fuckin' time. He left me walkin' around weeks later still feelin' Bad Medicine every time I bent over to tie my shoes."

Graves pointed at his feet.

"I wear slip-ons now."

"Smart."

"Thank you."

Graves pointed at him.

"But here's the issue. I'm still fuckin' here. You proved Micheal Graves can break, Sebastian. Congratulations. Now explain why the broken motherfucker is standing in the middle of your Universal title rematch!

You beat me, but I got back up. I beat Isaiah King. Got back up. Judd Hollow damn near cooked me medium-well and I still got back up and beat his ass too.

And you've already admitted the cost of facing me once. Now it becomes a test of endurance and I've spent all year outworking everyone while you've spent the year winding down."

Graves shrugged.

"Turns out healing wasn't what made me stupid."

"That's good?"

"Fantastic news!"

Graves picked the money clip back up and glared at Sebastian.

"So what exactly did Bad Medicine actually solve for ya, Seabass? You didn't get rid of me. You barely survived me the first time. Now you gotta do it again with variables that ain't workin' to your favor."

"So you think you can beat him this time?"

"I think it ain't the same match."

Graves held up three fingers.

"Three people."

One finger went down.

"One of 'em is me."

Another down.

"One is Sammy."

He left the middle finger standing.

"And one is Sebastian."

"Was the middle finger necessary?"

"Very.

See, Sebastian's good. Really fuckin' good. Smart. Patient. Knows when to hit ya, knows where to hit ya, and he don't panic easy... Usually."

"Usually?"

"Remington Storm walked past the motherfucker."

"Okay?"

"Didn't acknowledge him. Didn't kiss the ring. Didn't stop and tell him how pretty his fuckin' hair looked."

Graves leaned back against the van.

"And it bothered him so much he gave her a match."

"Because she ignored him?"

"His words, not mine. Petty made him do it. That's fuckin' useful information."

"How?"

"Everybody thinks he's calm. He ain't calm. He's contained.

Big fuckin' difference.

A grenade sittin' on a table looks pretty calm 'til someone pulls the pin.

Ignore Sebastian? He gets petty. Embarrass him? He remembers that shit. Take somethin' he thinks belongs to him and suddenly Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected starts twitchin' like a rich kid watchin' somebody key his fuckin' Bentley."

Graves pointed toward the Dyson shirt lying nearby.

"And Sammy didn't key the fuckin' car. He stole the whole goddamn thing."

The customer looked at the shirt.

"You think Sammy ain't gonna spend every second pokin' at him? Remindin' him how everybody watched him get carried out of his own fuckin' championship reign?

Hell no! Sebastian wants Sammy. Sammy wants him. They got revenge, stolen championships, hurt feelings..."

Graves made a disgusted face.

"Probably sexual tension."

"What?"

"You fuckin' heard me!"

Graves tossed the money clip back to him.

"Sebastian wants his championship back bad, and he'll be gunnin' for the man that took it from him.

Wasn't me.

And that makes me more dangerous than normal."

"So... uh, how much for the money clip?"

"Fifty."

"That's insane."

"Sebastian's face is on the money. It's probably worth a lot."

"I'll give you twenty."

"Thirty-five."

"Twenty-five."

Graves thought about it.

"Thirty, and I'll throw in the Samael shirt."

"Deal!"

Graves handed him both, then watched the man hold Sebastian's money clip in one hand and Samael's shirt in the other.

"Huh..."

"What?"

"Funny lookin' at 'em together. Sammy likes chaos, but Sammy's chaos got a fuckin' production crew. People runnin' interference, explosions, dildos dropping from the sky.

Sebastian likes control. Watches ya. Figures ya out. Waits for the mistake.

They say opposites attract."

Graves thumbed himself.

"I happen."

"You happen?"

"Graves happens, yes.

You can prepare for Sebastian Everett-Bryce. You can prepare for Samael Dyson and the chaos he brings.

Then Micheal Graves happens to ya.

Maybe I bite ya. Maybe I spit in your eyes. Maybe I drop ya on your fuckin' head. Maybe I climb somethin' I got no business climbin' and fall through the both of ya."

"You don't know what you're going to do before the match? That seems like a bad strategy."

"Yeah? Well, how the fuck are THEY supposed to know if I don't?"

The customer actually thought about that.

"That's... weirdly logical."

"Sammy's dangerous as fuck, especially with the ART Foundation behind him. Well, good for him. Too bad I don't understand numbers.

Sebastian already proved I ain't unbeatable. Good for him too, but he's learnin' that beating Micheal Graves once and being done with Micheal Graves ain't the same fuckin' thing. I don't stop bein' a problem just because you think you've solved the problem.

You knock me down, now you gotta worry about the other guy. Turn around and suddenly I'm back up doin' some other stupid shit nobody planned for. I'm not one big fuckin' disaster. I'm several medium-sized disasters in a trench coat and glasses. You can't plan for that!"

"That's your sales pitch?"

Graves shrugged.

"It's worked for thirty years.

Besides, I ain't gotta settle their grudge. I just wait for one motherfucker to go down before I catch the other in Grave Consequences. Then I steal three fuckin' seconds. They can keep the revenge. I'm takin' the belt."

"Why do you even want it? Aren't you a legend?"

"Judd Hollow called me a legend too. You know what's funny about people callin' me a legend?"

"What?"

"I always kinda sucked."

The customers just stared at him.

"You're selling yourself really well."

"Fuck you, I'm serious!"

Graves waved toward the pile of old XWF shit behind him.

"Go back far enough and I was a fuckin' mess. Angry. Unfocused. Half the time I didn't know what the fuck I was doing besides hurtin' whoever happened to be standing closest to me.

Then I came back ten years ago bigger, meaner... and still didn't know what the fuck I was doing."

He shrugged.

"Turns out brute force and making people uncomfortable as fuck can take ya pretty far."

"That's inspiring."

"Thank you.

But then some motherfucker put on my face and went on to have a better year being Micheal Graves than Micheal Graves ever had being Micheal fuckin' Graves!"

"That would piss me off."

"Oh, it pissed me off.

Mainly cause suddenly I had to ask myself a really shitty question.

What if that asshole wasn't making me look bad?

What if I made me look bad?"

For once there wasn't a joke in waiting.

"So I got off my ass and got serious about winnin'. Turns out I should've tried that shit twenty years ago. I won the Universal Championship. Went through to the finals of March Madness. I've lost two fuckin' singles matches all fuckin' year. Scoops got me. Sebastian got me. Sammy fought me to a draw once, then I came back the next show and beat that ass.

I ain't some old legend crawlin' outta storage hoping there's still a little Gravy left in the jar.

This is the best Micheal Graves there's ever fuckin' been, no *Allegedly* to it! Proven by the fact that I'm in the Universal title picture for the third time this year.

And fuck Judd Hollow for thinkin' anybody gifted me shit around here. One look at the match history tells you exactly why these main events keep coming up Gravy!

I love this fuckin' place.

I don't wanna watch Sammy tear it apart with his attention seeking bullshit, and I don't wanna watch Seabass polish it so fuckin' clean we're scared to get blood on the floor.

XWF ain't supposed to be safe. It ain't supposed to be pretty. It's supposed to hurt. It's supposed to scare ya. It's supposed to make ya wonder what kinda dumb asshole would keep comin' back after everything this place does to ya."

"And you keep coming back."

"Exactly! And I don't trust either one of those fuckers with the keys."

"Keys to what?"

"My fuckin' home!"

Graves reached into the van and pulled out the burnt turnbuckle pad.

"Sammy thinks bein' champion means the whole fuckin' company oughta stop what it's doin' and watch him throw a tantrum.

Sebastian thinks bein' champion means the whole fuckin' company becomes part of his story. His championship. His empire. His XWF.

Graves looked down at the old faded letters on the pad.

"Truth is, it don't belong to either of 'em."

He tossed it back into the van.

"Ain't mine neither... You hold the fuckin' thing until somebody comes along and takes it from ya.

And right now?

I think I'm the worst possible motherfucker to try keeping it from."

The customer looked past Graves into the van.

"So, uh... how much for that Barney Green figure?"

Graves immediately spun around and snatched Barney from the pile.

"Barney!? Nothing. No. Not for sale."

"Seriously?"

"He's a fuckin' Xtreme legend!"

"You just spent five minutes explaining that being a legend doesn't even mean you're good, annnd if you sell it to me, maybe you'll get some good karma for your quest to save the XWF."

Graves froze.

"Fuck savin' the XWF. I just wanna make sure it's still something worth survivin'. Somebody's gotta keep this place fucked up proper."

He looked at Barney.

Then at the customer.

"You know what? Take it, kid."

Graves forcefully shoved the Barney Green figure into the man's chest.

"Come back after Relentless and I'll autograph it as Universal Champion."

BWOOP BWOOP!

"In fact..."

Graves slid out of the van and shoved the keys into the customer's chest.

"Why don't you just keep all of it!"

Then took off on foot with the speed of a gazelle on crack as the police moved in.

]]>

**SMACK!**

POSSIBLY CENTURION'S — $8

The sign hanging above it all read:

EVERYTHING MUST GO!

SERIOUSLY. EVERYTHING.

AUTHENTIC XWF RING-USED TOOTH — $12

X W F

LATER...

The rear doors of an old white cargo van sat wide open in the parking lot of a gas station a few blocks away.

A handwritten cardboard sign taped across one door reads:

AUTHENTIC XWF HISTORICAL SHIT
NO LOWBALLERS. I KNOW WHAT I GOT.

BWOOP BWOOP!

]]> <![CDATA[The Office:XWF HR Dept Edition Part Tres]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50456 Thu, 10 Sep 2026 17:59:05 -0700 SummerPage]]> https://xwf1999.com/showthread.php?tid=50456
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