A stormy wet sky is what greets you as the shot slowly trickles down in step with the raindrops onto Samael Dyson. He’s seated on a headstone, but it’s thus far impossible to see who’s buried there. A soaking wet Insignificant holds an umbrella aloft over his master. But most haunting of all is the eerie yet oddly familiar tune Samael is whistling…


The whistle continues until it reaches its perilous crescendo and then Samael abruptly stops, slowly cants his head and smiles maliciously.

“You know, I could just about see the erection filling Elon’s pants when he announced you as my final opponent, Dickie. Too bad about those blue balls though.

Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. We know who we are. Dickie, XWF’s present day golden boy du jour. Samael, artiste in residence and general ne’er do well.

Let’s dispense with the beating around the bush too. I know you’re a verbose motherfucker and me, heh, similarly guilty as charged. But it’s completely unnecessary in this case. Why?

Because you’re gonna fucking lose.

The writing is on the wall. You see Elon thought he hit a master stroke when he picked you. Not so! Because the vaunted Dickie Watson? He’s on a skid. Why, I remember when you chastised Jenny Myst for mocking your 0-3, rightfully pointing out it wasn’t the full picture. But now that we have a FULLER picture post March Madness, what have we got?

Golden boy lost to Scoops and fucked up March Madness when most of the prognosticators had him picked to win.

Golden boy lost to Kristoffer Arroyo.

Golden boy lost to Michael Graves.

Skid! Skid! Skid!

And that’s not even the worst of it. You see Dickie, I love, love, LOVE how you see fit to include the Xtreme in your list of accomplishments. All four days of that reign.

Four days, Dickie! Christ in a handbasket you couldn’t hack it a WEEK! Whereas I’ve fought off over FIFTY attempts on my championship over the course of four and a half months!

Where’s your gumption, boy?! Oh….it’s with me! I have it! Hahahahahaha!

Of course this isn’t going to stop you from assassinating my character. It’s what you’re good at. Unfortunately what you’re not so good at is saying shit that actually matters. These facts? They don’t lie. You think pointing out my mommy issues is going to stop me, the longest reigning Xtreme champion in five years, from caving your shit in? You think pointing out that I’m a bad guy is going to clinch this win for you? Oh hunty, me being a bastard is a feature, not a bug! Especially when I got a handy dandy ladder to drag across that pretty face of yours. But please do make me some cute AI art! Drop some of that famous wordplay!

None of it fucking matters.

What fucking matters is that I’ve never been pinned or made to submit. You have. Multiple times.

What fucking matters is that I’m the cruelist, most conniving son of a bitch on the roster whereas you’re a halfhearted loogie hacked up by the local Hot Topic. 

And most importantly of all what matters is that YOU DON’T.

Not really anyway.

Because this?

Oh I bet you thought this song was about you!

Shit it's not even about my mother anymore. I already packed that bitch up.

No….it's about HIM."

Samael hops down off the headstone, and we finally see the name.

And more alarmingly, the grave is open. The casket is open. And Dexter Bright’s skeletal corpse is exposed.

"It’s about HIM. My mother’s pet freak! The longest Universal Championship reign in modern history. The longest XTreme Championship reign in modern history. The man who is synonymous with the legacy of the XWF. The man this company coddled while my mother tutored him about like a surrogate son, lavishing him with opportunity after opportunity while I ROTTED AWAY IN AN ASYLUM!"

Sam’s voice hits a fever pitch, his face trembling with barely contained rage.

"Yes, that’s right. The final target of my ire, my penultimate act of vengeance is on Dexter Bright and by extension THE ENTIRE FUCKING XWF!

You people….you people....gave Dexter and my mother a home while I was being beaten down, restrained, and tortured. You indulged their vices, signed their paychecks and gave them ample TV time. You REWARDED my mother and her animal as I SUFFERED.

Well guess what you indolent pricks? It’s my turn now! It’s my turn to make the entire XWF suffer! It’s my turn to make you fuckers PAY!

Because once that Universal Championship is mine, I’m turning this entire promotion TOXIC! I’m going to make the Shane era look like goddamn Sesame Street. Pornography. Drugs. Ultraviolence. No network will be willing to touch the XWF with a ten foot pole!

The legacy of the XWF dies with ME. I will be its final champion! And who’s going to stop me? That fatted calf Dickie Watson? Heh. Ha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Sam descends into peals of manic laugher. And as he does so he unzips his fly. The shot trends downwards towards the skull of Dexter Bright, one of the XWF’s most legendary bannermen. A piece of the foundation that the modern XWF is built on. It occurs to you that legacy is precisely the word to describe him…..

…just as a stream of hot piss begins to patter into his eye socket. The urine slathers Dexter’s face, leaking past his teeth and into his mouth. Soaking him in Samael Dyson’s waste. And through the twinkling of the piss and the falling rain, the XTreme Champion’s psychotic chanting assaults your ears, settling in like a parasite, a mind virus warped and out of control.