Oswald, after his loss at Anarchy, chuckled to himself a bit while at home, in his ornately decorated office, sitting on a large chair that might as well be his throne. His hands steepled with index fingers to his chin as he is lost in thought, speaking aloud, because he knew he felt like he could understand better if he did. Sometimes, the big man will elect to do that. Other times he chooses to speak as if the camera was nearby. This time, it was.

"She was able to finally beat me. Good on her. Though, I didn't tap out. I will never again tap out. I'd rather pass out in a pool of my own blood than ever tap out again in my career."

He then parted his hands and the right one dug into his left breast pocket of his jacket. Within his hand, an ornate, onyx covered lighter. He rolled his thumb across the mechanism, igniting the lighter and the gas within. However, with the way it was crafted, the flame came out bigger than normal lighters, making it more like a handheld flamethrower instead. His left hand went into his left pocket, pulling out a hash blunt. He put the blunt to his lips and the flame would spark it as he took a drag to make sure the blunt was lit.

His thumb off the lighter, waving it a few times to make sure the motion cooled the metal inside a little bit before placing it back in his suit's breast pocket, patting it to ensure it was secure. As he blew out the smoke finally, he turned around and faced the doorway. Another drag, as his mind raced. A new match, brand new blood.

The smoke he drew into his lungs being expelled as if he was some mythical creature with each syllable he spoke. That's when he noticed the camera, chuckled a bit before he would put out the blunt before expelling the rest of the smoke stored in his lungs, out through his nose and mouth slowly, causing his face to seemingly disappear from view before the smoke lifted and he was grinning.

"Dom, it seems? More like a sub to me, if they're going to throw you to the will of one of XWF's top performers.

Now, normally, unless people need a history lesson, I don't need to remind people who I am. Some of my opponents are new to me, so I educate and you're not different.

So, Dom. Here are my accolades, to give you some understanding of what the fuck they did to you. So listen closely, alright?

I AM! A FOUR time STAR OF THE MONTH WINNER! I AM! A TWO time X-Treme Champion! A former Anarchy AND Revolution champion! One of the last people still active in this company knows about and former champion of the Intercontinental Championship and former Hart Champion. Titles now long defunct and hanging some place at the XWF's offices. You've performed how many matches so far? What? Three, four?

I've had quite possibly a hundred or so. I lost track. Nor do I care outside of my championship victories. I am the Workhorse of this company. I am one of those men that will more than likely never win the Universal title, but you will know me more intimately because of it. My reputation, my presence, is all people pay attention to."

He smirked a bit. Going back to the blunt and lighting it again, going through the process once more.

"Some call me the Butcher of Chi-town. Some call me Mister Oz. Some know me by my name, Oswald. To others, I am still Ghost Tank. Enter an obligatory 'fuck you, Lane' here."

He took a drag on the blunt, holding it in for a good minute before blowing it out and tapping the ashes into a marble ashtray made to look a caved-in skull.

"You will know me as the man that will terrorize you at Bad Medicine. I will terrify and annihilate you. You are not worthy enough to lace my boots. If I had the choice to book myself, it would be title shot after title shot until I got tired. I've paid my dues, done my time, and I am here to put ten toes into the ground and show this company that I! And I ALONE! can make this company just as great as I've done for Chicago! I put asses in seats every Anarchy! Opening, main eventing or in the middle, I don't give a shit. I aim to maim. I hurt as a dessert. A little treat. Each blow, each grunt of pain, every scream of anguish, it's like a rush of sugar invading me. It spikes my adrenaline, it makes me... Happy."

He chuckled softly as the blunt is once again in his mouth, but this time he keeps it in his mouth.

"I'm a Billionaire. I could have anything I want. So you know what I want, child? I want nothing more than to pierce your flesh upon the hooks in a match my crazed mind created nearly 12 years ago. 

I will be thorough. You will see my processes. My nickname of Butcher should be more in line with a Surgeon. My torture is beautifully crafted. You will see that first hand.

Your death knell has started. The clock is ticking. When Mr. Oz destroys a greenhorn, and makes him regret his life choices that made him end up at the front of his feet."

He takes the rest of that lit blunt and instead of using the ashtray, he would stick his tongue out, and used it to put it out. The ash that formed, gathered and then as he places the rest of the blunt in the ashtray as the camera watched Oz swallowed the ashes.

"See you at Bad Medicine, Dom. Pray for your win. 

Because I'll be praying on your downfall."