The scene opens at the Edgecrusher's state-of-the-art training center. A simple single-car garage with a sheet of plywood resting across two garbage cans, a bench press not used since the late '90s, and a web of extension cords running across the floor. A banner hangs crookedly from the rafters.


MC EC does his best Michelle Pfeiffer impersonation and sits backwards in a folding chair. He wears an oversized Indianapolis Colts jersey, sunglasses, and three thick gold chains that turn his skin green anywhere they touch. Beside him, Mr. Miller sits in a rusted lawn chair. His arms folded across his chest, he seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness. On the old TV in front of them, the recent promo cut by Solomon Kline plays. MC Edgecrusher leans in toward the screen and slowly lowers his Ray-Bans.

MC EC: Pause it.

Mr. Miller: What?

MC EC: I said pause it.

Mr. Miller: What?

MC EC reaches down and presses a random button on the VCR, and the tape ejects.

MC EC: Close enough.

Mr. Miller: What?

The screen is now nothing but static. The Edgecrusher stares gravely into it and nods to himself.

MC EC: Look at that man, Miller. Sad and depressed. He's spiritually constipated.

Mr. Miller: He called you fat.

MC EC: That's what depression does, dawg. Makes ya lash out at the people you respect the most.

The Edgecrusher rises from his folding chair and begins pacing back and forth in front of the TV.

MC EC: Think about everything Sashimi Koopa been through. The injury. The comeback. That man isn't my enemy, he's my homie. He's just really sad.

MC Edgecrusher turns toward the elderly Mr. Miller with the solemn expression of a man who just discovered his purpose.

MC EC: Salami just needs a friend.

A heavy knock rattles the garage door. Both men look at the door, then at each other, then back to the door in a Mexican standoff over who will answer. Another knock comes, this time louder and followed by muffled shouting.

Voice: DELIVERY!

The Edgecrusher slaps the button beside the door. The garage door rises six inches, then shudders and jams. MC EC drops to his stomach and wriggles underneath it. A second later, the door is forced open from the outside. A delivery driver stands in the driveway beside an enormous wooden crate. It stands nearly seven feet tall and sits on a pallet.

Stenciled across it in black letters:


Delivery Driver: Package for... Mcec.

MC EC: Never heard of him.

Delivery Driver: Lady said you was an idiot, Just sign here.

The driver holds out a small tablet. EC takes the stylus and carefully draws what appears to be a meat missile spouting love sauce. The driver takes the pad, looks at the signature, and shrugs before wheeling the crate into the garage.

Delivery Driver: Whoever sent this already paid the freight. There's a card attached to the side.

EC's eyes widen like a child on Christmas Day.

MC EC: Somebody sent me a gift? Is it my birthday?

The driver shrugs again and points to an envelope on the side of the crate, wishes them luck, and leaves. The Edgecrusher snatches the envelope, slowly opens it, and reads it aloud.

MC EC: I heard you could use a real training partner while you prepare for Charlie and Relentless. Put this to good use. Korvayne.

Dead silence. The Edgecrusher reads it again, this time softer.

MC EC: I heard you could use a real partner...

He presses the card against his chest, then raises it to his face and takes a long, deep inhale. He exhales even slower before folding the note and putting it into his back pocket. He then turns toward the crate. He grabs a crowbar from the plywood table and opens the box. Inside is a human-shaped training robot, programmed to perfectly mimic Charlie's fighting style.

MC EC: She knew I had a big fight coming, knew I needed help. She put her feelings into a box and mailed them to me, dawg.

Mr. Miller: It's a machine.

MC EC: A machine full of feelings. This makes me think about Sandwich Keeper needing a friend.

The Edgecrusher suddenly stops dead in his tracks. His eyes drift toward a dusty sack in the corner of the garage. A single potato rests on top of it, sprouting several pale eyes. His gaze turns toward the dead television, then back to the potato. A terrible idea is born. The Edgecrusher lifts the potato and holds it firmly in both hands like a sacred object.

Mr. Miller: You're gonna send him a potato, aren't you?

MC EC: Not just a potato...

EC digs around in another random pile of junk and pulls out a small publicity photo of himself from AWF circa 2006. He attaches the photo to the potato using a generous gob of spit.

MC EC: ...a limited-edition Edgecrusher motivational potato.

MC EC pulls a Sharpie from his beard and autographs the potato.

MC EC: There! Now he'll have something to show for the past year. Now let's run this down to the post office, then get to work on training with our Charlie-bot.






Red and blue lights flash across the wet pavement. A police cruiser sits outside a brick building identified only by a flickering purple neon sign...


The front doors open, and two police officers emerge with Mr. Miller between them. His hands are cuffed behind his back. His shirt is untucked, and his hair is disheveled. He has his general look of confusion. The officers escort him to the waiting cruiser and put him in the back. A few yards away, the Charlie-bot sits on the curb. A gray blanket has been wrapped around its metallic shoulders. Its artificial eyes stare blankly into the distance while a police officer kneels in front of it. The officer holds a doll.

Officer: I know this might be difficult, Charlie.

Charlie-bot rotates his head toward the officer.

CB: COMBAT SIMULATION ACTIVE.

Officer: I understand.

The officer raises the doll to the robot's line of sight.

Officer: But I need you to show me where the bad man touched you.

Charlie-bot looks at the doll.

CB: SEARCHING DATABASE.

The officer waits.

CB: SEARCHING.

Another officer walks up and quietly drapes the blanket a little tighter around its shoulders. Nearby, the Edgecrusher stands speaking with a detective. MC EC is furious. He's not embarrassed, not ashamed. Flame-filled rage spills from him.

MC EC: This is absolute bullshit, dawg!

The detective glances toward the robot, which has begun spouting smoke from its ears.

Detective: Mr. Summers...

MC EC: I've been wrestling for this company for months, MONTHS!!!! I have put up with a lot of bullshit. But this... this is... I just...

The Edgecrusher points toward the building.

MC EC: I signed a contract to fight a guy in a wrestling match. I had no idea what a triple-X Xtreme match was. This...

Like a light bulb appearing above someone's head in a cartoon, everything dawns on the perplexed detective.

Detective: Ohhhhhh... I see what's going on here.

MC EC: Word?

Detective: Yeah, I don't think you understand what an xxxxtreme match is.

MC EC: I knew wrestling was a dirty business, dawg. There's dirty, and then there's...

EC dramatically points toward the neon sign.

Detective: Mr. Summers, those X's don't mean that.

Silence. The Edgecrusher just stares blankly at the man.

Detective: It's just a branding thing. It's just an extreme rules match spelled like this is 1998.

The Edgecrusher slowly turns and looks at the club. He looks at Charlie-bot, which has now gone into full meltdown mode. It spasms on the ground, moaning, "Dear God, why me?" EC looks at the police cruiser. Mr. Miller has his face pressed against the glass and is out cold.

MC EC: And an innocent man gets to suffer because of it?

Detective: He's being charged with...

MC EC: AN INNOCENT MAN!

EC points toward the Charlie-bot. It is now on fire and begging to die as the officers attempt to extinguish the flames.

MC EC: A traumatized gift from my... my... my homie.

CB: 100101001100

MC EC: And who's to blame?

Detective: From what we've gathered so far, mostly the old guy.

MC EC: Wrong!

Detective: We have witnesses.

MC EC: They're all liars!

Detective: There are security cameras.

MC EC: WRONG! It's corporate! XWF's suits are the ones who need to answer for this slight against my homie!

The detective sighs, closes his notebook, and walks away, done with EC's bullshit. The Edgecrusher pulls the folded note from his pocket. He looks at it as his anger softens.

MC EC: Beautiful woman sends a man a beautiful letter...

He reads the letter to himself again and smiles.

MC EC: She worries about me.

He carefully folds the letter and returns it to his pocket. His smile disappears as he looks at the charred remains of the Charlie-bot.

MC EC: I'm taking this straight to corporate!






The XWF corporate boardroom is chaos. A dozen nameless executives sit around a table long enough to require its own zip code. An ocean of suits, ties, laptops, phones, coffee mugs, and charts. Nobody is listening to anybody, and everybody is talking loudly.

Executive 1: The preshow is already paid for!

Executive 2: I know it's already paid for!

Executive 12: Then why are we discussing the budget?!?!

Executive 4: Because the sponsor wants ninety minutes!

Executive 1: We don't have ninety minutes!

Executive 12: Then make ninety minutes!

Executive 2: That's not how time works!

Another executive slams a folder onto the table.

Executive 4: We promised them a premium preshow experience!

Executive 8: What the hell does that even mean?!

Executive 4: I DON'T KNOW! Marketing wrote it!

Across the table, another suit scrolls frantically through his laptop.

Executive 1: We have sponsors expecting integration throughout the entire broadcast. We've sold naming rights, commercial packages, sponsored segments...

Executive 24: How many sponsored segments?

Executive 2: All of them.

The room goes quiet.

Executive 4: What about the host?

Another folder gets thrown onto the table, spraying loose sheets of paper around.

Executive 24: Young. Trending. Hip-hop artist. Entrepreneur. Businessman. Huge social media presence. Exactly the demographic we're trying to reach.

A contract slides across the table.

Executive 2: He's supposed to be here NOW. We get the signature, he's officially contracted to host and book the entire preshow.

A loud bang, and the boardroom doors fly open. Every head at the table turns to see the commotion. MC Edgecrusher storms into the room, seemingly more furious than before. He marched all the way to XWF corporate headquarters with one purpose. A single mission with a righteous demand. Somebody is going to answer for what happened tonight.

MC EC: Yo, which one of you motherfuckers is in charge?

The executives stare at him in silence. MC EC stares back, his chest heaving and his fists clenched. One executive stands with a large smile spread across his face.

Executive 4: Finally!

MC EC: Um... yeah... I mean... YEAH, FINALLY!

The executive hurries around the table to the now-confused MC EC. He holds his hand out, and EC suspiciously shakes it.

Executive 4: We've been waiting on you.

Another executive stands up.

Executive 12: Big fan.

The Edgecrusher's expression changes.

MC EC: Yeah?

MC EC relaxes a bit. He straightens his jersey.

MC EC: Word Life.

The executives exchange worried glances. One whispers to another, asking if "that was his catchphrase, or what?" Another executive approaches MC EC, whose righteous fury has now decreased by at least seventy-five percent.

Executive 8: We love what you're doing.

MC EC: You do? I mean... YOU DO!

Executive 12: Absolutely.

MC EC: Of course, a lotta people do.

Executive 1: Music. Branding. Business. You've built quite the brand identity.

The Edgecrusher's eyes light up. Every single thought that occupied MC EC's brain ten seconds ago has been completely fucking erased. MC EC casually pulls out a chair and sits down.

MC EC: So what are we talking about?

One executive slides the contract toward the Edgecrusher. He looks down at the paper.

Executive 8: We've put together a major preshow for the PPV. All three nights. Heavily sponsored.

Executive 4: Extremely heavily sponsored.

Executive 8: You'll book the show each night, one match held at a local hotspot around town. It'll air for free on TV to help get those last-minute buys.

MC EC: So I decide what happens?

Executive 2: Of course!

The Edgecrusher doesn't look at the contract. He just signs it. He signs it in big, bold letters. He underlines the big, bold letters, then underlines the underline.

MC EC: Well, gentlemen... er... I mean, yo dawgs. I got work to be doing. Peace out, home slice.

The scene fades out as MC Edgecrusher takes his leave of XWF corporate headquarters.