LoF

Anger…

Frustration…

Annoyance…

Depression…

Such emotions were held by the losers in the Leap of Faith battle royal. So many planned, plotted, schemed, and had a leg up with stablemates they hoped to benefit from. They had it all figured out - until they didn’t.

Yet there was one loser among them who wore a smile, for she’d snatched something more glorious than a trashy briefcase with a title shot.

She’d snatched Charlie’s SOUL!

That woman was, naturally, the GREAT Korvayne!

Sacrificing herself to take out Charlie filled her with more joy than winning the Television Championship and pinning Isaiah King. 

But driving his fat head into the ramp with Malibu’s Most Wanted afterward?

That…

Was…

ORGASMIC!

No. 

That was a soul-drenching KORGASM for her!

She knew his Bastards wouldn’t be far away, so she collected Lionel and her Simp, then hauled ass out of Studio 11, aka “Mars.” Her reckless, breathless laugh mingled with theirs as they piled into the limo and sped away.

Charlie had fired the first shot last month, but Korvayne escalated it with a nuclear response. And now? The mother of all wars was officially ON! Somewhere out there, Pete Hegseth was having a Korgasm of his own.

Hours later, their celebration was still raging. Korvayne stood through the sunroof, howling at the moon, arms outstretched to soak in the moment. Lionel stood with her, blowing a trumpet victoriously. Where he got it was anyone’s guess.

If her Simp weren’t so rotund, he would’ve joined them, but he considered himself exactly where he was meant to be, lounging across the seat where Korvayne’s beautiful buns were inches from his face. Those beady eyes were utterly fascinated by the way her cheeks jiggled as the limo wove through the midnight clubbing district.

“Korvayne, it-”

She cut off Lionel by snapping her fingers.

“Call me Julia. You’ve earned the right to say my name.”

He palmed his chest with a gasp. A reverent nod came, so proud.

“A lovely name for a lovely lady! It’s been an honor thus far!”

She grinned. “And many more honors will come in this great war against the Bastards! You hear that, Simp?”

Korvayne stomped her Simp.

“You may call me Julia, too. You’ve earned it!”

He clutched her succulent calf and let his hand linger for a microsecond, disguising it as his body recoiling from the kick.

“YAAAAS MY KW-K-KW-KWEEN! JULLLLLIIIIIIIIIIA!”

Tissues came out. He wept tears of delight.

She rolled her eyes and made the driver speed up. The demons lurking at the bottom of the liquor bottles in those clubs were calling to her, like a siren luring a sailor toward the rocks.

Not good.

Her attention turned to the city sliding past.

Then she caught a glimpse of the wire mesh between two buildings. Something about it hit home. A memory. She shut her lids to prevent it from escaping.

Ah, there it was.

Seven years ago, give or take.

A chain-link fence rattled as Julia vaulted it, her sneakers hitting the pavement hard enough to sting. A stolen backpack landed beside her. She scooped it up and slung it over her shoulder without breaking stride.

Footsteps and shouting made her tense. She bolted, shoulder-checking someone out of her way, anger flaring the second they grabbed at her. Her legs carried her far and fast, those juke-moves making pursuers miss like Barry Sanders used to make tacklers miss.

“HAAAA, as fast as fast can be, you’ll never catch me,” she taunted as they gave up the chase.

Julia darted through more alleys and smiled a mile wide as her eyes clocked the three coolest chicks in the world waiting for her in a black Bentley Continental GTC Convertible. She cleared the trunk in a single bound, dropkicking a backrest as she landed.

Abby was behind the wheel and peeled out. Regina and Tessa celebrated while sifting through the backpack’s contents, fishing out reams of paperwork.

“Oh, resumes. Dope cover letters, too. Oh well, no jobs for you, sir.” Tessa tossed the stack of papers into the wind, not giving a single solitary fuck about the man who might’ve scored a job with them. 

Julia watched the parchments fly away, and with them the hopes of that unknown man. A twinge of remorse surfaced, but she pushed it aside. Weakness can’t be shown around them. Julia had worked too hard, risked too much to be part of their clique. To be seen with them. To be heard among them. To be cool. To someday be rich and eccentric.

To be feared, respected, and adulated.

To never again be the girl people overlooked.

To dictate who could speak to her, who could touch her, who could even meet her gaze.

To be somebody.

Somebody other than the poor ass nobody she’d been all her life.

Being poor as fuck in Malibu is worse than being poor anywhere else, like Arkansas, for example. In southern states, being poor is expected. Malibu, though? It’s unacceptable. Too rich a city for the poor.

Had it not been for Julia’s artsy school murals catching Abby’s attention, and a right-place, right-time encounter with the police where she kept her mouth shut, she wouldn’t be one step closer to officially joining their clique and forever shedding her squalid origins!

“And THAT…” Regina cackled, wagging a fancy clipboard. “Was task number seven. Three more to go and you’re in like sin, Jules.” 

They tossed the remaining backpack items out of the car. It was never about the backpack or its contents. It was about the list. The tests. The willingness to do what others wouldn’t. Every task completed brought Julia closer to becoming somebody.

“Girls,” Abby butted in, glancing at Julia through the rear-view. “Nobody’s made it past five tasks. I think Julia’s earned something extra. XWF’s coming to the coast. Soooo..  road trip next week? We got the VIP package. Ringside. Meet and greet. The works. Tessa’s gonna finally meet her crush.”

“I’m down! Totally!” Julia hoped she’d said the ‘totally’ part correctly to sound like them. She eyed Tessa’s Robert Main bandanna that she always wore. It went well with the Apex shirts she rocked.

“I hope Jay’s there too!” Julia squealed.

Regina and Tessa laughed. Not the friendly kind, the condescending kind.

“She’s a TRUE BELIEVER. Jay Omega’s a dork.” Regina mocked.

“There’s only one OMEGA, and it’s my baby right here…” Tessa tapped her Robert Main bandana. 

The only one who didn’t give her shit was Abby, who tossed Julia a subtle wink through the rear-view. A hint that she, too, adored Jay. Julia grinned but noticed something odd. Abby’s face shifted, like a digital TV distortion, and she suddenly looked like Remi Storm.

“Remi?”

Korvayne snapped awake with Remi’s name still on her lips. Flashing red and blue lights bathed her. She sat up but sank into a bed of colored plastic balls.

“The fuck?” Her mind was muddled. She looked around. It was dark outside, but she gathered that she was in a McDonald’s playhouse. A cop stood at the edge of the playpen, shaking his head.

“Alright, ma’am, let’s go.” The officer held out a hand as she swam up, still confused. She swatted it away and ambled next to him while he flipped through his notebook.

“You said a name. Remi? Who’s she?”

“My frie..wait.. No. What?” She shook her head. “A co-worker.”

“She didn’t join you tonight?”

Kor’s brain started filling in the blanks. Her Simp complained that the location wasn’t open 24/7. Then there was the broken McDonald’s window. She and Lionel were playing silly games in the playpen, going up and down slides, gladiatorial duels with pool noodles, declaring themselves monarchs of Ball Pit Kingdom, seeing who could burrow through the plastic balls the fastest, and ridiculous diving competitions into the pit with scores awarded for style and dramatic flair.

“No, Remi wasn’t here.”

“Well, you all made one hell of a mess.” The policeman pointed at different areas, her eyes blooming with embarrassment as she followed his fingers.

There were scraps of food everywhere. Streaks of condiment were caked on their faces. The kitchen looked like a tornado had hit it. She remembered her Simp firing up grills and churning out lots of Big Macs, fries, and milkshakes.

Korvayne smacked her lips. “OH MY GOD!” The realization hit her. “I ATE THAT SHIT!” She rammed a finger down her throat to puke up the McTrash, but nothing regurgitated.

“Enough of that,” the cop yanked her straight and sat her at a table, then gestured at the others. “All of you, over here. Now.” The Simp and Lionel joined her, but to Kor’s befuddlement, two more people sat with them.

“Who are these guys?”

“Milady, that’s Hank. Our limo driver.”

Hank waved and tipped his hat.

She bitchfaced him.

They all looked at the last remaining person sitting with them. The guy was crusty-looking and older than Scoops if one could believe such a thing. He wore a faded Army jacket and smelled awful. The man slurped the rest of a milkshake and smiled.

“Name’s Doug. I’m homeless. Saw a party and food being flung around. Had to pop in.” He patted his belly and flicked a thumbs-up.

Korvayne disregarded him immediately and chatted up the cop.

“What’s the play, donut Dan?”

He jabbed his pen into the pad. “Lucky for you rabble-rousers, the jail’s overcrowded, so I’m not arresting you, but you’ll get a court summons to answer for this. The manager’s pushing for criminal and civil penalties. Lawyer up.”

“Pfft,” Korvayne fished out a card with XWF’s legal info on it. “Tell him to contact them and they’ll pay the civil stuff or whatever. I’d pay it myself, but this is kinda their fault for not being open 24/7 like McDonald’s used to be.”

The policeman took it and sent them on their way.

As they approached the limo, Korvayne saw Doug pushing his rickety shopping cart.

“Hey, homeless guy.” She didn’t suffer herself remembering his name. “You really served?”

He tapped a patch on his Army jacket and saluted.

“101st. Rakasans. Fort Campbell.”

“Ever kill anyone?”

“Only those who needed it.”

“GGs. Get in.”

She motioned to the passenger seat. There was no way she’d let his smelly ass in the back with them. Doug didn’t need to be told twice and hopped in.

That deliciously villainous smile overtook her face. She’d recruited another soldier to throw at grenades meant for her. What a gullible old fool.



The camera feed streamed into the Museum of Contemporary Art Cleveland where a gathering of art enthusiasts sat, yearning to see more from another talented artist.

“HERE YE! HERE YE! HERE YE!”

Everyone’s favorite thespian arrived, looking resplendent in his lush attire, including the gold cloak with Korvayne airbrushed across it. He drew his Hattori Hanzo sword and sliced the air dramatically before sheathing it.

“Silence ye tongues and set thine eyes agaze and mouths agape for the Artist of Atrocities hath another masterful disasterpiece to whet your artistic palates! She titled this piece of artistic grandeur, ‘Talking Shit.’ For this experimental piece, we shall bring forth essential items.”

He swooped his cloak theatrically. Chadsworth and the Simp produced a mic stand with a microphone attached and a large-screen TV, which they hooked special cords into. They gave the thumbs up and retreated to block the exits.

Once more, Lionel boasted grandly, “And now, the GREAT Korvayne!”

Generous applause met her as she strutted onto the stage, straight up aura farming. She was dressed not in clothes nor undergarments, but in body paint themed in patriotic Red, White, and Blue to celebrate the season of the greatest country on Earth.

Men whistled. Hollered. Hooted.

Lionel waved them off.

“Gentlemen, guard your loins! The GREAT Korvayne shall now commence the artistic performance. During this disasterpiece, she will not speak her verbal marinade, yet this is still a promo against her opponent, Kristoffer ‘Vamp’ Arroyo. She’s told me that Kristoffer is SHIT and therefore she will only speak to him through means befitting his status. So, BEHOLD…

TALKING SHIT!”

Korvayne held a bottle of sickly green liquid that seemed to have already been drunk from, and in one swift gulp, she downed the rest. She trashed it and grabbed her tummy in pain.

Then, she turned away from them and bent at the waist, palming her knees to steady herself. Everyone lurched forward in their seats, even the women. They couldn’t believe it. Korvayne’s spectacular glutes were facing them in all their faptastic painted glory.

She angled her iconic booty cheeks so that the tiny orifice could have its say into the microphone.

Then the toot-palooza began.

- Brrrrrrt.. PAAH -

The fart registered.

Subtitles sprang onto the screen, translating the toot into text and attributing its message to Kristoffer and viewers, just as they would for the rest of the vignette.

“Let me dumb this down to your digestive level.”

- Trrt -

A wet-sounding chirp.

“You’re SHIT, Kris.”

- Bip -

High-pitched and brief.

“300 years you’ve been around.”

- Shhhhhbbrrrrttt -

Drawn out fart-a-roonie.

“And the peak you’ve reached is being a revolving bitch for people. A pet. A trumpet. Portent. A supernatural bag carrier. Alexandria. Dyson. The list goes on.

You’ve dropped the ball on Matty how many times now? Left him stranded in a flat while you went off being Dyson’s lapdog in XWF.

That’s your peak.

That’s what 300 years gets you.

An epic failure as a friend, a ward keeper, a partner, a servant, a protector. And in the end, needing Matty’s super-duper blood to heal you because you were too much of a bitchpire to pull the trigger on Sam when you had the chance. Madison died on your watch. Matty will too.

MLK. JFK. Einstein. Helen fucking Keller. They had a fraction of the life span you’ve had, and nowhere near the wealth and connections, but they peaked higher, accomplished more, and did it with detractors and handicaps trying to keep them down. Others, too, but I can’t list them all.”

- Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Faaaah -

Bubbling and damp.

“3oo years, been bare-knuckle fighting long before wrestling allegedly, and you still can’t take a blow to the face. It took one headbutt from Frances to take you out, to bloody and terrify you on Anarchy several months ago.

LOL.

You were outfought, outfoxed, outsmarted, and outwilled by a man who’s one cigarette away from lung cancer. 

That’s some grade-A bitch shit.

You couldn’t even address Sarah Wolf by yourself in a shoot; you had to bring in  Sam, who looks like the human version of a Capri Sun after someone drank it, to do the heavy lifting for you.

More bitch SHIT from you.”

- BWAAAAAAAAP -

Like a tuba blast.

“Dickie was either right about you being smoke and mirrors with your blood and death schtick, or you’re the wimpiest vampire ever because in the vampire world, where Dracula’s the apex, you’re the Count Chocula. A cereal box caricature. Throw some pink shades on him, and I’d swear it was you on the box.

- Twt.. twt…twt..twt…BBBBLRRTTT -

Tiny squeaks into a tootie-rootie combo.

“300 years, Krissy, and the best shtick you could enter XWF with was a copy-pasted template from any x-rated vampire fanfic writing site. A supernatural bitchboy to a meanie purple-haired noodle.

And the hilarious thing about it all? Now that you’ve left Sam, nothing’s changed. You’re still a bitchboy, only it’s Graves now, and this week you’re pulling extra bitchboy duties for the Trillionaires because, let’s face it, this match is my punishment for exposing their Mars fakery. #sorrynotsorry

Did you REALLY think beating Dickie would put you into Universal Title contention? 

No, you 300-year-old fool, you’re here to serve the needs and wants of management, and you’re clearly the MVP in servitude. 

And even more hilarious than that? You’re still Samael Lite. You’re still doing your predictable garbo every vignette. Trying to discredit opponents wins. Short-selling their championships. It's as predictable as a John Blade match.”

- Blllrrrpp.. Skkkkrrrttttt… KABLOOIE -

Feels like something broke… or exploded. People fainted. Others tried fleeing.

“So expound on your predictable stuff. Air how foolish I was for picking Charlie as my partner, even though it was him or my Simp.

Tell me how I have a death wish.

Regale me about how many of my types you’ve seen in 300 years, how I’m a wannabe, a fake, or a cookie-cutter.

Flash those pretty fangs about how ignorant I was for passing up the briefcase to take out Charlie.

Eviscerate me about the tragedy I caused. 

Accuse me of being like Samael with how I treat people. Or maybe now that you’ve ‘seen the light’ you’ll claim we’re similar because we’re trying to rid XWF of a greater evil.

Mock the silly nicknames given to me.

Do it with all your favorite words from the pocket Thesaurus you stole from Sam.

Above all else, do that thing where you blissfully neglect mentioning how you won the Anarchy title off a washed competitor coming off the couch on short notice to replace the ACTUAL Anarchy Champion, and how you needed a team effort to do it.

Or how you can’t win First Blood matches to save your life, which is hella ironic.

Or my personal favorite… how you lost the title to a man who was best known for someone else wearing his mask and doing a better job of it than he ever did, then won tag titles with him from rollerwhores who’d won them off security guards.

LOL.

So much for your ‘now that I’m on my own,’ arc, huh? You just can’t help latching onto people who have some power. That’s what 300 years of bitch-hood gets you.

Sure, though.

Tear me down. Abuse me. Have fun. I’ll be the first to admit that I deserve it.

And I’ll be the first to admit that none of it means a thing in this, because newsflash, loser, it still led you to me, or me to you.”

- Fwssshhhhhhh… Prrrrrppp… BRWWWWAAARRP -

The inevitable happened. Some ‘Kristoffer’ spilled out.

Runny. Smelly. Shitty.

Those who hadn’t fainted earlier stampeded the doors but were repelled by Korvayne’s crew.

The attendees clawed at their throats, grabbed their noses, and passed out.

Korvayne toweled herself and removed the nose plugs. Her entourage followed suit and gave her applause despite the embarrassingly premature ending.



- Law office of Gaul Soodman - 

“They’ll drop the charges for your, uh…  raid of Studio 11, if you agree to attend XWF fan access events. Those events are in your XWF contract already, but you’ve no-showed them all. They’ve been fining you for it and garnishing your X-Bucks, but it appears you haven’t noticed.”

“Because I’m rich as fuuuuuuck.”

“Clearly. You’ve retained me. Best money you’ll spend. Anyway…  the McDonald's fiasco was easy. Guilty plea. Community service. Super simple.”

“Community service? I’m already doing that on TV every Warfare.”

Gaul slid the documents to her anyway.

“Whatevs.” She shrugged and signed them.

“Perfect. Your community service will be the Big Sister program. Every city you’re booked to wrestle in, they’ll pair you with a kid.”

For the first time all meeting, genuine terror crossed her face.

“It’s not that bad, Julia. They’ll assign you a little orphan boy or girl, and you’ll take them on a field trip somewhere. Museum. Theater. Three hours, tops. Very easy.”

“But I don’t give a shit about those kids.”

“Too bad. So sad. You signed.” He checked his watch. “Time’s up. Got another client.”

She flipped shit over and stormed out.

… and 24 hours later, she found herself at the Cleveland XWF fan access event, in the middle of a heated exchange with a Kristoffer fan dressed in vamp regalia with pink glasses and all.

“Fuck you… Vamp Glazer. Put respect on my name.” She poked him, and counted off her accomplishments.

“I won March’s promo-of-the-month as a write-in, I wasn’t even on the fucking ballot.”

She shoved fingers too close to his face. He hissed, fangs bared. 

“I countered Isisiah’s Royal Inquisition and pinned him 1-2-3!”

Everyone watching the confrontation groaned at that controversial fact.

“I did what nobody’s done. Made Yelena tap like a bitch and took her title! And unlike your idol, I won that title alone, on the A-show, two things your tramp-vamp hasn’t done. So run and tell him to come see me when he’s done all of that.”

The Vamp maniac sneered but had a retort aimed between her eyes... “And you LOST it to Bobby!”

Korvayne SEETHED.

“OOOOOOOOH OK. Let’s talk about that! Bobtard could’ve picked anyone to make his big return statement on, and he chose ME! He knew it’d have the biggest impact, and he needed it because most had forgotten him. Remi knows! She said it!”

The Vamp fan snarled, “AND YA STILL LOST!”

“FUCKER!” Her face blazed red. “It took First Blood and an impromptu cage. He wasn’t winning otherwise!”

Krissy’s glazer was unfazed and sashayed his hips slowly, seductively. “Romeo’s Lament. Prepare your pristine lips for his KISS… of IMMORTALITY!” He flicked his tongue.

“I don’t need immortality, you creepazoid,” Korvayne fumed. “My name will live forever on the lips of the last person alive!

And I don’t have supernatural powers or a 300-year head start on combat experience. He needs that because he’s SHIT without it.

Me, though? All I need is my wonderful athletic ability, super-cute indomitable willpower, and the perseverance of a Summer Page.

And if dregs like Frances can beat him, so can I. So, HA HA! TAKE THAT!”

The Arroyo fanboy backed off with a throat-slit gesture. “We shall see.”

It should’ve ended there.

But Korvayne felt something stir within. She saw the cell phones recording and knew it’d circulate.

“WE’LL SEE?” She spun him into a front face lock. He fought it, but he was no Kristoffer.

Her eyes flicked between the different phones, poised to speak to Arroyo properly instead of farting subtitles.

“Seeing this, Krissy? Got one of your boys.”

People tried to free him, but Chadsworth, the Simp, and their new guy, Doug, shoved them back.

“I’m not Dickie. I won’t show up tired, fractured, annoyed, or with my priorities split between promotions. I’m arriving super motivated, because you’re not the only one who needs to keep winning. I do too.

Winning keeps me on a collision course with Charlie.

Besides, you’ve had centuries to do right. Too late to start now. Want Dyson that badly? Catch him during defenses and pummel him until management’s forced to book it

DUH.

Unless there’s a convenient reason you can’t.

LOL.

But what do I know? I’m just a rookie.”

She torqued harder.

“Oh, and perhaps the most important thing you should know about me, Krissy. I’m totally not Samael. He thought killing Madison was shocking, but it was trash taking out the trash. Nothing of value was lost.

This fan, though? He’s innocent. Young. Dressed like you. Moved like you. He lives for you. Probably worked overtime at some goth shop to buy a ticket to see you.

You’re dealing with me now, though… not Sam or Dickie or some heroporn bitch. You're dangerous as fuck but so am I. And I can literally afford not to give a fuck.

And I think for this little disasterpiece, I’ll call it Matty McDeath. How apropos, huh? HAAAA!”

She SPIKED him with the same Malibu Most Wanted that destroyed Charlie Nickles, a specialized DDT that Raven and Jake never intended to be used like this.

Onlookers screamed. Someone yelled about this being a ‘bridge too far,’ and she guffawed…

“Crossed it!”

Korvayne grabbed the discarded pink shades, slipped them on purely to taunt him, then rolled out like a boss with her Art Foundation following in lockstep.