XWF∞

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A Radical Production

There is no mercy left within. No silver linings with pretty bows at the end.

Radical is more than an action, or a disposition for infamy.

It's an identity. My complete identity.

And I'm going to fuck you with it.

Every Prophet claims that truth lies behind their name.

Gallows call throughout history to hang them all the same.

Whether you're an omen or the end of a punny game.

Even if you're only a shit eating pathetic hogm shame.

Triple threat- that's funny, because it's no threat at all.

One of us is a killer, and the other two have long since dropped their balls.

I would say I relate to being burnt out old bums, but the truth is,

Even they know what to do with the quarter rolls unlike you two one cent crumbs.

There is poetry in what you were and have become, just some of your own sum.

Like an ode to the echoes of when XWF was great,

Prosed in the torment of your own inability to stimulate your taint.

Looking for inspiration within a broken image of when,

Admirers gathered to give you an ovation.

Guised in the wherewithal of what you have become.

Only some. Only some.

Stop trying to repair the bygone hurt.

Put your hand on the artery so the blood doesn't squirt.

I used to dance as a kid. Tap for hours on end as my parents beat the walls begging me to just pretend. I couldn't help it.

My feet wanted to move in new ways; slide, toe kick, heel spur, jot, mount, and prick. It was an outlet for all the energy stored in my body pleading to escape. That was before I found my craft in the ring. My true calling of adaptive rage within ropes of tension or even... barbed wire. but those moves helped me become the agile technician that has achieved so much, even if sometimes it feels like nothing at all. For years I wondered why my parents never fully embraced the things I wanted to be encouraged to do. Easily dismissed like the milkman, with a door slammed in my face just as hard metaphorically as theirs was literal. Every ounce of me burned to get through it. Drunk old men are just bullies. Waiting for you to trigger what echoes the incomplete parts of them, so they can fill it with more of what eats it further into an abyss. The toxic spiraling circle of nothingness. A blank canvas of fucked.

That's what you are. The canvas may be bare in XWF Forever, but it doesn't change your need to fill the abyss with more disappointment. When I re-enter that XWF ring, the name may be Frenzy, but the feeling will be the same. I was Universal Champion for a reason. You two ho-hums are about to get maimed. Forgotten just as quickly as you came. At my behest as your next Xtreme Frenzy Champion, and the one who puts the F in Forever in capital legal claims.

Mercy is a fun word when you know how to forgive. But I am something different, something wicked.

Something adults hide from their kids. Something rated R in a place Rated X.

The joy of dancing in jovial delight as a child is gone.

But all the moves remain.

Sharpened on a stone of bone made from SHain.

Curved to a perfect prophetic point by the blood of a holy lamb.

Energized feet ready to stomp a little more by way of a red right hand.

Is that what you like, Prophet? Being backhanded? I can make that happen. I insist.

On being the one to wipe that stupid fucking look off your face. On exterminating your endless wordy nonsense by breaking your jaw.

Praying isn't going to help. No matter how far into the Bible YOU delve. The only Lord(e) you're going to be sings shit filled scat melodies. I've got some moonlight for you, it's called getting lit the fuck up.

I haven't seen toenails that disgusting and gangly since the last Guinness world record was set. Is that what you want to be, a trivial statistic in the analogs of a pamphlet a guy flicks through while his kid ignores him at Legoland? Because that's what's going to happen. Amen, two men, three men, or four- two girls, one cup, seven dwarfs, you're a proselytizing religious whore. Sermons, seamen, spermicide, and righteous pretenders- all of it only makes my wicked darkness engulf your endless bullshit of following trenders. How many masks on how many hogms would dare you to be original? You want rejuvenation; it's not going to come from being a bag of rotting plain shit. At least SHain's mask is his own, not a layer to push up your undersized tits. You should know what scum looks like, Prophet. Your indignation would be more interesting to me if it weren't spewing from a hole decorated by dingle berry strands of diarrheic rhetoric. Maybe if you were focused on the task at hand you could remove your hand from SHain's brown undershorts. Then you wouldn't have to make up prophecies that drag on like a chore, or ones that we all have to beg you like we did your mother to abort.

Dread overtakes the shot with supreme abnormality. 

Snowy branches zoom in steadily with bland tension building.

Eyes open on a bed. Gabe Reno's face the focus. He rubs his eyes with a look of humility, yet certainty.

A collage of him putting on jeans, a jacket, and eyeing his own mortality in the bedroom dresser mirror plays out over moments.

Finally, he grabs a gun off the nightstand, tucking into the back of his waistband... but not for safe keeping. He exits the bedroom door.

Outside in the icy driveway a small tan sedan sits parked half crooked in some suburban neighborhood that could be just about anywhere cold.

He opens the drivers door, hopping in with a cold stare as he catches a glimpse of himself in the rearview. He sighs as murmuring and struggling loudens.

Begging within a gagged confined space unnervingly becomes the soundtrack as the car starts and pulls out of the driveway, driving toward those snowy branches.

This is how my last days in XWF played out. Take a good look. Being gagged and bound only to have to off yourself to be put out of your own misery is a visual I can never escape. Facets of every detail still loom in my brain like a traveling gypsy carnival of tragic Heath Ledger Parnasses fate. From top of the mountain to bottom of the barrel in the amount of time it took me to walk to my car. It made me more than pissed off. Further than incensed by a rage that anger management laughs in the face of. I can't change what was then. That would make me no different than Prophet or SHain in constantly trying to relive. What I can do is say simply this, lessons learned in toxic torment, and now the poison fills my lips. From my shoulders down to my fingertips. From my toes back to my hips. Anyone in my path now surely will get the yips.

The enigma is back, and this time I'm playing for keeps. Not the male supplement, SHain gets that in two weeks.

Sometimes it takes three, but SHain is used to endless delays for no apparent reason, it's a trademark of hogm season.

For all of the people who have been trashed along the way. For all of the sad machinations of the changing of random lanes. My teeth are ripping through any soft tissue. My face is a reflection of the cold hearted witch, who, tried to make a mockery of all those everlasting fuck you's. I am the darkest part of the night. A wicked something that crawls back no matter where you set the fight. Nuisances nag at the waking time you spend thinking, if I am coming, or if I am only peeking. Boogeymen try to scare you as a trigger to obey. I scare the boogeyman into putting a bullet in his face.

You're not scared? Well, not yet. I get that a lot. I don't mind being the thing you underestimate. I don't even mind being an underdog, or living in the shadows. What I do mind is overconfident fuckwads trying to tell me where my place is when they can't hold my jock with two hands. Bulgy, isn't it? Make sure to support the hind quarters. There ya go. See, remember SHain? That's what it feel like to be a real man. Not just an imitation of an imitation of a manbearpig. What is this, hogwarts? I've got a magician and a guy without a face trying to fuck me out of what is my rightful birthright. Wow, THIS IS HOGWARTS! Well rest assured it will end the same way. Ya know, without the shitty prequels later. Plus, Prophet doesn't like to talk about the past even though that's all he talks about? allllriiighty.

Well, if Prophet wants the past to die, then why can't I can kill him in the present too?

Twist him into so many bends that Beckham folds like a pole-less tent?

Let him talk to himself in a confessional to vent?

Be careful what you wish for Lordy'Low. You want to see my demons, bitch? Let them dance around you. They'll surround you with the glee I've been lacking, then pick you up and march you to the cross to burn. Prodding you with the tip of my radical spear to make sure you're dead. Then maybe your prophecy will come true, to be a martyr for something more than just looking like the shitty guy in U2. You think talking about my childhood is a way through? Well it is- but only because it greases the clergy knife I'm plunging into you. It will be like Romeo and Juliet, except for the part where houses divide for a bitch that couldn't get SHain wet. What's radical about me isn't in my hands, we don't all need sleight like you to deal with recruiting blackkklans.

My name didn't come from a magic trick you fucking hack. It came from putting down pansy ass nobodies like your spell binding tom-foolery. People who would rather preach than serve in actual solitude. People who claim to be an answer to a question no one fucking asked in the first place. People who gather around blessing oils instead of lubricating the parts in the machine they pretend to be the voice of. No one is buying what you're selling. Close your trench coat and put your "tidbits" away. I'm going reach down your throat and pull out that silver tongue. Cover it in a mold of clay, bake it for three days; just so I can strap it to a leather halter and fuck SHain with your own lies. How does that taste? Like lemon sorbet? Probably not, my guess is more like "roachy mcgay." What do you say? I just mayyyyy? Shut it father fuckrod. I can't deal with your propaganda while I'm building a massive nonprofit. It's called Peter Picked a Patch of Prophet Pansies, maybe you've heard of it? Maybe it's heard of you. Sounds like a match made in insufficient faculty heaven. Don't worry, you can use it as a tax ride off, as long as I get 100% of the breaths you take. Pricey, but so are the consequences of your pandering.

XWF... the RenoVerse has been reborn. With an opportunity to be even better, to do even more. Lasting through an extended legacy unlike any other the Xtreme has ever known. My time never ended in XWF, it was stolen. I'm taking it back you wanking cackle frauds. I don't need a cruise ship victory over two other champions to cement my legacy this time. It has already been cemented by the mere fact that it was something worth stealing in the first place. Panda, Chaos, Nixon, Duke, McBride, Shove It... mere footnotes on the ledger of my eternal condemnation. Iconoclast and Weird Science were just the beginning. But the substance of my legacy is still the same- it's winning. How I do that will be between me and the haplass sap they put in front of me. But rest assured, it starts with not letting every flavor of the moment diminish my craft. Not allowing another shitty hogm to play in our backyard to take a hog bath. Ew. I will conquer and revise. Revelations will unfold in front of more prolific than prophetic eyes. A pledge to attain the Crown at the highest peak. To serve the Xtreme cause and banish those who only leak. Yucky. Talk shit, but in the ring you will be shit. My little shitling to drop where ever I feel. I'll cringe and push until you plop down, I admire the size of my work, and flush it, just like the rest. Another dirty job that someone had to do, the only difference is that this time it's you.

Learning is part of this industry. What to say and what not to say is as important a lesson as who to say it to... and who not to speak to at all. Prophet will learn like all those schmucks and delinquents who came before him in XWF lure. The "best at this," the "most dominant in that," the "bad ass of whatever..." yawn. I've heard it all before fuckface. You're not special. You're not even clever. What you lack in raw ability you make up for with lacking raw ability. You know what they all have in common? The schmucks like you who run their mouth and can't deliver? The sad excuses for wrestlers they placed at my feet to step the fuck over? They're gone and forgotten. They're shells of who they were now and who they claimed to be then. Every purpose punished, every reason rejected, every prophecy... pillaged. Starting to sound familiar? ANSWER ME! YOU FUCKEDY FUCK! My resume doesn't need your validation. My accolades don't need to be written in sanskrit and preached to the masses of blind followers. The past doesn't bleed into the future, but it does live within me. And the lesson we will learn together is inescapable... relevant... and definite. You don't poke the person who breaks fingers. You don't fain faith in an effort to get recognition. And you sure the fuck don't step into the ring against the Radical. Something Wicked is on the way, SHain, Prophet, and anyone else who decides to smear my name with scat. I'm just guessing. Anyone who decides they are the next Xtreme placeholder around here had better bring their big boy pants. BECAUSE I AM NOT TO BE RECKONED WITH. XWF is now the land of Radicality. The entire RenoVerse will swell like my erection at Spearmint Rhino! Can you feel it? SHain? Prophet? Abbott?? Costello??

It's over. There is nothing left for you two bums here. Bow down or get put down. Bitch.