“...really have to watch the thickness of the Alfredo sauce, I can’t stress that enough. If you let it sit over the heat for too long you’ll lose all of that rich flavor you get...”

It doesn’t really matter that the King and Queen are watching a cooking show. Even less relevant are what the duo’s plans are with the know-how of cooking a mean Alfredo dish. But for now, the two lay content next to each other, cozy and confined to a sofa where they watch TV. Apologies; only one lay content while the other tries their best “mood-inducing” approach to cuddling.

SMACK!

Shawn quickly retreats his hand from Ellis’ hip, rubbing the pain from it’s backside following her cruel swat.

“Ehhhhhhh,” he moans in pain, eyeballing the shit out of the back of Ellis’ head. She remains engrossed in Rachel Ray’s lesson in Italian Cuisine.

The only moment she can spare her attention from the Food Network is spent on a simple word to combat Shawn’s insistence: “Don’t.” Shawn rests his hand on his side and tries his best to refocus on the television. But lack of contact is not what defines a relationship—it’s what breaks it—and Ellis needs to have that touch.

She reaches behind and takes his hand, intertwines the fingers with her own and places both hands on her warm stomach. They rise and fall with each inhale and exhale she systematically takes. Finally comfortable, Ellis allows her steel eyes to flutter shut and find a relief she didn’t quite have when she slept alone. Shawn, however, took solace in thinking he’d conquered his partner’s sexual drive and perhaps things were about to turn for the better. After all, he’d heard all about chicks and their mind games and subtleties. That had to be her way of telling him she’s ready, right?

One factor remains blatantly obvious: Shawn Christopher is a horny bastard. The fact that his girlfriend practically molested his hand (in his mind, of course), when she seemed opposed to any touching whatsoever, is more than enough of a green light to get the party started.

Sly and slow, Shawn takes his free hand up to her shoulders and gently glides the tips of his fingers across her skin, trailing down the backside of her arm, to her sides and across her hips. His fingers reach the waistline of her pants and he begins to fumble with the crease. It’s the sliding of his hand down the front of her pants that prompts the before-sleeping-but-now-very-wide-eyed-and-very-annoyed Ellis Nash to react.

“What the fuck did I just say?” She rips his hand away and sits up from the couch, sighing loudly while fixing her hair. Of course Shawn is stunned at her reaction, though he probably shouldn’t be. Stuck in perpetual disbelief, planted to the couch, he watches a frustrated Ellis relieve herself from the living room of whatever random apartment they happened to be frequenting.

Before allowing a spot of drool to run from the corner of his mouth, Shawn’s jaw snaps shut similar to how he snaps back into the moment. He shakes his head almost violently before calling out. She doesn’t reply right away, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hear him.

“What’s this ‘my mouth says ‘no’ but my lips say ‘fuck me’,’ bullshit, El?”

He waits a moment for a response that doesn’t come, letting it sink, before he unleashes his next batch of spiteful wit.

“Pardon my persistence, but I thought that that’s what couples do, you know? It’s kinda fucked and muddled if you let me get into the cookie jar at Day One, then won’t even allow me a goddamn taste after that point. Is it some cruel game you like playing with me or what?”

The response isn’t instant, it’s prefaced by menacing footsteps growing closer and louder. Unlike Shawn, Ellis prefers the confrontational method when delivering critical blows.

“Pardon my resistance,” Ellis spits, “but I thought something like sex required this thing called ‘mutual consent’. So since when does ‘DON’T’ mean ‘please, sir, stick your fingers in me because I’d very much enjoy that’?”

“Since you practically took my fingers and SHOVED them inside you, punkin.” Ellis scoffs at his rebuttal and the stupidity of it’s foundation before heading back towards the bedroom. This forces Shawn to follow. “So you’re going to tell me that that wasn’t a mixed signal out there?”

“You really are an idiot.” She calls from behind a shut door. “First you get me to ditch working out today to get stoned; then you make me stay up late the night before my hot date with Assface; won’t even let me watch the cute Hugh Grant movie I picked up because, coincidentally, every single show on Food Network is ‘a fucking classic’; and you expect me to sleep with you?”

Ellis opens the door to meet Shawn face to face in the doorway.

“You’re so selfish that you can’t even help yourself.”

“Help myself?” Shawn says with a high-pitched tone, as if Ellis’ words came right out of left field. “Help myself with what? What the hell are you talking about.”

“You haven’t even put one bit of thought towards Autumn in Hell, and you’re not expecting any surprises in store for you? You should stop worrying about getting laid and start thinking about your plan of action.” She closes herself back inside.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!? It's just some Helldome match, I can do whatever the hell I want! I'm the BEST!” he screams through wood.

Her muffled laugh is distinct enough to annoy Shawn. “Right, like your three opponents won’t have anything in mind for you. Like they’ll let you survive in that match after all the shit you've talked, King Dick-”

“Alright alright alright alright, I fucking get it.” He sighs, rubs his chin and says, “But that still doesn’t explain why we can’t have sex.”

Again, Ellis opens the door. Face-to-face, critical blows and all that jazz. “Does this look like a Gambino promo to you?”

“For the first time in my life, I actually wish this were one of theirs. At least they’d be having sex.”

Slam.

So Shawn doesn’t care that she closes him out, again. He storms into the room and to the closet where she’s changing into some sleepwear.

“Yeah, they’d be having sex and he’ll probably win a match tomorrow. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?”

Ellis is to Sarcasm as Viper is to Venom. Go analogy. “I mean it did work on you.”

“Fuck you. Fuck Bigg Rigg. And fuck his gutter slut Orchid. Even though you fucking suck right now, if I don’t fucking win tomorrow night I swear to Allah I will kill everyone that works in this company. I will Jihad XWF.”

“Awww, that sweet hun,” she turns close to slap him lightly on the cheek, “but I’m pretty sure you've got the win over the Addict that Could. It’s not me you should be worrying about, but his little boyfriend is a different story. My guess is he's formulating a plan as we speak.”

“WHO CARES! I’ve got three guys I gotta worry about—what’s this redicucrap I have to put up with?! I SHOULD ALREADY BE THE CHAMPION! Stupid Jonathyn should stupid read his own stupid fine print when he’s stupid scheduling stupid matches, like, fifty stupid years a-stupid-head of stupid time. Stupid stupid stu-wait a second....boyfriend?”

Ellis isn’t quite sure what he means, so she doesn’t respond.

“OOOH! You mean Famine! Oh, good one El. He really does look like a fag.”

“Whoakay.” She no-sells his stupidity. “I’m going to sleep. Take a fucking shower before you come to bed, because seriously that’s the main reason why you’re not getting any tonight. You smell like a bag of assholes.” She reaches in the closet and pulls a towel from the shelf.

“Are you sure it’s not because you’re on the rag?”

That earns Shawn the towel shoved in his face as she walks past him to the bed. With her turning off the bedside lamp, the room instantly takes its gloomier form. Knowing she would offer no further words to indulge his peaking frustrations, he decides to heed her advice and shower.

With the towel in tow Shawn heads to the bathroom. With the water running at a high heat, he locks himself with the fan off in hopes of gathering as much steam as possible. Sometimes showers were where he did his best thinking, and he loves to take full advantage of every opportunity.

It’s so odd; the way he plots devious, cunning and life-shattering happenings while washing his ass and balls. Or the way he thinks of those super-funny insults for lesser regarded roster members while putting on his super- secret celebrity acne medication. It’s said that the most mundane, meticulous routines are regarded in the mind as forms of meditation. Showering for Shawn was almost always a brainstorm of evil.

But not everything is meant to work out. This time, he couldn’t focus on aspects he should have. Such as Famine of the Vile, Daniel Malcolm, and Bigg Rigg. Instead he could not get his mind past Ellis’ unique approach to their relationship. Here he is, ready to do anything and everything for his woman. He feels compassionate and inspired around her, and she always seems so disconnected. How could he enjoy being with a woman who seemed not to enjoy being around him?

Or maybe, like everything else, it’s all in his head. Everything about Shawn has always been grandiose. It’s almost his trademark by now.

Shawn begins the most difficult process of showering; feet cleaning. He lifts one leg and sets it on the supporting knee, then rubs the worn bar of soap against his sole. Excited, rushed, anxious, he drops his foot a little too quickly to the tub floor and slips on the fiberglass.

By instinct, he reaches for support. Futilely he grabs the curtain of the shower and plummets awkwardly to the ground, slamming the back of his head against the side of the tub. Eyes closed. Mouth open. It takes four deep breaths of water continuously piling in his mouth before his body begins shutting down.

It’s sort of safe to say Shawn Christopher is dead.

_______________--_______________

The following pre-recorded promotion is brought to you by the NEXT.. yes bitches, the NEXT XWF World Champion... Shawn Christopher.

We find ourselves in a place where the action is furious, the temperature is rising, and the constant sound of banging fills the air. No… we’re not in my bedroom. We’re at a boxing training facility in East Hartford, Connecticut. There are plenty of fighters around, some of them hitting punching bags and some of them jumping rope. Over in the corner, however, with the spotlight shining on him, is wearing a pair of black jeans with a black t- shirt, wheat colored Timberland boots, and a pair of black sunglasses. That’s right… it’s yours truly, the Cult Icon. What am I doing here, you ask? Well I’m here to do the same thing I do in every promo… end my opponents’ careers with a verbal barrage so intense you’d think it was chemical warfare. I stand over in the corner, just watching everything around me.

"ShhhhhsH! What was that?!"

Shawn pauses and listens to the air.

"Yep. Just what I thought. Just the sound of Famine, Bigg Rigg, and Daniel’s World title hopes crashing to the ground. Last week, I shut Hunter Ryan’s mouth by destroying him in front of the entire world. Now he can taste the agony of defeat in addition to the taste of those cubic zirconias in his mouth. He thought he had a shot against me, he really did. I guess that just goes to show that the only thing he was “chosen” for was to be another dash in my “W” column. But that’s just one unfortunate midcarder down…there are still plenty more to go. Luckily, I’ll get to dispatch three of them in one night, as I take on Daniel “Split Personality” Malcolm, John “Tonka Truck” Gambino, and the "Demon Bitch who stays on the Rag" Famine of the Vile, at Autumn in Hell. Sure, this is gonna be a Helldome, but it won’t make a difference. After all, how hard could it be? I'm the best wrestler in the world."

I scan the scene, looking for somewhere to relax. I spot a mini-concession stand. You know, some food wouldn’t be too bad right now. I begin to walk over to the concession stand, and on my way over I pass a television set. CNN News is airing on the TV, and I hear this as I pass by.

CNN News Anchor: "In news usually too unimportant to announce… it has been confirmed that Hunter Ryan’s deceased career was found rotting in an alley last week, the victim of an apparent brutal bashing from an unknown suspect. Autopsy reports indicate that the career had little chance of survival even before the attack, but the savage beating played an integral role in the career failing so fast. Funeral arrangements are being made, with a tentative date of this Sunday, but planners are expecting a small turnout due to no one knowing who Hunter Ryan was in the first place."

I continue to walk towards the stand, which is serving various hot foods, a few beverages, and a one-night stand with Amy Vixen for $0.45. What?! She knows I'm kidding. Anyway, I’m greeted by an Asian man that is significantly shorter than I am.

Asian Man: *thick Asian accent* "Welcome to Chang Pow’s portable food service station. Can I help you?"

I ponder over the vast array of choices I have at my fingertips… a hot dog, a hamburger, or a cheeseburger. The possibilities are endless.

"I’ll take a cheeseburger, and you might as well throw a Gatorade in there, too."

As the Asian man gathers my food, Some things starts to cross my mind, and I look into the camera.

"Ok, you midcard frauds. Autumn in Hell, otherwise known as my World Title coronation, is upon us. So I want you three to listen carefully to what i have to say."

Just then… the opening beat to the theme from “Rocky” starts to play lightly. Two large spotlights, almost out of nowhere, flash down on me while I’m in the ring. Fuck the “Italian Stallion.” It’s time for the “Blazin’ Caucasian” to get to work!

"First, we got Daniel Malcolm. You call yourself the “Archangel?” Well I don’t know what God gave you wings, but it sure as hell wasn't me. Maybe you should start drinking Red Bulls to wake you up, cause you're unleashing promos so boring that they make the Pope seem like prime-time entertainment. I was unfortunate enough to catch your first promo, and I have to say that it made Hunter Ryan look entertaining by comparison. They say the “glory goes to the brave.” Well if that’s the case, the viewers of that promo must have gotten a lot of glory. I couldn’t imagine someone with more bravery than the people who can actually bear your dull ass through an entire promo. What classic lines can we expect from you our great preacher, sunshine… treat others the way you want to be treated? The early bird gets the worm? Overusing clichés won’t help you reach the main event… all it does is make you look more pathetic than you actually are, and that’s pretty pathetic already.

Ya know, so many people ask me if I expect my words to win my battles. Well in the world of wrestling, I guess I don’t. It’s just too bad we’re not in a contest where we cut promos and the more entertaining promo wins. It’s just too bad that we don’t get a card each week, and the match winners are decided by who cuts the best promos. It’s just too bad that decisions in LaW aren’t based on the verbal assaults. Damn, if ONLY the matches were decided by who the better promo-star was. If only…"

Shawn smirks into the camera, then winks before continuing.

"It seems that you're very religious Daniel, and I respect that. Well I’m going to give you a little piece advice. You’d better pray to your God that you don’t catch me on a bad day. You’d better ask “Him” to spare you from the insult assault that I’m going to launch on you each and every time you step out of line. You’d better ask “Him” to prevent you from becoming the titanic disappointment that everyone knows you’re going to become. Because when you step in that ring with me, “He” won’t be there to protect you from the real God of this industry. You keep fucking around with the wrong people, trick, and you’ll be joining “Him” real soon.

Bigg Rigg, Bigg Rigg... what did I ever do to get punished with having you as my opponent? No, I don’t mean that you’re an intimidating person to wrestle. What I mean is that for the second straight week, I have to wrestle someone that is a complete waste! After witnessing your career over the past couple of months, I come to realize that you're not worth it. You've proven to not be a threat. After taking that "if you can't beat em', join em'" mentality, you've lost all respect from me and the rest of the world. So keep trying to act like some tough guy on screen. Come Helldome, maybe I'll wear a Famine mask, since he's the one who makes you bitch up like a loser."

The Asian man gives me my food, and I give him the cash.

"And now that brings me to the FORMER champion. I know that he stil has the actual belt. But who really looks at him as the champion? It was just a few weeks ago that I beat him right in the middle of the ring. And now, he thinks that because we're stepping in this demonic structure that he stands a chance? BITCH PLEASE!

Don’t you ever think that you're better than me, you got that, Famine? I main event shows that you couldn’t even get a ticket for. I’ve traveled the globe, partying and entertaining. You’ve just traveled the globe looking for a job. The similarities end there, Famine. You can’t carry a promo like I can, you can’t carry a match like I can, and you damn sure can’t carry a federation like I can. For Christ’s sake, you probably couldn’t even carry my bag without having an allergic reaction to charisma and spotlight. You’ll never be like me, Famine. And that's why your fluke of a title reign is about to come to a screeching halt.

I haven't bust my ass carrying Anarchy, just to have holding the top title. That title rightfully belongs to me, and this Sunday, even I have to take you to Hell and back.. that title will be mine. And I will deliver the final nail in the Initiative coffin."

The scene fades as the Rocky music continues and I eat my food.