The following pre-recorded promotion is brought to you by the Television Legend... Shawn Christopher.

"Alright.

.

.

I don't know what you Famine and Daniel are on, but it's not funny. Christian is not dead. I just got off the phone with him and he told me he'll be at Autumn in Hell. What kind of sick thrill do you two get from claiming a man is dead. This guy has family and friends, and fans who love him. And for you two to sit here on TV and say that the man is dead is disrespectful.

That's my former tag team partner, but most importantly, that's my best friend here in the XWF. And I think it's safe to say that if you two wanted to get under my skin... mission accomplished.

I can't wait for Autumn in Hell now. I can't wait to get my hands on you two sick motherfuckers.

Famine... you're nothing more than a bitch. You've never been able to stand on your own. You've always had to have some group of losers by your side to protect you. That's all the Initiative is. Your personal group of losers to make sure that you stay somewhat close to the top. Well inside that Helldome, your pussy ass won't have either of the those Ryan brothers to save you.

As for Bigg Rigg, he doesn't know who the hell he is anyway. First he's some angry Italian, then he's some wannabe stalker in a hockey mask. I'll tell you who he truly is.. he's a fraud. That's all. Living Legend this, and living legend that. And all he's been able to do is lose when it matters most. I'ma tell you this Johnny, when I beat you for the World title, you can't jump onto my coattails. I'm not Famine, I don't like men swinging from my balls. They're only for the ladies.

Johnny, when are you gonna finally accept the fact that you're not as good as you want everyone to believe. As much as you try, the fans are smart enough not to believe it. They know the truth. Stop living off the past. Stop passing the blame. Stop bringing up old wrestlers that couldn't fuck with me in a ring today. When it's all said and done, it's the fault of the man you see when you look in the mirror everyday or your pathetic existence. Cause it was YOU who didn't get the job done. It's was YOU who didn't win the World title. John Gambino didn't get the job done like he guaranteed he would. So accept the fact that you're not that great and move on. Realize what we've always known...

... that Bigg Rigg sucks.

Get mad and try to dispute it... remember... there's an invention called the videotape, which has all the proof I need.

You claim that the past predicts the future, but if that was true, then wouldn't you have beaten Famine for the World title when you had the chance? I guess your past as a loser is predicting your present anf future as a loser. And please stop with the cliche' "I'm gonna beat the respect into you!". That's a load of crap. The only thing you're beating into people is fear and I don't fear you. I've beaten every person I've stepped in the ring against, and this Sunday.. that trend continues.

So Sunday night, you're gonna once against get a chance to make yourself feel good, but let's be honest... Sunday night doesn't really matter. I'm gonna get the one thing you can't get around my waist. But I will admit though... beating you, will be so much fun.

Daniel Malcolm, you just don't get understand. Why, after all of this time, have you not managed to rise above the rafters and claim your fame? Years and years of fighting, and winning, and losing, and more losing, and yet MORE losing, and what do you have to show for it, Daniel?

You were the World champion and now look at you. You slowly moving back down the ladder where you truly belong.

Why, after all of this time, after an XWF World title reign added to your list of accolades, are you at the bottom of the roster once again... right? Years and years of beating ass, and bleeding buckets, and cussing bundles, and fucking people over, and MORE beating ass, and MORE buckets of blood, and more bundles of cunts, and MORE fucking people over... and you're back at the bottom of the damn roster… and I'm trying to lift your ass back up to where you should be? Right?

Okay...

...now...

...what’s your fucking excuse, Daniel?

Were you shipped off to Iraq? Were you killing off them terrorists for freedom and justice while others were righteously climbing their way to the top? Have you just been too busy being the patriot motherfucker for Uncle Sam to really get a claw-hold on that missing shine to your career? No? Then what, Daniel?

Why, after all this time, are you still just the mid-card speed bump that every other mid-carder eventually rolls right over en route to the main event scene?

Don’t get me wrong, Danny. I got nothing against you. Hell, I ain’t got nothing against this country or even our boys overseas. They’re cool. You’re cool. You’ve been around. You know what’s up. We share mutual... friends. But, well... the fact of the matter is... you suck man. After all these years, watching the times fly by and the competition evolve, you still just flat out suck. I’m not going to fancy up my wording to patronize you or your cracked confidence… there’s absolutely no need to, Danny-boy. It’s like you’ve got cement blocks stuck to your feet as you climb the ladder of success. While you struggle and heave your legs up each rung, someone else comes up and steps all over you to ascension.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

If I’m wrong, then where’s YOUR belt? If I’m wrong, then where’s YOUR name in everyone’s memory of the year? If I’m wrong, then where’s YOUR proof to tell me otherwise?

Yeah… you’ve had a run… maybe even two or three. But this week...

You got me inside the demonic structure known as Helldome. The reigning KING of the TV title. Really think you can get past me. Famine and Bigg Rigg ain't shit, so I won't ask you about them. I'm the one you truly need to worry about. I'm the one whose coming to utterly destroy you in that hell. I'm the one with the killer instinct that will literally kill you to get that title. Can you say that? Famine can't. Bigg Rigg won't.

But I will.

So for the three of you, remember that as you prepare for this all out war. I'm ready to kill, maim, and destroy. And if either of you wanna win this.. you're gonna have to step your game up and bring it.

... oh and Danny. You seem to keep dropping a certain person's name in your promos. You claim that this person has forgiven you for your past transgressions. Well.. what if he really hasn't? I mean.. what if, just thinking out loud... what if he...

... sent me to take you out?

Just food for thought.

___________--____________

Ellis Nash says something to me, but her own indifferent attitude coupled with the roaring motor of the coffee grinder make it hard to understand her. Through the noise, my eyebrows and mouth ask her “What?” and she allows the grinder to power down.

Ellis says, I think it’s finished.

But that’s not what her lips said earlier. That’s not what I couldn’t hear. “Take it out and put it in the measuring cup—what did you say?”

She empties the coffee grinder (which was most certainly not used for coffee) filled of a fine green powder into the cup.

And she tries to ignore the ‘subject.’

She says, It doesn’t look like enough to get us fucked up.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Ellis, have you ever tried making these?”

She tells me that she would just confiscate and steal magic brownies on a chance perp.

“Trust me, it’s more than enough.” I say, turning to my own corner in the kitchen so I can operate the stove. I’ve let it sit bare on high for a few minutes so it’s more than hot enough. Turning the heat down a bit, I place a skillet with a fat stick of butter right in the center. “So what did you say?”

Ellis smiles a bit, and says, I just don’t get your master plan.

“What?!”

Uggh, she sighs, I said “I just don’t get-”

“I Heard What You Said. Hand me the pot-flour?” The skillet has heated so much that the stick of butter is but a soft lump finding itself spread and spread across the Teflon. Ellis passes me a measuring cup filled to the brim with green, and I dump it in the skillet. I say to her, “The plan worked, didn’t it?”

Ellis says, "Maybe? I don’t really understand how..."

She watches me stir the chronic into the butter.

She says, "I always thought that you just mix pot in with the brownie mix and cook it."

“No, that would just make your oven stoned as fuck. You’ve got to make a special butter; bud butter. Start working on the brownie mix, I’m going to be done with this in a second.”

She turns back towards the counter and starts doing something with eggs and flour and shit, whatever.

“Look, in most aspects of life, there are certain steps a person must take to achieve the desired effect. If you want to make pot-brownies correctly, you’ve got to unlock the THC in an extract that won’t be burnt in the oven. This way, you’re just taking the shit that gets you high without getting left-over stems and leaves caught in your teeth.”

And Ellis rolls her eyes at the obvious reference to my own plight, more than likely pissed that I dumbed it down to a metaphorical analogue.

“I knew that after I lost the tag team titles and got injured, management wouldn’t let me near the chance at the World title until Jesus freezes hell. So I had to get some contingency shit going down, and it happened to be me fucking around for a few weeks, taking the TV title to new heights. Hell one of them was coming smoothly already; it damn near worked itself out. All the while I’d be getting the fans all on my nuts-”

By this time I’ve been talking so long I don’t even care what she’s thinking, but I still don’t want to piss her off. I haven’t gotten a feel for situations like this around her, yet.

“Not really on my nuts, just feelin’ the same vibes as me if you know what I mean. I’m good at getting people to see things my way at times, so I get them all on my side and not necessarily against Famine— see, he does that all on his own. Because he’s a jealous mother fucker.”

Ellis says, "He sure is."

Without skipping a beat, I continue, “And that’s how I know it worked, Ellis, that’s how I KNOW I am the fucking shit. Because once again, I’ve gotten under a person’s skin! It’s like fucking clockwork! Every time the seasons change I need a new bitch to make my own and whip into shape; Famine of the Vile jumped to the front of the line. I planned to fuck with Bradley for the past few months but change plans and crowns are lost and assholes need to learn that I don’t fuck around.”

She sighs.

“That Demon-fucking mother fucker would not have asked for that match so quickly if he wasn’t lying awake in bed every night—wondering just exactly how bad I’ve fucked things up for him. He heard the whispers; about how I'm better than him. And Famine NEVER thought he’d be in my crosshairs this quick! I dangled the bait in front of him and he took it... and now he’s fucked.”

She leans over, as if ignoring everything I’ve told her, and looks at my mix.

Ellis asks, "Are you finished yet?"

What an indifferent bitch. I say “OF COURSE I’M FINISHED” all bitchy like, but I think ‘Thanks for reminding me’ because I’m pretty sure I got a little stoned off of the butter vapors and would have let it burn otherwise.

You know your butter’s done when it’s not gold or brown, but light green from the grounded leaves. I figure Ellis is too bored that she would be indifferent (whadaya know?!) if I tell her so I keep it to myself. I strain the butter of all the shards of leaves and pour it separately into her blend of flour and egg and water, then return the bowl to her for mixage.

She proves my previous notion wrong, and asks.

She says, "You don’t think Famine has the slightest clue of what you’re trying to do? You ARE you, wouldn’t ya kinda think he would be onto you from the beginning? Unless...

I give her a look.

Ellis continues, "Unless that’s the beauty of it, and knowing you, that’s what you’re doing. You want him to know you’re fucking with him, don’t you? You want him to know that you’re plotting all the angles and he’s fucking with forces that are untouchable."

“More like he’s fucking with forces UNFATHOMABLE. I will bring a shit-storm, you know? A fucking shit-storm! He knows what I’m capable. While he is smart, he’s still a fucking demon; and that’s what I’m counting on. I want the mother fucker to charge me because he feels obligated. Like it’s his lame ass civic duty or something. Whatever justification he gives himself to put me down: whatever. He’s still playing straight into my hand and at the end of the day; Famine of the Vile is still my bitch. His desire can fuel his fucking ass straight into my foot, because he needs to learn who the fuck I am and why people don’t fuck with me anymore.”

Whew.

Ellis says, "I don’t get it."

As she says this, she’s mixing chocolate into the bowl. I’m about to ask her “what’s not to get?” after I explained every aspect of my plan and how I knew it would work, only she finishes her vague statement before I even get the chance.

She says, "How do you think of shit like this? Are you just looking for opportunities to present themselves?"

So I tell her “Well, I sort of did the same thing with Bradley Pierce when I first got here— made him think what I wanted him to think. And then Zach Rizza. Cha-Ching on that one, baby. Basic deduction skills or some shit helped me figure it’s Famine of the Vile’s turn, you know, since the mother fucker has my crown.”

We pour the bulky brownie mix into a pan of about twelve by nine inches, flattening it out as evenly as possible. But something is still not sitting right with her.

She asks, "No, I mean ‘why?’ Why do you do shit like this on a constant basis?"

I don’t really follow, so says my expression and so she clarifies.

She says, "I want to know why you do what you do."

I turn to put the brownie pan into the oven, and set it for about 20 minutes on whatever temperature it is I’m supposed to put it on.

“What temperature did I say?”

Ellis says, "350."

I put the pan in the oven at 350, set for 20 minutes, and hope to God these turn out alright.

“I guess we’ve got a little bit of time. Let me tell you a story about a Girl, her Old Man, and a Boy who came to live with them...”

To be continued...