The House of Wilkins has always been a house filled with deceit. Things were not about to change for the better or for the worse. Old Man Wilkins and his daughter, the Little Girl, have lived there by themselves for the past fifteen years almost unnoticed—without any alterations to their familiar and accepted status quo. Growing up, the Girl never got to know the luxury of a mother’s care nor anything close to it for that matter. It wasn’t as if she never wanted one or wondered what her own was like, but the Old Man didn’t want nor felt like she needed any influence outside of his own in terms of parenting. She was his child to care for.

For the better or for the worse.

So with this “responsibility” installed in his brain, the Old Man ensured his daughter would learn his method of survival for it had become the foundation of how his own life had transpired. See, unlike most conventional fathers, or parents even, who wish to teach their children to be better people than what they’ve grown to be, the Old Man taught the Little Girl every dirty trick, loop-hole, con and mind-game he’d come across in his life-time.

By all means, the Old Man was not a good person; he isn't now and he never will be. He was just a man who’s always lived for no one else that isn’t his own damn self—even after parenthood reared its unwanted and unanticipated head. While he wasn't smart enough to call a Con-Man, he was too aware of his actions to call a Jew; the Old Man seemed to know all of the tricky secrets that basic market vendors & the like did not want anyone to know.

The most common routine would be a free meal from any sit-down restaurant the two would frequently visit. At first, the Old Man would show her how affective a few hurt feelings and strong emotions could easily be more persuasive than any bill commemorating any president. Soon, he began showing her the extent at which creativity could be exercised in these situations, as well as helping her realize her own utility, with an excuse as simple as “She said her Macaroni tastes like ‘doodoo’.”

Free food came so often that the Little Girl never considered the moral dilemma of the little white lies she found herself apart of on a more and more constant basis. It’s just how she was raised, with a different sense of right and wrong, black and white. It’s similar to being morally color blind. Such a petty routine laid the foundation for the indifferent treachery that would soon come.

Because of their tightfisted attitude when out in public, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for total strangers to regard the family in a rather low light. The Old Man used this situation to paint a picture that showed them as deserving—special, even—but at the end of the day always unappreciated. This general disdain in society placed the Little Girl in the position of her father’s accomplice. Their deeds ran as simple a child’s tantrum providing enough distraction for her father to steal a tip-jar or the like, or even convincing an unknowing mark that they’ve ruined something of the Girl’s and must be compensated.

Yes, the Old Man exploited his daughter on many occasions much like he exploited all different aspects of his life. There was never a perk he didn’t find himself receiving if he could plan it right, and often times things would work out for him. Such activities, like ‘investments,’ would help him con friends or acquaintances into giving him large sums of money.

One such con involved matching the money, and setting the mark’s nerves at ease by showing him that he may be trust worthy, all before shoving it all away and saying the investment went sour. These types of deals were always illegal, even without the intentions of swindling made light, and were often forgotten by choice due to the mark’s willingness to cooperate. They don’t want to be caught by the police; they just want to forget they ever spent a stupid amount of money on such a stupid investment. And the Old Man is left with a quickly-made couple of grand.

Even through employment, the Man figured how to take advantage of situations by way of injury and settlement. There were many ways the Man could find himself “hurt on the job,” whether it’s physically or mentally; an accident or sexual harassment. He even had paid disability for a hot minute there. Time after time, no matter what company he happened to work for, the Old Man would find himself at home, relaxing, while his employers ensured his pockets were getting fatter by way of “their” mistakes. It seems the Old Man had everything figured out.

The Man happened to ‘con’ so much, that it can even be said through his own actions, he encouraged his own undoing.

You see, the House of Wilkins was never in an opportune area for the deeds he found himself doing. Orem, Utah, is hardly a place where immorality is encouraged. It was because of their fertile beliefs that seem to be as pertinent as the air, that the Man found himself exploiting the Mormon Church as well. And it is through these considerably blasphemous deeds that our Boy is introduced to the story.

The Boy was one who’d spent all his life in the Church, mostly isolated from the outside agendas. At a young age, his father had signed him up for a ‘character-building program’ that sent small children to various house-holds of need as ‘indentured servants.’ Basically referred to as a church-appointed butler, these servants were usually assigned to care for families and houses who have met misfortune over their lives to help them maintain a sense of order in the home.

And because of the Old Man’s ‘disadvantages’ through work and single-parenting, the Church found him a perfect candidate to receive the Boy’s philanthropic conduct. And so the Boy was taken from his home and placed in the House of Wilkins, forever an intruder and not regarded without a careful eye.

While the Old Man found the prospect of a butler to do his bidding to be enticing, the fact that a teenage boy would now share the roof with he and his daughter was a bit unsettling to him. Not to mention that the Boy’s own life had been flipped on its backside due to the circumstance; now he had to deal with the shady dealings of a bad-man and the closed-minded ideals of his daughter.

Both parties seemed to be in very cautious situations, but both parties seemed to make the best of it. The Old Man found himself absent from the home more and more frequently, that being because of the extra help to maintain the house and keep his daughter company. This meant he had more and more time to ‘work’ all the angles he had lined up at the time. At first, the Man was very careful to keep the Boy away from whatever ill-had intentions that happened to be bubbling; he wanted to make sure the Boy wouldn’t bring light to his ‘operations.’ So he was kept in the dark while the Old Man continued to work and the Little Girl made sure the Boy wouldn’t find out.

It may have been a change of scenery to the Boy at first, but that didn’t mean it was a welcome one. Being nervous around people you don’t know is never an unanticipated reaction to being forced into a new habitat, and in this case a new culture. If it wasn’t for the Little Girl and their similarly raging hormones, the Boy probably would have been left alone.

Their first conversation (their first REAL conversation, outside of “Can you show me where the bath-towels are?” and “Do you enjoy fabric softener?” which were merely in place to pass the time) came a little after the Boy’s first week in the House of Wilkins, when the Girl was listening to her Led Zeppelin IV record and asked him what his favorite song was as he happened to mosey by.

The Boy replied, “I don’t know. I’ve never listened to them.” The truth was he never even heard of the classic Rock band, which is why he didn’t attempt to repeat the name for fear of butchering it and consequently looking stupid. Here the Boy saw the first glimpse of her enthusiasm that he’d grow so fond of. She almost couldn’t believe that people lived their lives, never enjoying the Music she loved just as much as she did. It was almost as if he was sinning, but the only sins this Boy knew were commandments and the finer print.

Because of a structured background, the Boy was sensible and the Girl admired him for it. She often catch herself staring at him when he wouldn’t notice until he’d happen to glance at her, not aware of her trance but pleased that she’d be bothered to look. It was an innocent attraction that should have stayed put had one of them been the wiser. But regardless the seeds of deceit had been planted and the Little Girl decided she knew what she wanted. There would be no going back now.

It was after she discovered the Boy’s dormant love of classic rock that the Girl found how much she enjoyed the Boy’s company. While the Old Man found himself busier outside the home more and more each day, the children would find that they could pass the time by listening to music or merely playing games. As time passed, the Little Girl would even come to the Boy’s aid as he’d complete his appointed chores for his duties, despite the harsh order’s of the Old Man that would forbid her to help. “It’s why he’s here; don’t forget,” He’d say at first, but this was the first time she ever chose to disobey a command from her father.

The Girl truly realized she cared for the Boy a mere month into his stay at the House of Wilkins—the same exact moment she realized how different he happened to be from her and the Old Man. As part of his obligatory routine, the Boy would find himself dusting the entire house and vacuuming the floors and cleaning the windows at the close of each week. And each week the Little Girl would stay fixated on him as he took on the tedious task of dusting each trinket that happened to be decorated around the house—relics of a lost mother that probably could have done some good had she been around. The only reason they lingered was because the Old Man felt no need to get rid of them, but this did not mean he particularly liked them.

It was because of the Man’s preference towards the small figurines (some of dogs, cats, other animals, clowns, kids, Jesus, a cross, nature scenes, and simple works of art) that she found the Boy’s job to be so humorous. And this one particular day, she decided that she should help him out. Only the Boy did not want to be helped.

The Girl said, “You know you don’t have to clean them all. You probably don’t even need to clean any, my dad won’t even notice. Just do the ones up front so he doesn’t say anything.”

The way he responded, you’d almost think the Boy took offense. He didn’t even look up from his work, but firmly responded that “-it is my work. And I will know whether or not I did it right; that’s all that matters.”

The integrity spoke volumes about his character, almost straight to the Little Girl’s heart. From that moment onward the two were almost inseparable. They shared much time well spent with each other in the short time that they were acquainted, and at the time each made sure it counted. Due to their situation, they knew that the life they had could not last forever. Slowly, the Little Girl was beginning to see things she hadn’t seen before.

It was a different kind of role model that she never expected to place on a pedestal. He just happened to come into her life in a high place. Strangely enough to her, but expected in the process of development, she began finding herself contrasting the Boy to her Old Man, finding their stark differences to be informative on the character she was and the character she’d become.

A harsh resentment inside the Girl slowly began to manifest for the Old Man due to his opposite nature from the Boy, but this was an inevitable evolution in the relationship. Matters weren’t made lighter with the familiarity of the Boy to the Old Man.

His constant presence at their home, while the Man thought may be over-whelming, soon became nothing but an afterthought. And soon after that, it became a benefit—another means of exploitation. All that time away must have made the Old Man antsy about this prospective new end to pursue, because once his intentions were known he made sure to keep the Boy close at all times.

The first con the Man pulled with the Boy could actually be considered a con on the Boy as well. Convincing him that reciting verses from the Book of Mormon and the Bible on Sundays in public areas would be well received to the community. He even told the Boy that if he turned a hat over and got a few donations from an appreciative crowd, the Town may even reward him. Enthused and naive, the Boy sought out to make the Old Man a few quick bucks.

The Little Girl wanted to say something to her father, but she bit her tongue. And then, when the Boy came back with the money and the intentions to distribute it with good will, she wanted to warn him—to maintain his purity—but she big her tongue. And then the Old Man attempted to trade his ideals for excuses of necessity and logic. “Well, Boy, YOU did spread the word so I think YOU deserve the money you earned.” (A portion, anyways. Of course the Old Man got his fair share.) Of course the greedy aspect of it did not catch on with the Boy, who simply took pride in the work he did to get the money. So that night, he’d sneak the remainder of what he was allowed back into the Man’s dresser while he was out at the bar.

This almost became a chore, as a few weeks later, and more frequently after that, the Old Man encouraged the Boy to preach for money, just for him to get it all in the end if only because the Boy didn’t want it for himself. While he may not have enjoyed taking the people’s money, the Girl knew he never had the indecency to keep it as each night he gave it back to her father.

His influence had been planted, however, and it was only a matter of time until the Old Man would use the Boy to the fullest potential.

Convincing the Boy that there were too many “non-believers” frequenting the town as of late, he said perhaps the message should take a more aggressive front. As if it were straight out of the mouth of an opportunist in the midst of the book of Revelations, the Man devised the idea of the “Apocolypse Survival Kit.”

“It has everything a Heathen needs to ensure he gets to Heaven.” He’d say to the Boy.

And the Boy would reply “But there are many stages in Heaven; which stage would the Heathen get into?”

“Um, the middle one? But what does it matter,” He’d say. “As long as they’re in Heaven.”

Seemed reasonable enough. The Little Girl, upon hearing this horridly absurd idea, doubted the Boy would ever willingly participate in such a plan and assumed he’d only agree to it if he felt he was jeopardizing his situation. But her view of the Boy would change greatly that day.

The Boy decided that he’d go along on her father’s thinly veiled scheme. He pledged his reasons were not to sell kits, as he had no intentions to humor her father’s plot, but to address what seemed to be strong concerns about the coming End of Times. “If one person listens to me, it’ll be worth it.” But when the Boy returned, he found that he disliked his time spent more than he could have anticipated.

The Girl was pleased that he’d taken to the con so adversely until she learned that it wasn’t because of the conning process why the Boy didn’t take to it. It was because of seeking out the Heathens; speaking to them, forcing them to see things his way. It didn’t matter if he ended up successful in the end, because each encounter only resulted in the Boy growing more furious and furious with the state of things. He couldn’t believe how many people, just out on the streets alone, were wasting the gifts that were so significant around them.

It was because of that, the Boy said, why he couldn’t wait to get out the next day to convert some more people. “I’ll even sell a few of these kits. Some of these people are so hopeless they just might need this crap.”

The Old Man was overjoyed. He’d found another means of exploitation that had taken a mind of its own. The Little Girl, however, was less than thrilled. In fact, she was devastated. For the following moment she locked herself in her room so she could ask herself in private “What is my father doing to my life?” but that couldn’t last forever.

Her father showed no concern for her pouting, no—he’d just made ground-breaking progress. Times like that call for a celebration. He was out at the bar before his daughter even realized she was angry. The Boy, though... He knew what he did. Only he needed to hear her say it, because he didn’t want it to be true. She shouldn’t be mad at him. She couldn’t.

The Boy asked if she was okay. She didn’t reply at first, but persistence called her to reply “YES!” Was she sure? Of course she was sure. Well she didn’t seem okay downstairs. That’s because she wasn’t okay.

Women were and are very confusing.

“I don’t know what to say,” the Girl said, “You’re turning into everything I don’t want you to be. You’re starting to become something you’re not. And it’s killing me.”

The Boy didn’t know what to say. While it was expected to hear he was still floored without a word on his tongue. So the Boy decided to take a moment away and think to himself, about her words and everything that he’s seen over this short time and what it has done to him. But the Little Girl didn’t want him to go away. She wanted him to stay at the door and plead to her, telling her everything will be alright, and convince her to let him. Instead she cried herself to sleep...

The Little Girl did not wake up to her alarm clock, or the sunlight, like she usually did though. Instead she woke up with darkness still surrounding her and the annoyance of a clicking at her door handle. Moments later, the Boy happened to burst in her room having picked her low-security lock with a duffel bag and a suitcase in tow. It was a shock to be woken up in the middle of the night, especially with this sight, but she was curious as to why he’d go to such an extreme.

“How fast can you pack a bag so we can get out of here?”

Of course she asked what he meant, so he explained that he only wanted to take her away from where they were. The Boy told her that her words made him realize that maybe she was right. Maybe she was seeing something he was not, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to change. He wanted the Girl to see the real him. So he was going to take her away. Far. Someplace no where near there so they wouldn’t have to deal with who they were.

She didn’t know what to say first, so she asked “Where’s my father?”

“He’s still drinking. If we hurry, we’ll miss him and he’ll come home and pass out.”

She asked “How are we going to do this? You have money?”

He’s been saving, he said, since they’d been living together and then some. That he had enough to support them while they got on their feet.

“How much do you have?”

“Around eight-thousand dollars.”

The Girl knew it wasn’t enough to keep the promises he made, but the gesture was amazing and way more than she hoped for. If she had the money, she thought, she would go with him in a heartbeat.

Until the not so honest truth crept in and she realized her father had all that money and then some.

“What if we get some from my Old Man?”

Of course, the Boy didn’t disagree. For all the vile crimes he’d put the children through, neither felt bad for taking something didn’t belong to them. They searched his room, right where the Girl knew to look, and found a rather large stash of rather large bills in a black handbag that was packed in the suitcase along with a lot of the Girl’s other belongings.

The two were finally ready to hit the road, and were more than willing to be gone if they hadn’t run into a rather large detour in their plan; a returning Old Man, fresh and drunk from the bar while lucky enough to not be in jail for driving. Through the windows they saw the beam of his headlight shining through, sending panic coursing through them both.

“What do we do?” the Boy asked.

The Girl didn’t flinch.

“Take the bags, go out the back door, and wait until you hear my father come inside. Go around to the car and wait for me—I’ll make sure he gets to sleep.”

The Boy nodded, grabbed the bags and turned to leave, until he felt a tug on his shoulder.

“I love you, Shawn.”

“I love you too.”

As he was out the back door, she resituated herself and headed towards the front door to intercept her father, who was more than inebriated at the moment. He could’ve asked what she was doing up so late and she could’ve responded by saying she was worried. The Old Man could’ve told her daughter she didn’t need to worry, but she said she couldn’t help it as she carried him up the stairs.

She could’ve guided him to his bed and prayed he wouldn’t notice anything unusual or his stash had been violated. And probably just as she was setting him in bed, helping him get tucked in, and stealing the car keys did she realize how smoothly everything was going. How picture perfect it was turning out.

The Little Girl could’ve turned her father’s lamp off and waved him good bye and good riddance before heading back through the house, giddy and excited, and out the front door to meet the Boy. She could’ve made sure no sound was made to disturb her father’s sleeping.

Finally, as she headed out the door, she could’ve been ready to live a life she never thought existed before.

Only, when she went outside, there was no Boy.

There was no car.

There were no bags.

Nothing aside from tire tracks.

There’s no saying how the aftermath went down, the Boy was long gone. The Old Man was without a doubt furious at the treachery in his house. The reaction to his daughter would be even more unpredictable.

But perhaps more enticing to think about is how the Little Girl felt. She loved the Boy, so how did she feel? If anything, all she could think about was how the Boy she cared for took an opportunity and ran, and how the Old Man showed him how to seize it. She saw it as her father’s undoing and she was a casualty. A price to pay.

So who is holding the biggest burden?

The Old Man, who’s own deceitful actions had finally come full circle?

The Little Girl, who found herself abandoned in the midst of an unspeakable betrayal?

Or the Boy, who seized the day and never looked back?

To be continued...

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The following promotion is brought to you by The Superwrestler himself... Shawn Christopher.

"Ok.. it's about time I get serious with you guys. Cause obviously, you're taking my confidence as weakness.

It’s time to find out what you guys are truly made of.

Are you men that we have not yet determined in XWF to be lucky… or respected. Men that hold victories over bigger names than me, but don't have victories over me, and somehow manages to pencil their names in next to mine … in what was supposed to be MY match, my time to face the supposed World champion.

Yeah, so which is it, then guys? Lucky or Respected? Which regard do you finally want to be held in for the rest of your XWF career… while others go on and pretend either you‘re the greatest thing to walk the planes, or don‘t exist at all? This is not rhetorical, by the way, despite my imminent sarcasm.

If it’s lucky? Then I suggest you turn away from this right now and just do what everybody else does... Fucking RUN. Because luck’s going to be the last thing you’re going to get when you’re going against the likes of me. I promise you that. I will fuck you bitches up.

However, if it’s respected? Then I suggest you simply pay attention to what I have to say right here and now, and prepare for the toughest battle yet in your entire career. You might just learn something, who the hell knows.

Now then with all the formalities out of the way...

... Scio Dolorem, gentlemen. I have embraced it, and withheld it in ways that would frighten Charles Manson. In ways more disturbing than you could ever possibly fucking imagine. But, if I may... try and understand this, for a moment. Understand what it is like to change your whole life just so it can revolve around someone you love like a brother, like he’s the only piece of family you have left to cherish, only so he can turn his back on you like the coward he is, as if you’re of no importance to him. Understand what it is like to travel city to city, for nearly seven long fucking years, beating the best of the best this very fucking world has to offer, and to STILL be thought of as nothing more than an eternal, emotionless monster of merely middling significance to wrestling.

Understand that, and you will truly understand what misery and pain and all of the surrounding “philosophies” are all about. Understand that, gentlemen, and you will truly understand that I am not like any opponent you have ever fucking seen.

You see, I don’t let the hype and publicity of someone charge my battery for kicking ass and taking names. I am, and always will be, my own little nickel cadmium battery, charged to the fullest extent through personal experience and the will to succeed. Ask Hunter Ryan, the man whom I dominated to make it to this spot, about what exactly I’m talking about. Because surely, along with a host of others, will tell you.

You see … I’m excited for us. Really, I am. I’m excited for us to be meeting like this, in a unstable extreme environment. Two bitter former champions, the disputed reigning champion, and the better, reigning TV champion of the sport of wrestling, who have heard enough of one another, meeting each other for probably the only time, in a Helldome match, to decide who is the World Champion. The irony is fantastic, but that said irony pales in comparison to the principle reason for our meeting.

We’re meeting each other on our best day.

On the day we have to show the world why each one of us wants to be crowned the XWF World Champion. That is the ultimate meeting, of the ultimate minds, I would like to think.

However I can’t think that, as much as I would like to, because in your little trip to the land of the ladder… there has not yet been one ounce of legitimacy that justifies any of your presences among MY match.

Bigg Rigg, you had your golden opportunity months ago. You said the same things then, that you say now about this match, but what's so different? Why should anyone believe that you'll be any better than you were? You've beaten nobody worth noting and joining up with the Initiative just makes you look like shit.

Daniel Malcolm, you're nothing more than the classic underachiever. You're the classic underdog that also seems to find a cause to get everyone to rally behind him, only to crumble when crunch time arrives. And what's really killing you is that you're attention is not solely on this match. This is one of the most dangerous matches in history, and you're worried about Brad Pierce. You're worried about your girl's safety.

Your mind isn't in this. I'll bet that neither is your heart.

If you step into this match with your mind all over the map, you will be killed. Plain and simple. You won't stand a chance, and you will fail on your objectives Mr. Malcolm.

And trust me, I'm not lying. Not about this.. and surely not about Mr. Connolly. I mean, I'm sure I know my cousin better than you.

Now Famine of the Vile, the World champion. At first I viewed you as a threat. But after being in the ring with you, I see that you're not. I look at you, and I see a man that is complacent. You won the World title, and now you think that you can rest on your laurels. You think that your success is guaranteed, when actually your success is on borrowed time.

And that time runs out at Autumn in Hell. I plan on stepping in that ring and proving that all you are is hype. That all you are is a fluke. You're no champion. You just a placeholder until a real champion came along to put you in your place.

And I'm that man bitches.

So keep talking your shit. Keep dismissing me as just some rookie. I don't mind. I'll have my time when I stand above you three with not only my TV title raised high, but my World title as well.

That's pretty good for a rookie, eh?