The following promotion is brought to you by Janet Christopher.

A single lit bulb in a dark and barren room swayed endlessly back and forth. Its incandescence briefly revealing bits and pieces of the said room with its oscillating movement. For a brief moment, light had shined onto what appeared to be a damp cemented wall, and then as the tranquil sound of trickling water somewhere in the background became increasingly clear, our surroundings were perhaps a little more observable. A basement? Some random subterranean vault in the lesser known places of Las Vegas? One could only speculate without actual, visible, proof. Ah yes, the blind particulars that shed us vision upon understanding- don't you just adore its voodoo magic?

“This is it. No more talk. No more anticipation.” I said, lurking in the thick of this tenebrous locale. My voice was stern, and the connotation behind the words was fierce.

“This is what the non-experts call… do or die, motherfucker.”

I lifted my scarred and bloodied hand, with its palm facing west, up from the pitch blackness. Each time the light bulb reached its point of sway where the crimson soaked laceration was visible, a faint trail of red would hypnotize my focus. Soon though, the bulb swaying back and forth stopped immediately and the slight clanging of its thin metal chain rang out from the sudden cease in movement.

“Shawn Christopher… versus Daniel Malcolm, Bigg Rigg, and . The undeniable pride, dignity, and respect… hanging in the balance.”

With a firm slap, the light bulb started swaying in the unlit cryptic area once again. My hand stung, sending shockwaves of pain through out my arm.

"Ya know boys... you hear, but you don’t listen.

You speak, but you don’t think.

You watch, but you don’t see.

With everything I have tried to tell you, and every bit of light I’ve tried to shed upon your mentality that has been totally cast in shadow... all you can do is simply twist everything around and dwarf my own accolades into a puddle of insignificance. Dwarf my OWN in the XWF, when you yourself have none. All you can do is sit there, grind your teeth together, and spit at me and every single one of your critics who say the same damn thing about you boys.

For once in your life, do something self-productive. For once in your life, step up with a purpose instead of self-preservation.

Stop drowning me out like a fucking child ... and listen.

Stop denying your conscience... and think.p

Stop blurring the reality of it all... and see.

If what I say isn't true... then why does it upset you so much? If it wasn’t true... then why does EVERYBODY you face call you on it? Because we don’t know what else to say about you? Because we don’t have any creative intuition to come up with anything new about you? Because we’re all just oh-so narrow-minded sheep that we just bray to each other's chatter? Okay... well, if that’s your case, then... what ELSE is there about you guys? What else have you done in your spectacular, noble, life that we can talk about? For real, I’m open to any suggestions... perhaps a heroic story that would make the pope shed a tear. A title reign in which you ACTUALLY were a credible champion? No?

Pathetic.

You get my point, Famine and Daniel. There is nothing else to you. You’re the torn pages from an outdated history book. You’re all ‘back of the index’ and shit. Therefore, the only thing we CAN say about you, is how good you are at failing. How incredible you make it seem to be on the losing end of a fight each and every time you step out into that ring. How amazing you make it seem to be the most hated and most sought after jobber in all of professional wrestling.

You’re as linear as a line in the sand... and this Sunday, I’m crossing over it on my way to victory. That’s all there is to it. No hesitation... nothing fancy. I’m just going to step into that ring, get in your damn face and smack the taste out of your fucking mouth. Like I do best, and better than you could ever dream of doing.

Then, when the tears of pain and hard truth rise to your pores and the only thing you can do from there on out is swing your fists... I’m going to drop you like a McMahon and a bad gimmick. Just. Like. That. On your back like a bitch in a one man gang bang. Whether it’s an Icon that does the trick, or I put you out with your own finisher in humiliating fashion... it doesn’t matter to me. It will be done. I’m going to show you first hand why I am The Superwrestler, and the ring is my DOMAIN. Only then will you realize that I hide behind nothing.

Whether it’s a chair shot... twelve chair shots... a Great Jesus Driver... or twelve Great Jesus Drivers… I will do anything that needs to be done to ensure that I am the first to jump into the arms of destiny. I will do anything necessary to be the one to beta you like the big bitches that you really are… and become the holder of another of your defeats ...once and fucking for all. It's time to put the media to rest. It's MY time. It's MY chance to become what you never really could ultimately become inside of the XWF domain... MY DOMAIN... and I‘ll be damned if I let it go to fucking waste to the likes of you.

Famine.. Daniel.. At Autumn in Hell… evolution takes another leap forward...

With or without your asses..."

______________--________________

Ellis’ look says it all. She’s smoked so much, I’m almost in disbelief that her eyes are that wide.

She says, 'You took that poor family’s money?

“Of course,” I say.

And she asks, "Because of the Old Man?

“Is that what you think? You think the Old Man taught me how to do this?”

The timer goes off; the brownies are done. I put on a mitt and open the oven to a pot and chocolatey filled aroma that’s more than welcoming. I then pull out the brownies and set them aside to cool. Ellis’ eyes flutter a bit, as do her nostrils, and she makes a cute face as she smiles. It’s like a wholesome ecstasy.

“I robbed those people because I meant to rob those people, Ellis. I meant to from the very beginning. I knew what I was getting into when I went to that house—I asked to be placed there. The whole town knew that asshole was loaded and I did something about it. The methods may change after time but the game is still the same, and when it comes to the game I can’t lose. Whether it’s Famine of the Vile or your fucking Grandpa; I will have them eating out of the palm of my hand. I will have you thinking what I want you to think. Just like this time and just like last time, I played every angle around those mother fuckers and they learned why they’re amateurs and why I am what I am.”

Ellis asks, "And what is that?"

I’ve never really put a label on it, but if I have to...

“I’m a manipulator. It’s just the person I’ve always been. No rhyme or reason, no mythical origin, no purpose to it. No deep, cynical view to drive me. No hatred for humanity to fuel my purpose. I manipulate people because it comes easy to me and there’s no other way around it. In a place like this, you need people to realize why you’re truly Unfuckable, you know?”

Ellis says, "I do hope you realize this probably wasn’t the best ‘ex-girlfriend’ story to tell me, right?"

“Good thing I really like you, eh?” I say and shove my tongue down her throat, romantically of course.

Between kisses she says, "So. You’re going to make me Queen, right?"

“Things would be devastatingly boring if I didn’t.” I reply.

Ellis says, "Tell me about it. Now let’s eat these brownies. "

_________________--_________________

"...Janet Christopher.

Fucking classic.

I thought you couldn't be anymore stupid Johnny, but I guess you had to prove me wrong champ.

I managed to catch your last attempt at a coherent promo and I gotta ask... do you actually think before you speak? I mean, I hope that someone else writes that crap for you, cause if it actually comes from your brain, then I feel sorry for you.

Let me ask you a simple question Johnny...

Why?

Why should I respect you as a higher-up? Why should my rookie butt be calling you 'boss'?

You know, this is the biggest problem that I have with wrestling these days. Guys enjoy a little success and they ride that success for the rest of their career. They don't bother to work hard anymore, they just phone it in and live off their name recognition.

See John, everything you ever talk about is in the past tense. I 'made' the XWF alot of money. I 'was' in alot of big matches. I 'had' defeated some of the XWF legends. But you can't talk about anything in the present tense like myself. See, I can say.. I 'make' the XWF lots of money right now as the flagship of Anarchy. I 'have' defeated any superstars that has stepped in my way.

You do alot of huffing and puffing about what you used to do, but can't talk about one single thing that you're doing now.

But you're my higher up?

Bitch please.

All you've done is come back and get pushed to World title off your past accomplishments, and get beat in the process. Sure, you've beaten up on Cyren, but who hasn't? And joining the Initiative after getting your ass kicked by the leader is something to brag about.

But here is something to brag about..

I beat Famine of the Vile.

I already did, what you came back to do.

And that's why I don't respect you. I respect Daniel Malcolm because at least he recognizes what I'm doing right now. And Famine as well gets my respect because I may dislike the guy, but at least he sees that I'm the real deal. But you... YOU?!

What the fuck about you?!

You got to where you are now by beating NO ONE. You have this match only because of the constant bitching and complaining that you did. You couldn't even beat the World champion, a man that I've already beaten. What’s there to really ask about? Right there tells us all we need to know.

You’re lucky.

Lucky that you didn’t have to go through what I had to go through, and fight like a man. When people we’re actually good at this wrestling idea. Yeah. You’re lucky that you didn’t have to leave a drop of sweat on the mat, while I poured mine by the fucking buckets full, in order to defeat some of the most gifted fighters in the world today. You're lucky that you had the coattails of a champion to give you an all-expense paid trip to the top. You’ re LUCKY, that you get to fight me in this match as fresh as a fucking daisy after a noon cloudburst.

Physically at least. Because, lets face it; we all know you’re hurting mentally. Hurting because you’re coming into a match, with Shawn Christopher, man among men, standing right in front of you as tall as your morally firmament Gods and assiduous beliefs.

Right.

Please own up to this fact.

Because I am not your opponent to conquer.

This is not your match to win.

The championship is not yours to collect.

Respect and victory are not things inherited... they are things to be fought for, things to be won, things to be earned...

... and while I have anything to do with it, things to be fucking BLED for.

These are all things you have not done lately, or even come close to doing despite your position in this match.

Best of all, it is by that very blood stained mat in which I choose to fight on that I will be better than I ever have been… and eliminate all who get in my fucking path.

Bad news for you. Because I was fucking GOOD, before. Now? Forget about it. Shit just got crazy on my end.

Jem Williams... Daniel Malcolm... Famine of the Vile...

It doesn’t fucking matter to me in the least. Legend is of no consequence to the ultimate goal at hand... only talent and the drive to be champion remains firm and true.

I’ll say it again. Own up to your illegitimacy, before someone else comes along and fucking owns your ass… making you out to be the next XWF bitch-ass, that you really are.

Someone else...

...like me.

Soon...

Soon you all will truly know what pain is all about.