Default is the result when no action is taken.

That pretty much sums up Default's entire wrestling career.

Over the past couple of months, the only thing failling faster than Default's false legend status, is the heart of the temporary World champion. Doesn’t he realize that when it comes match time that I control the ring? If not, then he should seriously get checked out, because even Ray Charles can “see” that I’ll be the better wrestler come Sunday night.

There was a prophecy that told of “The One.” The One would come when mankind needed him most. He would come during a bleak time, and shine a light upon humanity during their darkest hours. He would be charismatic, talented, and one of the most gorgeous specimens to ever grace the land. Ladies and gentlemen, I am the man who was prophesized about. I am the man who was sent to save humanity and bring them back to the top of the mountain. I am the man who will vanquish all of these fake main-eventers and most vaginal players. People of the world… I am The One!

That very purpose, that very mission starts now, and it starts with Default. Default, I’m your worst nightmare come to life. You’ve been dreading me since day one, because you knew I would expose you for the phony you are. You try to act like some legend. But the people see right through you. They know the only reason you're a legend is because you just happened to be apart of the old age XWF. Now that you’re facing the new age Shawn Christopher, though, you want to do nothing more than cower behind the rest of the roster and pray for them to help you. Let’s be honest. You don’t have to visit an oracle to see that I’m straight orally raping your whole career. Yeah, just let your career choke on this giant stick of hate I’m shoving down its throat. Don’t gag though, bitch, because you brought this on yourself.

Just like the Matrix, your career isn’t real. It’s nothing more than a fucking illusion. Your shit isn’t authentic, it’s bootleg quality. When I look at you, I’m not impressed. I depressed. I look at you and wonder if this is what our business has really come to. Me? I’m entertaingly charismatic and over-the-top. You? You’re just flamboyantly flaming. A young man once tried to teach me how to bend a spoon with my mind. He told me I can’t bend the spoon, because it is not really there. But all I could think about was how I just wish you weren’t here.

I really don’t think that Default knows what he’s getting into. If he goes into this match with the same old naïve thoughts, this match is going to be as disastrous as his World title reign. Do you remember that? He won the title, and ratings instantly went down faster than Patience Pryce on Jon Brown. That’s the one thing the WWE has done better than XWF… their resident retard could actually draw a fan reaction. For Christ’s sakes, Deafult couldn’t even draw flies if he were covered in shit. But you probably didn’t notice the drop in ratings, since my segments quickly brought the viewers back. That just seems to be the story of this feud, though. Default wants to kill the prestige of the TV title, and I have to defend it and keep it in all it's glory. Default’s verbal skills kill the verbal reaction of the crowd, and I verbally destroy losers while verbally agreeing to multi-million dollar contracts. Default ushers in an era of low ratings and dead house show attendance, and I usher in an era of high ratings and even higher paydays.

All that matters is that the path of your career comes to an abrupt and complete stop this week. You’re a disgrace to your race…the human race. But more importantly, you’re a disgrace to everything in the XWF. Maybe you’ re a vengeful soul, trying to kill ratings because someone killed your brother. Whatever the reason is, it all comes to an end this week. After Rage in the Cage, we won’t be seeing anymore boring promos or half-assed matches from Default anymore. God knows we can see enough of that from every superstar in the XWF main event scene.

Sunday night, Default, it’s going to be game over for you. But even though you might be high on mushrooms, this isn’t Super Mario World… you don’t get credits to continue. This is your last life, Default, and I intend on embarrassing you, even though you can do a damn fine job of that yourself. Default: Legendary Talent? Nah… I think Default: Curtain Jerker Extraordinaire has a better ring to it.

_________________--__________________

It doesn’t take much to get Shawn Christopher in a peachy keen mood. To say that as he's preparing to go and successfully defend his Television title at Rage in the Cage, the man was ecstatic, would be an understatement. The dude was blown away, ant that’s selling hyperbole short.

The Cult Icon’s mind is constantly racing; making leaps and bounds from one illogical anticipation to the next. The way his mind can jump from “Heavyweight Champ, fuck yeah!” to “mega sex-orgy like whoa” is enough to make anyone’s head spin.

But with the burden of being the top dog also comes the burden of responsibilities long forgotten. For a hot minute, Shawn happened to forget why he became a wrestler. If you asked him four months ago, why he was wrestling, he’d tell you “to work some pansy ass bitches, niggaaaaaa.” Only if a black person was near by, he wouldn’t say ‘nigga,’ for fear of getting curb-checked. Unless it’s Q.C. Thug. Q.C. Thug is a pussy.

Shawn didn’t remember why he became a wrestler, until that fateful day—exactly forty days after winning the belt—when he received a letter from a family member that may as well be dead to him.

It said: “Dear Shawn. I just learned of your monumental achievement in your wrestling promotion, and I couldn’t be more proud. Your mother certainly is shining her light on you from above, and it is more than apparent that the Lord has great plans for you.

I’d like it very much if you would come home so we can catch up on everything that has happened. Everyone’s asking about you.

Love,
Reginald Quincy Danielson

And then came the over-whelming feeling of Joy. Success. Accomplishment. All of the sudden, there was no reason to be unhappy. Shawn had done what he sought out to do; he had won the affection of his father.

Or so he may think.

knock knock knock.

SC: Daddy! DADDY! Open up!

As Shawn knocks vigorously on the door of Room 218 of the Wooddale Village Retirement Home, he does not notice the ominous presence of a young, attractive woman with long black hair as she stands further down the hallway. In other times, Shawn would think that a woman staring at him from afar while smiling was somewhat creepy (or sexy, even), but now he’s pre-occupied.

SC: DAD! Are you in there?

For a second, Shawn notices the light shining through the peephole (at waist-high) becomes clogged; his father looking to see who it is.

SC: DAD! It’s me! Your baby boy is home.

Shawn is not about to receive the welcome he imagined once receiving that letter.

Reginald Danielson: I have no son.

His words were muffled from the filter of wood and a doorknob, but Shawn understands clearly what he is saying.

SC: Dad? You sent me a letter! You asked me to come home so we can be a family agai-

The door opens, only slightly, as much as the latch-chain would allow, and the waste-high frame of Reginald Danielson, wheel-chair bound and all, allows his words to flow bitterly and clear.

Reginald Danielson: I. HAVE. NO. SON!

*slam*

For a second, the only thought Shawn could process is confusion. Why would his father send him a letter, asking him to come here, only to turn him away when facing each other?

knock knock knock

SC: Dad! DADDY! Open the door!

knock knock knock

His father does not oblige, though. In any other situation, Shawn would not have been surprised, but this is different; he has that fucking letter. He needs to be here.

Someone wants him to be here.

The woman that stands further down the hall of the apartment-building-fashioned Retirement home begins to smile at Shawn’s plight, approaching him rather slowly for a fear of startling him. She pulls her long black hair behind from their renegade strands into a pony-tail, setting the stage for elegance.

Woman: Is everything alright?

SC: What? Oh, yeah! Of course! Everything’s damn fine!

She smiles slightly, and places a hand on his shoulder. Most situations, Shawn would not establish eye-contact so quickly with a stranger. But something seems different about her. The abyss of her dark-brown eyes was misleading to where the color ended and her pupils began.

SC: Do I know you?

Woman: I was thinking the same thing! You look so famili-

SC: I am on TV, you know.

He smiles flirtatiously. She ignores.

Woman: I don’t watch TV.

Shawn's head lowers in slight shame.

Woman: Are you waiting for someone?

SC: Well, my father. But it doesn’t look-

Woman: You hungry? I’m hungry. I could sure use a bite to eat.

SC: Are you asking me-

Woman: Yes. Wanna come?

Without thinking, Shawn replies.

SC: Yes. I do.

And they’re off. It only takes five minutes for Shawn to forget why he is even in Utah, but being in the company of a semi-attractive woman is more than enough to comfort him. Comfort seems to surround him in the girl’s luxury sedan; leather interior and heated seats make for a rather cozy ride.

But the ride is slow. Passing by a slew of formidable restaurants on the late Salt Lake night at a considerable pace of thirty-five miles an hour, Shawn thought she may turn in at any point. But she doesn’t. She keeps driving, until they are outside of the commercial area littered with shops and eateries.

No more neon lights shine from the marquees or store-fronts, the only glow is cast iridescently from the streetlights that lined their drive.

SC: Where are we going?

Woman: Somewhere to eat.

Her own nonchalant-ness is enough to calm Shawn down. Until he sees the building she pulls into. The parking lot was packed, and around the front door of the massive temple is a gathering of people so dull, they were granted their own religion.

SC: What is thi-

SC didn’t need to ask, he saw the sign:

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Turning into the lot and driving up to the front entrance, Shawn sees the people look at the approaching car with intent. The bright headlights reveal the gamut of evil smiles that these people wear, as if they’re waiting for something that finally came.

Shawn looks at the driver, who shares the same smile.

SC: You...

He looks at her hand on the driving wheel, gleaming from the reflected light of her headlights on the church’s glass walls, is her CTR ring.

Choose the Right, it stands for. It’s a tradition that all Mormon’s wear this ring.

SC: MORMONS!

Woman: Yes! YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD ESCAPE US, SHAWN CHRISTOPHER! BUT YOU WERE WRONG!

And all of the sudden, everything clicks to Shawn. Right into place.

SC: The letter! You guys wrote it! That’s why my father didn’t want to see me—he didn’t know I was coming!

Woman: Yes, and like the stupid boy you are, you took the bait. And now, here you are, Shawn. IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE LATTER-DAY SAINTS! MWAHAHAHAHAHAH.

The evil Mormon cackle is enough to incite an escape attempt. Before the car can come to a halt at the front of the church, Shawn dives out of his door and hits the pavement with a hard impact.

SC: Fuck!

The car stops, and the woman gets out. She points at Shawn, and all of the Mormon minions who wait at the front begin to chase Shawn.

Woman: GRAB THAT DICK!

Pushing himself off the street, Shawn tries to flee his apparent captors but their Mass Mormon numbers are far too great to escape.

Woman: FOOL! Our Mass Mormon numbers are far too great to escape!

Even though out-numbered and facing impeccable odds, Shawn is never one to lose his courage in the face of pure evil. These mother fuckers obviously don’t know who they’re dealing with. With the Mormons dragging Shawn towards the woman, their apparent leader, he could only think about how evil the Mormons are—but Shawn Christopher’s pretty evil too.

It’s like Hitler in a pissing-war with Stalin.

SC: You’re all at church, and it isn’t even a fucking Sunday. I should have known you losers were up to something.

Woman: Blaspheme all you’d like, it won’t be for long. When we’re finished you’ll be such a Jesus-freak that you won’t be smoking the Mary Jane, you’ll be thanking the Mary Virgin—for your soul!

Before Shawn can retort with his idiotic wit, the doors of the Church open, and out walks an innocent looking man who could testify that appearances are deceiving indeed.

Man: So, Elizabeth-987. I trust everything is in order?

Woman (Elizabeth-987): Yes, Tri-Level Mormon Nathaniel-13.

Man (Nathaniel-13): This is the boy?

Elizabeth-987: It’s him.

With Mormon’s holding every limb of the Icon, he is restrained to allow Nathaniel-13, the revealed Grand Master, to get a closer look.

Nathaniel-13: So it is. Bring him in, we have much... catching up to do...

SC: What the fuck? Who the fuck are you people?

The Mormons drag Shawn in, all following the leads of Elizabeth-987 who follows Nathaniel-13, and guide him down the narrow corridors of their Congregation. They pass the main hall, and several other private corridors for various uses. They finally reach their destination; a set of double doors that leads to a room completely lined with stainless steel.

In the center of the room is a stainless steel operating table, fixed on an adjustable mount with clamps for the hands and feet, with steel cabinets with locks stay mounted to the walls while their contents remain unknown.

Nathaniel-13: Nathaniel-4223 and Nathaniel 3908—Strap him down.

Two of the Mormon’s guide Shawn by holding his underarm to the table, where they force him in and strap his arms down.

SC: What’s the fucking reason for this?! You Jesus-shits are crazy as shit, I’ll sue your whole fucking religion for this.

Nathaniel-13: HAHAHAH, you know money is of no object to the Mormon’s! Not only do we receive benefits from the Donation plates at every mass, but we have never-ending income from our member’s wages DIRECTLY. 10% of every Mormon’s earnings goes directly to our pocket. Our resources are limitless.

Elizabeth-987: And now, Shawn Christopher, you will help our agenda!

SC: Fuck that. I’ve never been baptized, my father didn’t think I deserved it. And you know what? He’s fucking right!

Nathaniel-13: That may have been true before, but now, you’re a superstar. And a superstar is a perfect medium to display our message. Did you really think you could escape our grasp? You really thought you could just forget we existed? WE’RE MORMON’S DAMMIT, WE’RE RELENTLESS. AND WE NEVER LET A SHEEP GO ASTRAY!

SC: I’m not going to buy your Book of Mormon bullshit you neo-hippy, so you and your butt- fucking partner Joseph Smith can go have a circle jerk somewhere else.

Nathaniel-13: You actually think that’s what the Mormon’s religion actually is? Hah! Sure, that’s what we tell the pastors to tell the members, but us CORE members of the church now what’s really going down in Chinatown. We all share the names ‘Nathaniel’ and ‘Elizabeth;’ true sons and daughters under the Lord, our status declared by the numbers that follow. I am Nathaniel-Thirteen, Tri-Level Mormon and High Leader of Ceremonies.

SC: You’re doing very well for yourself.

Nathaniel-13: We could be doing better. And if we’re going to include you in our plans, I suppose I should let you in on a little secret. How much do you know about... Jesus?

SC: That he’s the coolest Zombie, like, ever.

Nathaniel-13: What if I told you that was all a lie. What if I told you the entire story was fabricated by our ancestors long ago, all to cover for prophecy that is now en-route to fulfillment?

SC: I’d say this promo is starting to run a little long.

Nathaniel-13: Shawn, have you ever heard about Cyborg Jesus?

Will Shawn escape the clutches of the evil Mormons? Does he still have a chance at boning that Elizabeth bitch? Is his father EVER going to speak to him? And what exactly does this Cyborg Jesus fellow have to do with Shawn Christopher, the Cold War, and the Pepsi Corporation?! Find out next time, bitches!