It's Gonna Be Me

[Jay Omega]

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“Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.”
-The Art of War
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*Our scene fades in on a much abused sight. No, it's not Logan's ass, get your mind out of the gutter. No, it's a bent and battered piece of sheet metal, burnished to a dull shine, reflecting the fluorescent lighting overhead. Set into a craggy rock wall, this makeshift mirror sits above a depression in the stone shelf that juts out from the wall. This small, natural basin serves as the sink for this underground bathroom. Standing before us in a three-quarter profile view is the scarred-but-sexy form of The Omega Man in full regalia, with the exception of the black leather face mask that he hasn't worn in months, and seemingly no longer needs to. There was a time when he would have been just plain old Jay Omega without the mask, but that metaphysical requirement seems to have been broken. Regardless, The Omega Man stands before us, a short line of grooming tools laid out on the rock shelf.*

The Omega Man: Welcome back, True Believers! I originally was going to mimic the Core's promotifcation, but then I realized something very important; it's kind of boring. So fuck that, I'm gonna do what I do! Who's ready for shenanigans and mockery? I know I am!

*The Omega Man pulls his black leather mask from the back pocket of his camo cargo pants, and slips it over his face. For fuck's sake, why couldn't I narrate Jay's promo?*

The Omega Man: Because the contrast makes it funnier this way. Besides, I need a straight man to work with for the comedy to have the full effect.

Ajira(offscreen): Uh... what?

The Omega Man: Not you, the Descriptor.

Ajira(offscreen): ... Riiight.

*Ajira had slipped into the mollifying tone he generally uses when he's not sure what Omega is talking about, but doesn't actually want to hear an explanation. Omega himself opens his mouth, then either remembers that Ajira can't hear me, or decides not to waste time explaining things that wouldn't be understood. Regardless, he doesn't elaborate further. Which neatly avoids the explanation Ajira doesn't want to hear.*

The Omega Man: Well whatever then, let's get this thing going. First things first: Music!

*From nowhere and everywhere, music does indeed start playing. The rhythmic beating of a drum leads into an instrumental version of "I'll Make A Man Out of You" from Disney's Mulan. A note or three seem slightly out of place, but that's because we altered the song just enough to not get sued.*

The Omega Man: Let's get down to business / To defeat _ the boys! / I've heard a lot of chatter / But it's all _ just noise! / You're the saddest bunch I've ever fought / But you can bet, before we're through / Beach Krew, I'll _ make some men _ out of yooouuu. / Wade, your smile is empty / Like you are _ within / Faced with WAR before you / You can ne - ver win! / You're a spineless, pale, pathetic lot / And you haven't got a clue / Somehow I'll _ make some men _ out of yooouuu!

*Small pictures of the members of #BeachKrew line up along the bottom of the screen, each snapshot lighting up as the corresponding name is said.*

The Omega Man: Sandy's nothing but a pair of tits / Andre is nothing but a rookie / Rico Rojas, who gives a fuck for hiiiim? / Tiburones, you are just a piece of shit / Just know that I can see right through you / Now's the time for you to sink or swiiiim!

*Whether because he was instructed to, or because he understands the importance of supporting a friend, Ajira joins in for the chorus.*

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: You must be swift as the coursing river!

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: With all the force of the great Typhoon!

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: Got to be able to spit hot fiyah / And smash faces in, just like I smash the pooooooon!

*Omega extends an arm out to the horizon and tilts his head back slightly. Now fully into the swing of it, the projection of his voice is amplified by the acoustics of the subterranean cavern.*

The Omega Man: Time is racing toward us / Until WAR _ arrives / If you get in my way / Then you won't _ survive! / You're unsuited for the rage of WAR / So pack up, go home, you're through / There are no _ men at all _ among you.

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: You must be swift as the coursing river!

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: With all the force of the great Typhoon!

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: Got to be able to spit hot fiyah / And smash faces in, just like I smash the pooooooon!

*The muscial accompaniment dies out, leaving Omega and Ajira to finish off the final chorus acapella. Evidently just as into it as Omega is, Ajira hums the tune in between his parts.*

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: You must be swift as the coursing river!

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: With all the force of the great Typhoon!

Ajira(offscreen): To win WAR!

The Omega Man: Got to be able to spit hot fiyah / And smash faces in, just like I smash the pooooooon!

*Wild applause fills the chamber, clearly a stock sound effect added in post-production. Omega takes a bow, and a single rose is thrown in his direction, obviously from Ajira. The Omega Man scoops it up, and blows kisses to an imaginary crowd for a few moments; a beatific smile on his face. Of a sudden, he snaps his fingers twice, and the fluorescent lighting suddenly switches moods to be more in line with the interior of a discotheque. A group of luscious, nubile young women are suddenly dancing on screen, because this is an Omega promo, and the boundaries of reality can eat it. What are the hotties dancing to, you're not asking? Why it's a Jimmy Hart version of Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf". I know, 80's music in a 70's setting; it's a little weird. Trust me, this is one of the least surreal things to happen around Omega.*

The Omega Man: Before Gemini, he was Livewire / Hired a stunt man, set him on fire / Do do do do / do do do do / do do do do / do do do / Hooked up with bikers, won the Trios title / His only gold, though he's been here a while / Do do do do / do do do do / do do do do / do do do / He's partly a clown / Don't call him Pierce or he'll hurt you / His fire is hot / But I shit you not / I will beat him just like Wolf / I've done it before / Like at last year's WAR / Remember that, when I pinned you? / I'm sorry my friend / It will happen again / 'Cause I'll beat you just like Wooolf!

*A short instrumental bridge separates the end of the chorus and the beginning of the next verse. A pair of the ladies boogie their way over to Omega's side, and he thoroughly enjoys the attention.*

The Omega Man: Gemini's buddy is Thomas Bates / He is a big guy whom everyone hates / Do do do do / do do do do / do do do do / do do do / People don't like him, but that's all right / You don't have to be well-liked to fight / Do do do do / do do do do / do do do do / do do do / Oh Bates is not small / He is six nine, that is quite tall / I've beat him before / Though the match was Hardcore / I'll still beat him just like Wolf / Though he can play rough / Bates isn't that tough / And I'll beat him just like Woooolf!

*Another instrumental break allows Omega to shake his groove thang for a few moments. I can't believe I just said that. I just threw up in my mouth a little. Kind of a bitter aftertaste.*

The Omega Man: Dougie Murdock / He's just a cock / Though good with his fists, he's just an oaf / I ended his streak / Earlier this week / Now I'll beat him just like Wolf / He gets pissed and shouts / Swings his fists about / He can't live up to his bro, Deuce / If he steps to me / I'll beat him, you'll see / Yeah I'll beat him just like Wooolf! / They're Dee Are Gee / It's easy to see / They've lost their credibility / It has come to pass / Pantheon kicked ass / Now I'll beat them just like Wolf / Not sorry to say / It will be this way / I'm on a roll, no stopping now / I've beat them all before / I'll do it once more / Yeah I'll beat them just like Wooolf!

*As the music fades away, The Omega Man lets out a howl which sounds more like a castrated fox than a wolf. But they're both canines, so close enough, I guess.*

The Omega Man: Ah, that was fun. We always enjoy a good sing-along. Now before we move on, I'd like to take a moment to say that I will eliminate Jeff Purse with ease.

*Omega claps his hands twice and the entire scene changes. Gone are the dancing girls and funky lights. No more are the cold stone walls which had surrounded us. Now we find ourselves outdoors, in a sunlit clearing. How is this possible you ask? I already told you this is an Omega promo; some shit's not going to make sense. But hey, if you want realism, why are you in a company that employs the undead, serial murderers, time travellers, and bonafide fucking wizards?. We've even had a couple of cyborgs walk through the doors. I still miss you, Mech-Ana; your promos were tight. Shit, I lost my place. Uh... So we're outside now, yes. Anything else?*

The Omega Man: Nope, that's right where I was about to pick up. Now, as far as We know, the Core was going to handle most of the good names, leaving me with the people who suck, just in case I flub my lines, and accidentally give someone a rub. But what he doesn't know, is that I'm prepared for WAR as well. And I happen to know that he didn't say a damn thing about guys like Switches, Cormack and Conall MacNeill, Nathan von Liebert, Mikey eXtreme, Bobby Cairo, or Marc Mayhem. And that's cool beans, 'cause that gives me something to do. I guess Mikey eXtreme should be our first choice. Mainly because he's not very likely to show up for WAR, and even if he did, he sure as shoot isn't going to win it. Way too much pressure in this match, and if he folded at Ultimate Showdown, then WAR is likely to send him screaming for the psych ward. Maybe I'll eliminate Jeff Purse with a "dirty" pin, and send him to the psych ward.

*A manic grin comes to Omega's face, and his bright blue eyes twinkle with an inner light.*

The Omega Man: Ah, the psych ward. Once upon a time it was like a second home to us. Not the kind of home you miss once you get away, though. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, right Switches? Or Greenie. SwitchGreen? Switchback... Greenback... GreenSwitch? Switchfever! Sorry, sometimes We have difficulty with amalgamated names. But yes, Switchfever, that is the appropriate name. Anywho, I remember when We said GemWire was like the John Wayne Gacy type of clown. Well, Switchfever is straight up Pennywise in comparison. Because he's an inhuman monster who is infinitely more terrifying than GemWire could hope to be. It's a good thing that dealing with such abominations is my bread and butter. Now, I'm not saying We could eliminate ol' Switchy as easily as I will dispatch Jeff Purse, but We could eliminate ol' Switchy as easily as I will dispatch Jeff Purse. Is Switchfever even going to be in WAR? Don't know, don't care. It doesn't matter if it's Switchfever, Slickie T, or Rick Mad; I'll tear right through all of them as if they were Kleenex at a snot party. And to that end, I will eliminate Jeff Purse with ease.

*Omega claps twice, and the scene changes once again. Now free-floating in the infinite void of space, The Omega Man spins in a lazy corkscrew. Somehow the vacuum of these frozen depths does not immediately pull Omega's lungs out his eye sockets, nor does the lack of air inhibit the soundwaves produced when he speaks. Because he's just that fucking awesome. Jealous much?*

The Omega Man: So here We are, finally out in space with a camera. I mean, there's been more than enough talk about us spending a lot of time out here, but none of it makes any sense when you consider the difference between what transpires on and off camera. Well, I figure it's easier to make the rumours and crazy talk come true than it is to explain over and over and over why you're so stupid. Before I continue in the vein of crazy talk from jealous numpties, I'd like to take a minute to say that I will eliminate Jeff Purse with ease. Having said that, I can now address Davey Boy Santiago again. First, in regards to the outcome of our match. I don't know which match you were participating in, but it's patently obvious that it was not you getting "carried away" that ended the match with a loss in your favour. Maybe We gave you a concussion when We kicked you in the face, and knocked you the fuck out, but We had that match won ten times over. We didn't pin your ignorant ass and take your worthless title because We have bigger things on our mind. More prestigious belts. Secondly, in regards to your question of why We don't just travel back to change the outcome? How do I say this?

*Omega taps his lips with one forefinger for a few moments while he continues his slow rotation. A sad expression is on his face when he comes back around to facing us.*

The Omega Man: Davey, if your understanding of Time is so simplistically linear that you honestly need to ask that question, then there's no way your primitive mind could hope to understand the explanation as to why it's impossible. Besides, We've already explained this shit, like, a dozen times. Because you're not the first person to say... well, any of the verbal diarrhoea that dribbled from your mouth. But the thing is, you seem to be having trouble figuring out what to believe. So which is it? Are you going to act like TUBA, and try to play me off as some drug-addled crackpot lost in a fantasy land? Are you going to accept what others claim is impossible, and acknowledge that We do indeed take part in adventures that would turn most "sane" men into a gibbering mass of mindless dogshit? It's one or the other, Davey Boy, you can't have it both ways. This isn't like your sex life, where you can swap out Lady Knives' foamy fish flaps for a firm frankfurter to gobble down. Of course, if my only options were that nasty skank you married, and munching wiener? Well, I'd give the Hot Dog Kings a run for their money with how much meat I'd stuff in my mouth. Oh and by the way, the Core's mother has been dead for more than twenty years. Your piss-poor try for a "yo mamma" joke was as stale and boring as a Howard Black promo. Get out of here with your hackneyed, half-ass attempts, and leave the humour to people who are actually entertaining.

*Another double clap and we're back on Earth. If we ever left it. Who knows? Maybe Omega is actually strapped to a bed across the hall from Jayson Price, and this is all just a vivid hallucination. If so, it's pretty damn convincing, since he's managed to walk all over David Sanchez AND the DRG in the last two weeks. But those are just flukes, right? It couldn't possibly be because Omega - in any form - is a better combatant than nearly everybody on the WCF roster, right? Right? Regardless, The Omega Man is now sitting up on an oak tree branch, his back against the thick bole.*

The Omega Man: Before we move on, I'd just like to reiterate that I will eliminate Jeff Purse with ease. Now, since I've brought up both entertainment and the Hot Dog Kings, I guess I could say a few words about Marc Mayhem.

*Omega snaps his fingers, and suddenly he's holding a frozen package of Schneider's Red Hots. We're just going to go whole hog with the fantastical absurdity, aren't we? Rather than speak to the camera, or Marc Mayhem directly, Omega chooses to direct his comments toward the frozen meat-tubes in his hand.*

The Omega Man: It's been a long time, Marky Marc. How's the Funky Bunch doing? You're probably not old enough to get that joke, but trust me, it's insulting. You know what else is insulting? The way you couldn't keep a hold on your patience. You wanted my Hardcore Championship so badly, you couldn't even wait for the legitimate shot you had earned, could you? No, you had to jump us from behind - after We helped put your ass through the first round of Trios I might add - attack us when We was unprepared, and more than a little winded from carrying you and Not-Johnny through a match against Wicked BioWalker. That's right; you were so Xor-damned pathetic, you needed us to save your ass from fucking BioWalker. And then how do you repay us? You put us on the shelf. Get me stripped of my title. Then you go out and "win" it in a lackluster match against some no-name never-was. And I could forgive all that, if that's where it ended. If you had gone on to live up to the long-lived, legendary legacy I was barely beginning to build, that would have been just peachy keen. But instead, you lost to fucking Torture. And for the last five months my belt has been off the table. That angers me so much, that I will eliminate Jeff Purse. With ease!

*The Omega Man tosses the pack of hot dogs away. And again, because this is an Omega promo, such antiquated notions as "physics", "logic", and "realism" don't necessarily apply. As such, a bolt of lightning streaks down from the otherwise clear sky and strikes the package of wieners, which combusts in a puff of smoke; vanishing without a trace. Our attention returns to Omega, and we find him contentedly munching on a hot dog, complete with bun and condiments. Don't ask me where it came from, he keeps a lot of weird shit in those pockets of his.*

The Omega Man(with terribly fake Scottish brogue): Och! Conall MacNeill of the Clan MacNeill. Aye, ye're a greet big bahsterd, ain't ye? *drops brogue* And since you're still relatively new to the fold, that nearly exhausts what I know about you, other than the fact that you're family to Brother Haggis. But hey, if you're family to Brother Haggis, then you're family to The Omega Man. But, uh, that's not going to stop us from whooping you all across the ring if we just so happen to meet up. I don't give a rodent's patootie how big you are; TUBA's a big sumbitch too, and I've already got myself two wins over him. And that second one came after he'd gotten a bunch of experience under his belt. So don't count on your size to be of much help, Conall. I'll climb you like a mountain, and engrave my initials in your forehead. But you're not the only member of Clan MacNeill to be in the thick of things, are you?

*The Omega Man finishes his hot dog, dusts off his hands, then smiles broadly at us.*

The Omega Man: Hey there, Brother Haggis! How's it hanging? Never mind, your lumberjack miniskirt is short enough that I can see for myself. Might want to do something about that. But how have you been? It's been almost a year since we were in the ring together. Pretty sure the last time was at Helloween, when Georgie Porgie broke our leg. Our merry band of brothers fell apart shortly after that, didn't it? Which just goes to show that not only are We the linchpin of the greatest Dubya See Eff Trios Champions of all time, but We were also the linchpin of the Pack. Without The Omega Man around to bestow second-hand awesomeness on everyone else, the group fell apart. First Hyena, then Chase and Brother Haggis. Then finally the Blue Lady and Brother Strange. Now, you and I came awfully close to winning the Tag Team Championships, Brother Haggis, but I don't believe we've ever had the pleasure of mixing it up between the ropes. Let's change that, shall we? Come find me at WAR, we'll have some good times! Speaking of good times, you know what will be a good time? When I eliminate Jeff Purse with ease!

*Omega rolls out of position and drops lightly to his feet. Once on the ground, The Omega Man claps twice, and we find ourselves atop a white-capped mountain. A blustering wind blows powder around in swirling patterns, the shriek of the wind on par with a banshee's terrifying wail. Omega looks around in confusion for a moment, then claps again. Now we find ourselves on the ocean floor, where Omega relaxes in a folding lawn chair. He did this last year; wore a SCUBA tank, and spoke in sign language. Since I'm making a point about realism, though, such things are absent this time. Because Omega has gills now. They're not a permanent addition; I guarantee they'll be gone in the next scene. The point is, Omega's leaning back in his chair with a wide smile.*

The Omega Man: Now, there are a few nobodies whom I should address. Other than Jeff Purse.

*Yes, I know speech doesn't travel well underwater. It doesn't travel very well in space either, but that didn't seem to matter, did it?*

The Omega Man: Andre Jenson, L.A. Kush, Jeff Danger... are these guys even going to be in WAR? It doesn't matter. Jeff Danger will suffer the same fate as Jeff Purse, and be eliminated with ease. L.A. Kush is probably going to get stoned on the way to the event, stop for munchies, then forget what he was doing. He'll probably end up at home playing video games, with a nagging sense that he's forgotten something important. And Andre Jenson... Hold on, Andre Jenson? Liege lord of the Land of Kem? Seriously? Shit! Show's over, people; might as well not even bother showing up. Not only is this guy a master tactician, a mighty warrior, and a stealthy rogue, he's also a powerful mage who specializes in the Holy Arts, making him a Paladin of sorts. From what I understand, he possesses the mighty Helm of Destruction, which gives a bonus plus three to all saving rolls, and can be used to deal one dee-twelve of damage to a chosen target. Luckily, I know how to distract him. I'll just bring along the most powerful nerd repellent I can get; a woman's vagina. Speaking of giant pussies, I will eliminate Jeff Purse with ease.

*Omega inhales deeply through his nose, and exhales with a satisfied sigh.*

The Omega Man: Ah, just smell that fresh, salty water! Great for keeping your sinuses clear. Kind of stinks a little like fish, though, which is the perfect segue to lead into discussing Celeste.

*The Omega Man tries to clap his hands, but the water makes that rather difficult. Instead, Omega crosses his arms before himself then nods emphatically, "I Dream of Jeannie" style. All at once we're up on the beach; white sand glittering as far as the eye can see in either direction, with a lush, verdant jungle in the background. Omega is stretched out, buried up to the waist in sand; his lower half masterfully sculpted to be disguised as a trail of smoke leading down to an ancient oil lamp.*

The Omega Man: Baaah-dup! Bup bup bah-dup bup! I love doin' that. So, Celeste. You call yourself the Antidote? Yeah, get used to hearing that; I guarantee We won't be the last to say it to you. I wonder if I even really need to spend any more time or thought on Celeste? Well, I mean, I do spend a lot of thought on her.

*A lascivious grin splits Omega's face, and he waggles his left eyebrow suggestively.*

The Omega Man: But that has nothing to do with the kind of wrestling you can show on TV, even Pay Per View. From time to time I like to imagine We've been booked against Celeste in a, ahem, "hardcore" match. We get rather creative with the use of the... weaponry. Which is sort of relevant, because if the actual Celeste thinks she's got a chance of winning WAR, then she is going to get well and truly fucked by me. Badum-tisch! I'm sorry, but that was too easy. Easier than eliminating Jeff Purse will be.

*Omega stands up, destroying the beautiful artwork that was painstakingly created by a horde of professional sand sculptors. Because that's a real thing. The Omega Man brushes damp sand from his pants, then produces an ever-present black cigarette case. A joint gets lit up, and a small cloud of smoke drifts away on the ocean breeze.*

The Omega Man: Speaking of people who take a pounding when they're up against us, that reminds me of the one and only Zee Macklemorris, the Undead Basehead. Now we all know that Honey Badger don't give a fuck about WAR, or much of anything else. And most of his focus will be on beginning his fourth reign as Internet Champion. But you'd best believe he's still going to be in WAR, dropping cinderblocks on whoever he feels like. We're all invited to a Boot Party, and the door prize is a complimentary Axe Wound. Don't let the slight slump he's been stuck in fool you; this guy's ended more careers than anyone else in the Whickiff, and he can fuck your day up any time he wants. WAR is just a chance for him to lay a beat down on anyone who comes within arm's reach, and that's pretty much all We expect him to do. He's certainly not gong to win, after all. Neither will Jeff Purse, because I'll eliminate him easily.

*Omega sticks the joint in his mouth, claps his hands again, and we're suddendly at an unnamed baseball stadium. The Omega Man stands at home plate, his ring attire now tailored to look like a baseball uniform. Omega takes the joint from his mouth, taps off the ash, then with a quick shake of his wrist the blunt expands to the size of a baseball bat. The Omega Man winds up and takes a swing just as a fireball is thrown his way. Omega bats it away with the enormous doobie, the sound effect of a baseball striking wood plays along. With the end now fully ablaze, The Omega Man takes a long draw off the spliff, then rests it over his shoulder.*

The Omega Man: That's sure to be a home run. Which makes me both a better wrestler, and a better baseball player than Kyle Kemp. And since We generally have more success in gambling, I guess that makes us a better bettor, too. Unlike Kyle Kemp, We take accountability for our mistakes. We don't expect everyone to believe We're one of the best simply because We say so. No, We expect people to believe We're one of the best because We prove it week after week. Meanwhile, Kyle Kemp is such a shitty person in general that he was welcomed into Beach Krew with open arms. Because if ever there was a stable that celebrates being a shitty person, it's Beach Krew. In a company already over-saturated with dickheads, douchebags, and other assorted heels, there is absolutely nothing about these guys to make them stand out. And they jerk each other off so much, it leads me to wonder if maybe there's some sort of same-sex romance going on in their locker room. If so, congratulations on finding somebody who will put up with your retarded bullshit. I, uh, have no tie-in joke, but I will eliminate Jeff Purse with ease. Boom.

*Omega takes another huge haul from his massive cannon, then exhales a thick, obscuring cloud in our direction. We hear a clap, and when the smoke clears we're back underground, standing before the same dented and battered make-shift mirror. The enormous joint has returned to regular size, because even The Omega Man isn't that big a dope fiend, and his clothes have returned to his usual ring attire.*

The Omega Man: There aren't a whole lot of names left, are there? Bad News Benson? Give me a break. Cletus Clyde? Is he even on the payroll anymore? Dustin Beaver? He's an embarrassment to Canada. Even moreso than Nickelback, or Avril Lavigne. But it's a matter of checks and balances, people. For every Phil Hartman Canada produces, there is also a Tom Green. For every Brian Adams, there is a Celine Dion. And for every Jay Omega, there is a Dustin Beaver. Now, the Canadian thing to do would be to apologize on behalf of this sad-sack shitstain, but no amount of words could make up for the blight on society he represents. Besides, I sort of renounced my Canadian citizenship a few years ago. But what I can do for everybody, is kick Dustin in the face so hard he requires reconstructive surgery. Maybe he'll come back looking like a man, instead of a teenaged lesbian. Okay, I should probably stop with the easy jokes. Like Jeff Purse; there's an easy joke.

*Omega hits his joint, taps the ash onto the uneven stone floor, then rubs at his chin for a moment.*

The Omega Man: We are really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, aren't we? I mean, the next name I've got is Billy. You know, that huge fat-ass who hasn't done a damn thing since the Rei de Mexico competition Gravedigger held back in May. The hardest part of beating Billy is going to be knocking him down; his mass and inertia make him the proverbial immovable object. But that's the only difficult part; much like a turtle, or Celeste, once you've got him on his back, he's fucked. Gravity will keep him there for a lot longer than jst a three count, though those three seconds are all I'll need to send him packing. Look on the bright side, Billy; you won't even be in the match long enough to work up a sweat, though you'll probably work one up just by walking out to the ring. After you're eliminated, though, you can head on to the back, and enjoy the sundries laid out by catering. You can hang out with Jeff Purse, because I'm going to eliminate him with ease.

*The Omega Man's free hand reaches off screen, and comes back into view holding a can of Monster energy drink, label out. Aren't inexplicable cartoon physics fun?*

The Omega Man: A sudden thought occurs to me; We've said nothing concerning Riddlebox thus far. Well, there's good reason for that; it's Riddlebox. He's a worse clown than he is a wrestler, as evidenced by the terribly unfunny joke he calls a career. Night Rider asked this guy to join the Angels of Death because... Hold on, We know this... Because... Shit, I guess We don't know this. Maybe the 'Hoff didn't think he'd made a big enough laughingstock of himself and his stable? I recall a tag match that involved the odd pairing of Riddlebox and Dustin Beaver, and if memory serves, I'm pretty sure Dustin was the heavy hitter of that team. And when Dustin Beaver gets more recognition, well, that's kind of telling about how seriously people don't take you. Shit, people - Like Jeff Purse - are more worried about Legion, though for good reason.

*Omega extends his arm off camera again, disposing of the energy drink. Another clap of the hands, and we find ourselves in a rural setting. The Omega Man leans comfortably against the railing of a wooden fence, his attire changed completely from his usual ring gear to a pair of scuffed overalls, the legs rolled halfway up his shins allowing his bare feet to breathe. No longer wearing a shirt, Omega's chest is concealed by the overalls, and shaded by the enormous straw hat on his head. A single strand of wheat sticks out from Omega's mouth, replacing the joint that had been there a moment ago. Porcine grunts come from off screen, implying that we are now on location at an actual pig farm.*

The Omega Man(with Southern inflection): Y'all know why, y'all should be worried 'bout a pig farmer? Well, sit down, bubba, and I'll be shore ta tell ya. What y'all might not know is that a single pig can can chow down 'bout two pounds o' raw meat in one minute, an' them sumbitches'll chew through bone like butter. Y'all ever wind up with a body what needs disposin', just shave the head, pull the teeth, and feed that corpse to some piggies. Sixteen pigs'll take 'bout eight minutes to make a two hundred pound man disa-fuckin'-pear.

*The Omega Man removes the hat shading his head, and tosses it over his shoulder. His faux Southern accent is discarded just as easily.*

The Omega Man: Now, We're not too fond of people named Patrick in general. They're usually pretentious dickweeds. And pretentious is indeed a word I'd use to describe Mister Gardner. Words I would not use to describe him are "clean", "friendly", or "will win WAR". He's certainly going to put in a grand effort, to be sure, but he doesn't scare us with this swallop about being the messenger of a God. We've laid waste to plenty of gods, both in and out of the ring, so forgive us if We don't quake in fear. But don't get me wrong; I understand that you're more intelligent that most people would give you credit for. I know that, given the opportunity, you could be a very dangerous man, and an enormous threat during this match. Which is why I don't intend to give you, or Jeff Purse, the opportunity to rain on my parade. Nope, the only water works will come from Jeff, after I easily eliminate him. As for my ticker-tape victory parade, the forecast calls for clear skies, and lots of sunshine.

*Omega claps twice, and we're now in a sunny meadow. Knee-high grass stretches out to the horizon, interspersed with dozens of flowers that would not naturally grow in the same areas, arranged into living bouquets.*

The Omega Man: It would seem I've exhausted my list of WAR entrants, save for the ever exuberant Teo Del Sol. Ah, Teo. I feel bad for you, I really do. You built up so much momentum proving yourself against Dave Santiclozzi, but then you got stuck up against The Sharks. And that's something I don't understand about you, Teo. You managed to beat Jonny Fly For A White Guy and win the Boob Tube belt, but then you turn right around and lose it to somebody who makes Grime look like the personification of good taste and excellent life management skills. Sadly, that does not help your credibility. And what's unfortunate for you is that you not only have to have yet another match against this poor excuse for a human being, but you have to take part in WAR as well. So you're already going to be sore and bloodied when you get to the ring a second time, which means you've got a fairly low chance of winning. Not as low as Jeff Purse's chances, but pretty low. But hey, at least you've got the guts to actually compete in WAR. Unlike our World Champion, Dune.

*The Omega Man's eyes widen as he nods. A snap of his fingers turns the brightly coloured field of flowers into a dead wasteland, the shifting dust of dessicated plant life scattering on the wind that rises.*

The Omega Man: That's right, Dune, I'm calling you a chickenshit. Torture is a greater champion than you, not only because he's going to compete in WAR, but also because he's going to defend the title he holds while doing it. But you and Flash? Even with two weeks of prep time, you're both such a pair of bitches that you're going to sit WAR out. That alone loses any respect We might have had for you, which wasn't very much in the Core's case. We honestly don't understand how you continue to be a draw for this company; you've been World Champion for five months, and since then you've done absolutely nothing as the face of the Whickiff. You just sit out in your desert, brooding, trying desperately to get over the fact that everybody who gives a rodent's backside about you on a personal level is either dead, or broken. At least when Natural ICE Beckman was around and holding that belt, he made it mean something. He did worthwhile things while he was champion. Sure, he was an ass about it, but the fact remains that he went out of his way to attend charity events, and makes his presence known. He didn't hide under a fucking rock while he waited for Joey Flash to suck enough dick to get a title shot.

*Omega claps twice, and again we find ourselves back in his subterranean cavern.*

The Omega Man: Have We said anything about Logan? I don't think We've said anything about Logan. I don't think We really need to say anything about Logan, though. I mean, sure, he's the only man to win more than one WAR. But we're talking about a guy who goes from beating World Champion Steve Orbit a week before Ultimate Showdown, to having his ass handed to him by Tyler Walker and Biohazard. But that doesn't mean We're going to count him out. This is WAR, and there will be no shortage of surprises; one of those could very well be an honest effort from the Face of Treachery. Though it's a little oxymoronic to use the word "honest" when describing anything Logan does. Hmm. Well, that's all that I can think of at this point. Perhaps once an official list of WAR entrants gets posted somewhere I'll be back on the airwaves with more to say, but until then, I shall leave you with the following clue as to who's winning WAR this year. Spoiler alert: It's not Jeff Purse, because I'm going to eliminate him with ease. Like, all the ease.

*As if listening to Omega singing a Disney song weren't torture enough, the fluorescent lights dim to a level that could only be described as "seductive", as a song by 90's boy band N*Sync begins to play. That's right, "It's Gonna Be Me".*

The Omega Man: You have won WAR, Jeff, that ain't no liiie / You've done it once before, ooohohoh / I remember you told me that it made you feel like / You could just cry, so maybe that's why / Everybody that's in WAR / Better quickly learn the score / You're all losers my friends / Because I will win / Jeffy when you finally / Get pinned one, two, three / Guess what? It's gonna be me.

*During the instrumental bridge, The Omega Man puts his best boy band dance moves on display. Which is to say he writhes about like a drunken osprey in the middle of mating with a salamander. What the fuck? Who wrote these lines?*

The Omega Man: You've got no choice, Jeff, but to move oooon / You know I will kick your faaace / You're just too blind _ to see / But in the end you know it's gonna be me / You can't deny / So why even tryyy / Jeff, no matter what you do / You won't make it past spot two / You just wanna win WAR again / Not this year my friend / Jeffy when you finally / Get pinned one, two, three / Guess what? It's gonna be me.

*More terrible dancing ensues. And you just so you know, Omega is definitely just fucking around with us, because as past videos have shown, he's actually a really good dancer.*

The Omega Man: The winner Sunday / When WAR is all done / You'll seeee... / It's gonna be me! / Poor Pursey-Poo / Gonna suck to lose / You want to win it / Not while I'm in it / When finally / You get bumped ooouuut / Guess what? It's gonna be me / Everybody that's in WAR / Better quickly learn the score / You're all losers my friends / Because I will win / Jeffy when you finally / Get pinned one, two, three / Guess what? It's gonna be me!

*There's another repetition of the chorus, but you get the point. I'm not going to transcribe it. My work here is done, because as the music fades out while Omega says those last four words one final time, the scene blessedly fades to black as well. One final snippet of audio makes it through the speakers.*

The Omega Man(offscreen): Post-production on this is gonna take forever!

==============================
“One of the advantages of being disorganized is that one is always having surprising discoveries.”
-A.A. Milne
==============================

.::He stood in a a dimly lit stone chamber. Not the same stone as the underground lair he had shot a promotification in, this was a different kind of rock. A living rock. The Rock of Ages. It was also confusing as all get out, because he'd been wandering for what felt like hours without managing to find anybody. That in itself wasn't too surprising; there weren't exactly a whole lot of people who generally hung around outside the metaphysical apex of Time and Space. No, what was surprising was that every time he tried to shift to the Timekeeper's location, he kept winding up back at the audience chamber. Rather than waste too much time flickering in place, though that had tactical advantages sometimes, he had decided to go looking for Johnny the old fashioned way; by doing a biometric sweep for the rare trace elements present only in Reb's genes now that he had become the Timekeeper. With a touch of the control node implanted at the base of his skull just behind his ear, his zendar-fiber nanomesh mask built itself across his face. Scanning systems came online once the lenses had been fully actualized, and a steady stream of tactical data was displayed on the holographic HUD.::.

.::Each subatomic pulse of the lidar added to the five-dimensional map of the Rock of Ages; a map that he had been trying to complete since his first visit to this place. Though he had been here more times than he could keep track of, and often made it a point to explore some previously unknown corridors, the twisting tunnels and winding hallways seemed never ending; there was always some new chamber to discover, or a network of passageways hidden behind some cleverly designed deadening zone his sensors couldn't penetrate. Those had been added manually, after he had accidentally discovered one of the passages during an overzealous training exercise. Of course, in the back of his mind he knew that trying to get an accurate map of the Rock of Ages would be nearly impossible; though not alive in the traditional sense, the Rock did grow and shift from Time to Time. Over the course of billions of years, the interior had spawned an inconceivable number of rooms, chambers, caverns, and connecting passageways and halls. Some were reactive, created to suit specific needs expressed by occupants. Others were enigmatic in origin and purpose. And while it made for some fascinating architecture, it also made it damn near impossible to find somebody.::.

.::Shifting only a few feet at a time so as to conserve energy, he made his way through the various corridors, changing direction as the mood struck him, or as his mini-map dictated. A slight ping registered on his HUD as the scanners picked up a very faint signal, too far away for a solid lock. He shifted as far as he could in that direction, though his mini-map still only indicated he was heading the right way. He moved up a few levels, then forward more than two dozen feet. As his feet settled on the stone, the holographic display of his mini-map shorted out momentarily. When the system rebooted, the objective indicator now pointed him back the way he had come. With a frustrated sigh he turned around to retrace his steps when his stomach lurched in the familiar sensation of an interspatial crossing. He took a single step, then drew up short as he nearly collided with the Core; coming around a corner that had not been there a few moments ago. Clearly engaged riding his own train of thought, the Core reacted in surprise as well, pulling back and nearly crumpling the parchment held loosely in his hand.::.

"Whoa! Damn this non-Euclidean mindfuck! Where did that corner come from?"

.::The Core didn't answer with words, just a shrug. Hardly surprising; for all his willingness to take on the task of rectifying temporal transgressions, the Core wasn't too big on learning about the intricacies contained within the Rock of Ages. He was more interested in blowing things up, which was indeed fun, but there was far more to being a warrior than just constant violence. He began to ask if the Core knew where Reb was hiding, but before he could articulate a single syllable, the Core pushed the parchment into his hands, slipped past him, and made a beeline for the Ranchero parked a few feet distant. At that point he realized he was back in the Vaespa-forsaken audience chamber once more, despite having travelled at least two miles during his fruitless search. Though frustrating, he wasn't about to dwell on it. Instead, he turned his attention to the parchment in his hands and read through the short message it contained. Then he shook his head and called out to the Core, just as his counterpart was sliding into the driver's seat of the time travelling truck.::.

"Hey, wait a sec! What in Xor's name is this supposed to mean?"

.::Again, no response. He knew the Core had heard him, but his counterpart pretended otherwise. He began to move in that direction, but the Core gave him a tight-lipped smile and a short wave, then disappeared before he could take more than a single step. Grumbling to himself he leaned back against the cool stone wall, and once more turned his attention to the missive that had been passed on to him. He'd never seen Johnny's handwriting before, but the cursive laid out on the sheet before him spoke of elegance and class. He read it again, more carefully this time, his mind seeking out possible ciphers and hidden meanings. He couldn't help but hear Johnny's voice in the back of his head as he read.::.

"Gentlemen; The time for WAR is upon us again. You come to seek my advice -- I can offer only this: In order to win at WAR, you must be ruthless, calculating, and above all, vigilant. Every person in that ring will be after your heads -- some of them literally. You'll have to work together if either of you is to succeed. A storm is brewing. One that threatens to consume this reality. There is an old prophecy, penned in the Book of the Noctyne by Grrzlyk the Mad, which describes a competition precisely like WAR. It mentions an ancient enemy, the power to create a bridge between worlds, and the Bell of Time specifically. I must investigate. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to follow. I'll see y'all at WAR. Deo vindice!"

.::Just peachy. The Core didn't seem too interested in collaborating, judging from the hasty departure. And considering the Core had been acting like a petulant man-child ever since that new lease on life had been signed, Johnny's instructions about not following were likely being ignored. Well, he wasn't about to let the amateur go running off after the Timekeeper alone; that was a surefire way to wind up back in the cloning vat. Hoping to catch the Core before he was able to suit up and run off again, he focused on the Prime Material Plane, and stepped back toward the shell which grounded him there.::.

==============================
"I'd collaborate with my clones, because I'm a team player who wants all the credit."
-Jarod Kintz
==============================

~Only a few feet below the ocean's surface was a small glass enclosure; just one room of the underwater lair formerly used by the Hardcore Maniac, when he still had access to the Imperial Isle of Maritopia. Within that room was the familiar figure of The Omega Man, just awakening from an astral visit to the Rock of Ages. Intent on catching Jay Omega before he was able to don his sentient power armour and vanish back into the Aether on a foolhardy quest to find Johnny Reb - again - The Omega Man bounded to his feet and made haste toward the express aqua-shuttle which would ferry him over to the island proper. There was literally no Time to lose. Once in the aqua-shuttle, Omega used the onboard intercom to phone ahead to the Workshop. "Nicky," he cried when the line was answered, "Stall the Core; don't let him leave until I get there!"

  "Well, I can make no promises," Began the temporally displaced genius Nikola Tesla, his voice full of doubt, "As you know, he's a rather stubborn individual. More so when armed and armored." Krek. If Jay was already wearing his super-suit, then there was even less Time than originally thought. "Just do the best you can; I'll be there soon." Tesla assured Omega he would try, and the call was ended. Oh, what Omega wouldn't give to have access to his gear on this plane of existence; it would have been much easier if he could have shifted directly to the Workshop, rather than have to wait on this interminably slow and primitive conveyance. After what seemed an eternity - or at the very least a millennium - Omega skidded to a stop outside the airlock leading to Nikola's Workshop, just as the door opened from the inside. Though Omega's own armour was more advanced in many ways, Jay's was more visually intimidating by far.

  "For the last time, Nicky, Erin says she's fine." Jay was saying to the nervous scientist trailing behind him. "And although we had some issues concerning personal boundaries, I think I can trust the computer in my head to tell me if there's something wrong with her." Tesla began to respond, then caught sight of The Omega Man standing between them and the Ranchero, and heaved a sigh of relief. "It's cool, Nicky, you can stop stalling now." Omega said, drawing Jay's attention his way. "I should have known." Jay said flatly. "You obviously know what I'm planning, or else you wouldn't be here. You don't think you can convince me not to go, do you?" The Omega Man shook his head before responding. "Not at all." He said simply, "In fact, I'm here to see if I can tag along." Jay regarded him suspiciously; he had been expecting some sort of speech about trusting in the Timekeeper's infinite wisdom, or some other claptrap.

  "What's the catch?" Jay asked, and Omega spread his palms placatingly. "No catch," Omega said sincerely, "I know I can't stop you, but I also know you make some pretty egregious tactical errors. If you're going to be dumb, at least let me watch your back." Jay wasn't too pleased with the phrasing, but the sentiment made sense. "You're gonna go like that?" Jay asked with a gesture in Omega's direction. The Omega Man looked down at himself, and took in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles one piece pajamas he was wearing. "Well, I mean, I could," Omega said doubtfully, "But it'd probably be better if we popped over to the Astral Plane so I could get my gear too. Give me a second to get back here, and then meet me here, but on the other side." Jay nodded curtly in assent, and Omega took off at a sprint. True to his word, once in the Ranchero, Jay set the coordinates for this exact spot, though on another level of reality. After an intense flare of light, Tesla was alone in the hangar.~