WHAT NOT TO DO IF GOD SHITS ON YOU. . .WCF
Feb 1, 2016 18:34:26 GMT -5
Stuart Slane and Lilith like this
Post by Shadowlove on Feb 1, 2016 18:34:26 GMT -5
{LIVE, via satellite, from inside the conference room of AMM, Arli$$ Michaels Management}
The conference room's jammed pack with equipment, cables, swearing technicians, cammeramen negotiated lighting arrangements, print reporters, flopped down on folding chairs, gossiping and doodling in their notebooks, television reporters hustled around looking for scraps of information or rumors to give them the edge on their compadres. A dozen microphones are clipped to a podium at the front of the room. Tripod-mounted cameras are arrayed in a semicircle towards the back of the room. The conference room becomes chaotic as the reporters begin shouting his name, the photographers begin clicking away with their cameras like the paparazzi as "Super Sports Agent" Arli$$ Michaels enters, making his way to the podium for a brief statement.
Arli$$ Michaels: "The age of innocence is over. And so is the WCF as we know it. We're entering a new age in sports entertainment. An age of confusion. An age of passion. An age of a commitment to excellence. My client's forseen this coming. My client's the total innovation in this sport. My client's the signal of greatness yet to come. My client's always been one-step ahead of the curve and the WCF has yet to catch up with him. My client's been in a deep slumber for quite some time and, unfortunately, for everyone, my client's alive and well. Very, very soon, this organization will return to the shadows . . . For me, and for everyone in this organization who will listen to his words. He'll be coming on strong, talking loud, and drawing a crowd... SHADOWLOVE HAS COME!"
{A banner unrolls, revealing the life-sized image of Shadowlove hanging down from behind the podium. The conference room erupts and becomes chaotic, as the reporters begin shouting his name and photographers begin clicking away with their cameras like the paparazzi. "Super Sports Agent" Arli$$ Michaels makes his way out from behind the podium and exits, stage right.
"BEHIND BLUE EYES" by The Who starts to play on the Bose® (product placement) SoundTouch® (product placement) surround sound system.
No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes
And no one knows
What it's like to be hated
To be fated to telling only lies
[Chorus:]
But my dreams they aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free
The ever lasting image of "The Handsome Half-breed Shadowlove reigns over the conference and The World Championship Federation as the satellite feed. . . ENDS!}
AND NOW, THE DAY THAT WILL LIVE IN INFAMY. . .
A tall, lean, graceful, sensuous form stands silhouetted in the doorway of a circa 1800's Greek Revival Mausoleum encased with tropical flowers and other vegetation beneath a crescent moon. A wrought iron gate slowly creaks open, and with catlike precision, the silhouette disappears inside.
The Mausoleum remained silent, except for the stir of echoes from high heels clattering on the flagstone floor. With a snap of fingers, a candelabrum partially illuminates the Mausoleums inner-sanctum, leaving a wonderfully unique look inside the surreal beauty within the light and dark sanctuary. The flickering flame of the candelabra cascades down upon the most luminous white and more dramatic gray veining Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre.
Taking a siesta on the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre is the Infamous Superstar, who has mastered the art of being called, "a bastard" by perfectly molding his arrogant, egotistical, narcissistic personalities into one of the most controversial figures in all of wrestling. He's sleeping like a baby, resting his arm over his face and his classically masculine and modern mussed, razor-textured, choppy finished dark brown hair. Stripped to the waist showing off the upper body of a Greek God, with washboard abs, in Crocodile skinned pants with Alligator skinned boots.
The Infamous Superstar's personal bodyguard/valet, Ms. Miyamoto, the simply ravishing femme fatale temptress, enters with flirty confidence as she steps in rhythm up to the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre. Her raven black hair pulled back in a French braid showing off her angelic face with her eyes hidden behind a pair of RayBan sunglasses to go along with her body built for sin encased in the most iconic Black Montsuki & Forest Green Seven Deep-pleated Hakama. The pleats are said to represent the seven virtues of bushido, considered essential to the samurai way.
She picks up a black leather trench-coat from off the flagstone floor. Two slips of paper fall out from an inside pocket floating down to the ground. In a blink of an eye, she catches the floating pieces of paper between her finger tips, they read:
One was a round trip plane ticket from Los Angeles to Philadelphia on Adios Airlines. The other, a torn ticket, that reads: "WCF presents FIFTEEN. Live from the Wells Fargo Center, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Section A, Row 6, Seat 9.
She mischievously smiles to herself, shaking her head, "geezus". Her sweet as honey, harmoniously hypnotizing, smooth as silk, smoky voice radiating through her alluring lips:
Ms. Miyamoto: No, no, no, no Sir. Don't tell me that you had to pay your own way to Philadelphia?
The only sound coming from the Infamous Superstar was deep, controlled, breathing. Other than that, he remains as stiff as a door knob.
"HER STRUT" by Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band starts to play on the Bose® (product placement) SoundTouch® (product placement) indoor surround sound system. (Cause you guys love to watch Ms. Miyamoto . . ."STRUT!")
Ms. Miyamoto, exuding fantastic supermodel energy, as she
walks with a stiff, erect, and apparently arrogant and conceited "Strut" around the the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre with cool confidence. She twirls the Infamous Superstar's classically masculine and modern mussed, razor-textured, choppy finished dark brown hair through her fingers with carnal fascination and malignant pleasure.
Ms. Miyamoto: I thought that I saw your obituary this morning in the Wall Street Journal.
Holding the obituary column from the Wall St. Journal, she reads his obituary aloud:
Ms. Miyamoto: The time has come to celebrate a life and mourn the passing of a great man. He was a kind man, a wise man, a quiet man. You did not know his real name, you only knew him as an Infamous Superstar.There are those among you who didn’t know him but undoubtedly would have made him your enemy; that cannot be denied. But his real enemies are the enemies that bedevil you all: Your ineptitude, your slowness, your stupidity, your ignorance, and your incompetence of what he truely is all about. He mastered the art of being a bastard by perfectly molding his arrogant, egotistical, cocky, and narcissistic persona into one of the most controversial figures in all of wrestling. His tell it like it is style made this Infamous Superstar, the one that the people loved and this Infamous Superstar, the one that the people loved to hate. Good night sweet Prince, May flights of Devils bring you to your rest. . .
The Infamous Superstar slides off the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre like a snake, creating locomotion through side-to-side movement and rectilinear progression, which allows him to walk on his ribcage. Ms. Miyamoto holds up the black leather trench-coat and the Infamous Superstar slither into it, well, like a snake. He reads the obituary again to himself and slowly rips it up, making confetti. A malevolent, tight wolfish, whiplash smile, slowly appearing on his lips showing off perfectly white even teeth at the thought of the rumors of his demise being greatly exaggerated. His low and dusky voice, oozing all the charm and charisma, that one can muster, mister:
THE INFAMOUS SUPERSTAR: Who am I? World Championship Federation, I. . . am. . . "The Handsome Half-breed", Shadowlove. Pleased to meet you. I'm like a Rembrandt painting, a picture perfect design. Graduate from The Mental State University of Higher Learning. Son of The Hollywood Blonde and Akasha. I am the right hand of Vengeance and the only true Evel Knievel left in this sport. I am the size 13 boot that is going to kick your sorry asses all over the WCF, sweetheart! I am death incarnate, the voice of the unsilent majority and the last living thing that your sorry ass career will ever gonna see. You better hide the women and children. Get your "selfies" and autograph books ready. Make sure that your seat belts are buckeled and trays are in the upright position because you are in for one hellava turbulent and tumultuous ride. GOD ... SENT... ME!
Shadowlove, bows his head, raising his arms straight out to his sides, as if, being crucified on a cross. And on the third day, Jesus, wept. Ms. Miyamoto takes her rightful place, cradled against him, caressing his muscular chest with her fingers. She lowers her RayBan sunglasses down her perfectly flawless nose, showing off incandescent green eyes.
Ms.Miyamoto: There is an unpleasant emotional rescue running rampant in the World Championship Federation caused by the belief that someone, like these self-proclaimed "Badasses" on the right or something, like these uncontrollable and disruptive, "Freakarellas" on the left are so dangerous that they have become a contradiction in terms and just a footnote in this harsh, materialistic, and, painful world of sports entertainment. The introspective reflective spectrum for understanding that makes them very simular breaks down quite easily, if you stop and think about it. A "Badass" breaks down to two simple words: DE-CAF! They're just to high strung for their own good. And as for the "Freakarellas", a "Freakarella" is just a "Freakarella", not by choice but by lifestyle. God's Will really does work in very mysterious ways when it comes to "God's Special Children". But, the fact of the matter is, a "Badass Freakarella" won't amount to much of anything, because that's the reality and nature of the sports entertainment business.
Shadowlove falls to his knees, raising both arms spread wide in the air in a "Do you know what death is? Does death know your name" gesture, knowing that he has fallen right square in the middle. Here comes your "Hero", stand in line.
Shadowlove: In order to flurish and thrive in such a hostile environment as the WCF, one must improvise, overcome, and adapt to the self-proclaimed 'controversial' viewpoints currently residing in this organization and rise above their, pardon my French, 'bullshit'. These 'Legends in their own minds' try to influence their standing in this sport by blowing smoke up a persons dress with their "list of accomplishments". And by influencing their support and standing in this business with grandiose delusions of grandeur.
"HOT FOR TEACHER" by Van Haven starts to play on the Bose® (product placement) SoundTouch® (product placement) indoor surround sound system.
Oh, wow, man, I. . . What do you think the teacher's gonna look like this year? "The Handsome Half-breed" starts stripping off his black leather trench-coat like a Chippendale's dancer. Fuck man! You guys really had to have it bad for "Teacher"!
Ms. Miyamoto: When all the smoke has cleared and your one lonely fan is through chanting your names, you can rant and rave about what you shoulda, coulda, and woulda done in the World Championship Federation. But the fact of the matter is, the key demographic of the WCF, adult women ages 18 to 28, has already characterized your preformance without "The Handsome Half-breed" Shadowlove-san, as follows. And I quote, "The World Championship Federation is like a petulant little child who cries and cries after getting his lunch money "liberated" by a Bully. Whose childlike tantrums are like that of someone in his "terrible" twos, full of sound and fury, and signifying Nothing!" Un-quote
Shadowlove reaches inside his black leather trench-coat, removing a paint brush. He starts to paint the WCF a quick, "fictitious" picture about, how all good things come to those whom wait, by showing that it is ....INDEED ... "Hip To Be Square"
Shadowlove: The current "talent" are simply the first, and definately not the last, that has a lot to learn in regards of having the ability to carry a match, manipulate individuals, lead stables, much less, reign supreme over an entire organization like the WCF. It takes more than just dropping $9.99 and watching Monday nights to encompasse communitarian power because they have "gold" around their waist.
"The Handsome Halfbreed" does "The Discount Double Check", ala, Green Bay Packers Quarterback, Aaron Rodgers.
Ms. Miyamoto: Well, boys and girls, there are many types of belts that can hold up your "little men in tights". The ability to generate "true" primal fear in the World Championship Federation, takes a superior mental intellect, a superior motivational skill, and a superior communication breakdown. Somerhing, The World Championship Federation has been desperately searching for. They were looking a few good men, and "women". BUT ... by looking at this, this roster, the World Championship Federation just doesn't see that happening. No one in this sport has the courage and determination to stand behind the actions of their own convictions in multimanaging the overall picture in this organization.
As if on que . . .The Voice of God, not "THE GOD", but, a God preaches a psalm, as if coming from the bottom of a well inside The Mausoleum:
The Voice of God, not "THE GOD", but, a God: The time has come to rewrite the wrongs and make things right in the world and do what you do best. It's time to save the WCF. And if you go with Ms. Miyamoto on this eerie journey, you will find out that you have surrendered to her enchantment as if in a voluptuous dream. The urgency of a quest for self-knowledge, the thin line between arrogance and terror. Fulfill your Destiny, your BIRTHRIGHT, and you, Shadowlove, will become more powerfull than the entire WCF!
Suddenly, in KRAMER style move; twirling twice and preforming a 7.3 on the Richter scale triple take as if coming through a door, Shadowlove on what seems to be, quite the "sugar" rush high after hearing a "voice" in his head, exits stage right ... then stage left ... then, like a bat out of hell ... stage, right out the backdoor to start his "I'm on a Mission From God, not 'THE GOD', but a God Tour 2016"® (trademarked and patent pending). Ms. Miyamoto's incandescent green eyes scans back and forth inside The Mausoleum like The Terminator. Ms. Miyamoto, raising up her RayBan sunglasses with her middle finger while calmly walking out the front door of the Mausoleum, whistling, "If there's something strange ... In your neighborhood ...Who you gonna call? ... GHOSTBUSTERS!"
THIS IS THE END, MY ONLY FRIEND...THE END!
The conference room's jammed pack with equipment, cables, swearing technicians, cammeramen negotiated lighting arrangements, print reporters, flopped down on folding chairs, gossiping and doodling in their notebooks, television reporters hustled around looking for scraps of information or rumors to give them the edge on their compadres. A dozen microphones are clipped to a podium at the front of the room. Tripod-mounted cameras are arrayed in a semicircle towards the back of the room. The conference room becomes chaotic as the reporters begin shouting his name, the photographers begin clicking away with their cameras like the paparazzi as "Super Sports Agent" Arli$$ Michaels enters, making his way to the podium for a brief statement.
Arli$$ Michaels: "The age of innocence is over. And so is the WCF as we know it. We're entering a new age in sports entertainment. An age of confusion. An age of passion. An age of a commitment to excellence. My client's forseen this coming. My client's the total innovation in this sport. My client's the signal of greatness yet to come. My client's always been one-step ahead of the curve and the WCF has yet to catch up with him. My client's been in a deep slumber for quite some time and, unfortunately, for everyone, my client's alive and well. Very, very soon, this organization will return to the shadows . . . For me, and for everyone in this organization who will listen to his words. He'll be coming on strong, talking loud, and drawing a crowd... SHADOWLOVE HAS COME!"
{A banner unrolls, revealing the life-sized image of Shadowlove hanging down from behind the podium. The conference room erupts and becomes chaotic, as the reporters begin shouting his name and photographers begin clicking away with their cameras like the paparazzi. "Super Sports Agent" Arli$$ Michaels makes his way out from behind the podium and exits, stage right.
"BEHIND BLUE EYES" by The Who starts to play on the Bose® (product placement) SoundTouch® (product placement) surround sound system.
No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes
And no one knows
What it's like to be hated
To be fated to telling only lies
[Chorus:]
But my dreams they aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free
The ever lasting image of "The Handsome Half-breed Shadowlove reigns over the conference and The World Championship Federation as the satellite feed. . . ENDS!}
AND NOW, THE DAY THAT WILL LIVE IN INFAMY. . .
A tall, lean, graceful, sensuous form stands silhouetted in the doorway of a circa 1800's Greek Revival Mausoleum encased with tropical flowers and other vegetation beneath a crescent moon. A wrought iron gate slowly creaks open, and with catlike precision, the silhouette disappears inside.
The Mausoleum remained silent, except for the stir of echoes from high heels clattering on the flagstone floor. With a snap of fingers, a candelabrum partially illuminates the Mausoleums inner-sanctum, leaving a wonderfully unique look inside the surreal beauty within the light and dark sanctuary. The flickering flame of the candelabra cascades down upon the most luminous white and more dramatic gray veining Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre.
Taking a siesta on the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre is the Infamous Superstar, who has mastered the art of being called, "a bastard" by perfectly molding his arrogant, egotistical, narcissistic personalities into one of the most controversial figures in all of wrestling. He's sleeping like a baby, resting his arm over his face and his classically masculine and modern mussed, razor-textured, choppy finished dark brown hair. Stripped to the waist showing off the upper body of a Greek God, with washboard abs, in Crocodile skinned pants with Alligator skinned boots.
The Infamous Superstar's personal bodyguard/valet, Ms. Miyamoto, the simply ravishing femme fatale temptress, enters with flirty confidence as she steps in rhythm up to the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre. Her raven black hair pulled back in a French braid showing off her angelic face with her eyes hidden behind a pair of RayBan sunglasses to go along with her body built for sin encased in the most iconic Black Montsuki & Forest Green Seven Deep-pleated Hakama. The pleats are said to represent the seven virtues of bushido, considered essential to the samurai way.
She picks up a black leather trench-coat from off the flagstone floor. Two slips of paper fall out from an inside pocket floating down to the ground. In a blink of an eye, she catches the floating pieces of paper between her finger tips, they read:
One was a round trip plane ticket from Los Angeles to Philadelphia on Adios Airlines. The other, a torn ticket, that reads: "WCF presents FIFTEEN. Live from the Wells Fargo Center, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Section A, Row 6, Seat 9.
She mischievously smiles to herself, shaking her head, "geezus". Her sweet as honey, harmoniously hypnotizing, smooth as silk, smoky voice radiating through her alluring lips:
Ms. Miyamoto: No, no, no, no Sir. Don't tell me that you had to pay your own way to Philadelphia?
The only sound coming from the Infamous Superstar was deep, controlled, breathing. Other than that, he remains as stiff as a door knob.
"HER STRUT" by Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band starts to play on the Bose® (product placement) SoundTouch® (product placement) indoor surround sound system. (Cause you guys love to watch Ms. Miyamoto . . ."STRUT!")
Ms. Miyamoto, exuding fantastic supermodel energy, as she
walks with a stiff, erect, and apparently arrogant and conceited "Strut" around the the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre with cool confidence. She twirls the Infamous Superstar's classically masculine and modern mussed, razor-textured, choppy finished dark brown hair through her fingers with carnal fascination and malignant pleasure.
Ms. Miyamoto: I thought that I saw your obituary this morning in the Wall Street Journal.
Holding the obituary column from the Wall St. Journal, she reads his obituary aloud:
Ms. Miyamoto: The time has come to celebrate a life and mourn the passing of a great man. He was a kind man, a wise man, a quiet man. You did not know his real name, you only knew him as an Infamous Superstar.There are those among you who didn’t know him but undoubtedly would have made him your enemy; that cannot be denied. But his real enemies are the enemies that bedevil you all: Your ineptitude, your slowness, your stupidity, your ignorance, and your incompetence of what he truely is all about. He mastered the art of being a bastard by perfectly molding his arrogant, egotistical, cocky, and narcissistic persona into one of the most controversial figures in all of wrestling. His tell it like it is style made this Infamous Superstar, the one that the people loved and this Infamous Superstar, the one that the people loved to hate. Good night sweet Prince, May flights of Devils bring you to your rest. . .
The Infamous Superstar slides off the Italian Calacatta Marble funeral pyre like a snake, creating locomotion through side-to-side movement and rectilinear progression, which allows him to walk on his ribcage. Ms. Miyamoto holds up the black leather trench-coat and the Infamous Superstar slither into it, well, like a snake. He reads the obituary again to himself and slowly rips it up, making confetti. A malevolent, tight wolfish, whiplash smile, slowly appearing on his lips showing off perfectly white even teeth at the thought of the rumors of his demise being greatly exaggerated. His low and dusky voice, oozing all the charm and charisma, that one can muster, mister:
THE INFAMOUS SUPERSTAR: Who am I? World Championship Federation, I. . . am. . . "The Handsome Half-breed", Shadowlove. Pleased to meet you. I'm like a Rembrandt painting, a picture perfect design. Graduate from The Mental State University of Higher Learning. Son of The Hollywood Blonde and Akasha. I am the right hand of Vengeance and the only true Evel Knievel left in this sport. I am the size 13 boot that is going to kick your sorry asses all over the WCF, sweetheart! I am death incarnate, the voice of the unsilent majority and the last living thing that your sorry ass career will ever gonna see. You better hide the women and children. Get your "selfies" and autograph books ready. Make sure that your seat belts are buckeled and trays are in the upright position because you are in for one hellava turbulent and tumultuous ride. GOD ... SENT... ME!
Shadowlove, bows his head, raising his arms straight out to his sides, as if, being crucified on a cross. And on the third day, Jesus, wept. Ms. Miyamoto takes her rightful place, cradled against him, caressing his muscular chest with her fingers. She lowers her RayBan sunglasses down her perfectly flawless nose, showing off incandescent green eyes.
Ms.Miyamoto: There is an unpleasant emotional rescue running rampant in the World Championship Federation caused by the belief that someone, like these self-proclaimed "Badasses" on the right or something, like these uncontrollable and disruptive, "Freakarellas" on the left are so dangerous that they have become a contradiction in terms and just a footnote in this harsh, materialistic, and, painful world of sports entertainment. The introspective reflective spectrum for understanding that makes them very simular breaks down quite easily, if you stop and think about it. A "Badass" breaks down to two simple words: DE-CAF! They're just to high strung for their own good. And as for the "Freakarellas", a "Freakarella" is just a "Freakarella", not by choice but by lifestyle. God's Will really does work in very mysterious ways when it comes to "God's Special Children". But, the fact of the matter is, a "Badass Freakarella" won't amount to much of anything, because that's the reality and nature of the sports entertainment business.
Shadowlove falls to his knees, raising both arms spread wide in the air in a "Do you know what death is? Does death know your name" gesture, knowing that he has fallen right square in the middle. Here comes your "Hero", stand in line.
Shadowlove: In order to flurish and thrive in such a hostile environment as the WCF, one must improvise, overcome, and adapt to the self-proclaimed 'controversial' viewpoints currently residing in this organization and rise above their, pardon my French, 'bullshit'. These 'Legends in their own minds' try to influence their standing in this sport by blowing smoke up a persons dress with their "list of accomplishments". And by influencing their support and standing in this business with grandiose delusions of grandeur.
"HOT FOR TEACHER" by Van Haven starts to play on the Bose® (product placement) SoundTouch® (product placement) indoor surround sound system.
Oh, wow, man, I. . . What do you think the teacher's gonna look like this year? "The Handsome Half-breed" starts stripping off his black leather trench-coat like a Chippendale's dancer. Fuck man! You guys really had to have it bad for "Teacher"!
Ms. Miyamoto: When all the smoke has cleared and your one lonely fan is through chanting your names, you can rant and rave about what you shoulda, coulda, and woulda done in the World Championship Federation. But the fact of the matter is, the key demographic of the WCF, adult women ages 18 to 28, has already characterized your preformance without "The Handsome Half-breed" Shadowlove-san, as follows. And I quote, "The World Championship Federation is like a petulant little child who cries and cries after getting his lunch money "liberated" by a Bully. Whose childlike tantrums are like that of someone in his "terrible" twos, full of sound and fury, and signifying Nothing!" Un-quote
Shadowlove reaches inside his black leather trench-coat, removing a paint brush. He starts to paint the WCF a quick, "fictitious" picture about, how all good things come to those whom wait, by showing that it is ....INDEED ... "Hip To Be Square"
Shadowlove: The current "talent" are simply the first, and definately not the last, that has a lot to learn in regards of having the ability to carry a match, manipulate individuals, lead stables, much less, reign supreme over an entire organization like the WCF. It takes more than just dropping $9.99 and watching Monday nights to encompasse communitarian power because they have "gold" around their waist.
"The Handsome Halfbreed" does "The Discount Double Check", ala, Green Bay Packers Quarterback, Aaron Rodgers.
Ms. Miyamoto: Well, boys and girls, there are many types of belts that can hold up your "little men in tights". The ability to generate "true" primal fear in the World Championship Federation, takes a superior mental intellect, a superior motivational skill, and a superior communication breakdown. Somerhing, The World Championship Federation has been desperately searching for. They were looking a few good men, and "women". BUT ... by looking at this, this roster, the World Championship Federation just doesn't see that happening. No one in this sport has the courage and determination to stand behind the actions of their own convictions in multimanaging the overall picture in this organization.
As if on que . . .The Voice of God, not "THE GOD", but, a God preaches a psalm, as if coming from the bottom of a well inside The Mausoleum:
The Voice of God, not "THE GOD", but, a God: The time has come to rewrite the wrongs and make things right in the world and do what you do best. It's time to save the WCF. And if you go with Ms. Miyamoto on this eerie journey, you will find out that you have surrendered to her enchantment as if in a voluptuous dream. The urgency of a quest for self-knowledge, the thin line between arrogance and terror. Fulfill your Destiny, your BIRTHRIGHT, and you, Shadowlove, will become more powerfull than the entire WCF!
Suddenly, in KRAMER style move; twirling twice and preforming a 7.3 on the Richter scale triple take as if coming through a door, Shadowlove on what seems to be, quite the "sugar" rush high after hearing a "voice" in his head, exits stage right ... then stage left ... then, like a bat out of hell ... stage, right out the backdoor to start his "I'm on a Mission From God, not 'THE GOD', but a God Tour 2016"® (trademarked and patent pending). Ms. Miyamoto's incandescent green eyes scans back and forth inside The Mausoleum like The Terminator. Ms. Miyamoto, raising up her RayBan sunglasses with her middle finger while calmly walking out the front door of the Mausoleum, whistling, "If there's something strange ... In your neighborhood ...Who you gonna call? ... GHOSTBUSTERS!"
THIS IS THE END, MY ONLY FRIEND...THE END!
