The World

[Joey Flash]

dear wrestling championship federation

i am sending the wcf universe this letter because i feel like owe u guys an explanation bare with me if this gets soppy or emoshunal or sum shit but im talking from the heart here

lets get sumthin straight rite from the start: i didnt abandon u. i NEVER abandoned this place, i never abandoned the fans here

this is not sumthin i expect u guys to understand and its okay i forgive u but u need to no this much

this isnt bullshit, this isnt a quick buck for me, i AM this company, i have been from the fuccin start not just in words but in actions and shit too

im not a UCI wrestler, i dont even know wut that stupid shit is lmfao - i have competed in one company my entire career: WRESTLING CHAMPIONSHIP FEDERATION

i love this place. i am wcf through and fuccin through

u know i was told two things wen i was little

in this world u can either BUILD or DESTROY......lookin back i think i realize now thats a lie. sometimes you need to destroy so you can build anew...

here u go wcf, all the fans, all the boys in the back u want to hear it?

I APOLOGIZE. im sorry. there, does that make u feel better? im sorry ok?

i am sorry for not being here. its my greatest sadness, my greatest refgret! i left u all alone to fend for urself while u suffered...

my dearest world title, i am so so sorry it pains me to see wut has happend to u, u used to be so brite and shiny so beautiful. im sorry.

i am sorry for logan as champion

i am sorry for oblivion as champion

i am sorry for jeff purse as champion

i am sorry for stuart slane as champion

i am sorry for gemini battle as champion

i am sorry for thomas bates as champion

how sad u must have felt having to snuggle up to the waist of these midcarders and bums, it makes me feel dirty just thinking about it

well no more. WCF UNIVERSE, what did u think? that i was here to call all your heroes shit boring and terrible wrestlers, how i didnt care about the federation? ur wrong

i love you.

i love you too much. u think i dont care? i care too much. i want to return the wcf world title, the wcf hierachy, the wcf landscape to the place it should be TOP OF THE FUCCIN WORLD if it means killing some shit boring terrible wrestlers on the way (LMFAO OOPS!) then thats wut has to happen

i will win War. i will win at One.

im doing this for you. you, wcf, my first, my greatest love

consider this the epitaph for the dark days, for the weakest shittest most boring era in wcf history

im sorry, i caused this, i caused it all, now its time for me to right every wrong, i will build this place back from the ashes.

at War i destroy it. i destroy it ALL

JOEY FLASH

I̬̞̮̝ ͎f̜̰͜ͅe̤̫̖̠e̹̯̤̻͍̗͠l̙̼ ̖̘͇m͍̼̱̻y̛͔͓̤̼̦ ̴̜͓͔͈̫͕b̰̞̪̯͉r̲̥̻a̢̜̠̩̫͚i̤̯̦͙͢n̖͞ ̫̩̣͉̀b̟̗̪̪̪̳̰l̛͈̝eé̟̙̮̙̝̺d͝,̝̰͔̗͓ ̡̜Ḭ ̤͍̯̫̀f̝͚̩e̹̝͓̻ḙ̯̺͈̯̱l̸͕̝͚̣̳ ̠̫̺̳̘̥͓͟m҉̪̱̺͍͍y̖̥͖͚͙̤ ͚͢b̗̬̩̣͓o̦̯̥̖d͇̫̪̭̭̲y̕ at͕̭r҉̘o̝̦̦͓p̯͙ẖ̵̘̼̠̬y͍̝͇.̩͚̝̙̭͙̕
̸B̶ú̩̘͍t͉̱̼͠ ̬̞s̜̱̹̲͟t̘̙̘͎įl̼̘͈̝͖̬͇ḽ̰̭̕ ̪̤͚͘Ị͇̠̗͎̘̀ ͉̲͕͓͓̖ͅam̟̳̳͉ ̩̀sup҉͎̦̝͉̬r̜̤e̖̠ͅm̷̼̳e̠̞̠̻͔̮.̭̱͓ ̦"҉͎͔Ṇ̘̤̰͚̘͟ot̰͈̦̠̰̩ͅh̙̼i͍ͅn̮̭̰̺̥͜g̺̤͈̙̹ ̭̭ẃḭ̷̟̣l̥̙͙̼̦l̞͎̲̲͚̙ ͚̗̙͖̺̯̼͜e̻̝v̲͇̲̘͢er̗ ̲̦̳̺̲̜d̷̮͍̗u̩̤̻̭͇̰ͅl̮̣͕̰͈l͉̩ ͉̲͕̜̜̭h̞̮̘i̵̬̝͙̞̱͔ś ̺̝̙̣̕ś̬̣p̖̯͈͖͖l̲͎͎͖̺̟͠en̨̹̬̲̖d̨̻̰̲ͅó̘̙ṷ͡r̞͔̜̬̦.̡"̮̗̥
҉̦̬͈̘̥T͈̟̼h̦̩́e̸̖̲̯y ̪͍͡t̝̜͎r̢̬i̙̪e̫̖̞̣̣̙͜d͚̤͈ ͏̣̜̞̱t͎͓͔̣̖o̱̬͍͉̺̲͍ ̨̝̻̤̜͈h̡̩̞o̶l̼̺̻̮̼̣͎d͓͚̗ ̪͘m̯̫e̵͔̗̞̤̰.͎ ̭͔̮̺͈̦T̤̣̻̹͓h̺̤͟e̳͡y̫̟̱͠ ́t͙̰͇̝̠̝͙r̤̙̮͠ì͎͙̺̠̙ḙ̞̩̺̝̫̖ḓ̗̹̬̺͙̕.̫̝̭͍̖̣̖
̦̺̪̬͠H̢̟̙̘̭e̝͖͈̻̯̬̥r̺͚͔̥e̪͙̥ ̞̠̹Ì̮̙ ̞̗̙̭̤s͖̣̟͍̭̭̱t̫͓̻̺̠͇̕ͅa͎̖͔̜̱̯n͚d͚͟,̙̰͉͉̬ ̤̙̺ḁ̤̺̱͈͝ţ̩̣͍̺͖̦ͅ t͏̪͎̝̤̼̦̹h͎̗̦̖̙ḛ̘̫̳̤͞ ̹̮̺̪͇e̵͎̜̙̦̬̮ͅp̦̟̙̥̝̺͇o̬̰̳͖͙͈c̦͕̪͢h҉̙͉͙̞ ̢̩o̶f̧̝̞͚͇̲͙ ̯̣̖̪̹͡o̳̩f ̞̗̟̗Ṯ̛H͏̫̠E̼͓͖̹̪̫ ͙̯̗̞̬̰͎WO̫̩̹̘̙͔RL̲̞͎̠̖̞ͅD̪̯̤̭̪ ̛̰̣a͕̤̣͠n̦̯͜d̮̱͓̮ ́I ̩s҉̪̗e̝͖̞̱é̗̗ ̻͓̻͔̦ͅeͅv̙͎̣ḙ͖̝̗͕̦̻ŗ̖̯̲̘y͙̘͙t̡̲̖̱͎̮h̘̪̘̰̗͝i͏̮̻̳̤̭̣̫n̯͙̮̺͓ͅg͡ ̙̦̞͍̰n̼o̤̭͎w̶̹.̩͈͍̫̪̦̮
̖̖̱T͉̜̳̗͠h̷̠̼̱̳̳̜e̫̘̝͎͎͖ ͜p͉̬͙r̟̰͎o̞͙̬̗̕ͅph̨̞̬̘̤͓̻e̞̩c̙͕͇͖̰̮̻y̦͢ ̛̪̣̬̮̫͚ͅw͈̞̣̩̘̬a͈͙̤͇̺̥̘s̳͉̭̣̜̼͝ ̲̪̩͙r̫íg̬͉h̻̩͡ṭ̱̥̺̫.̖̰̤̞..
̶͎̞̟̠̲̟͔.͙̜̲̣ͅ.̞̮̳̮͙͘.̰͙̝̭̖i̹̦̪̟t ̮̭͈͡w̴̹̦͈̞͉a̩̹̣͍͕̜s̲̞̩̝͖̠̫ ̟̫̖r̢̗̦ig͇͙͢h̢̭̪ṱ̘̠͕̝̙ͅ ̩͙̕t̛̼o̸̪̜͎ ̻̩̻̲̤̠̥f̖̤͈̹̥̣̱e͓̘̱̲̭͇aṟ ̝̖̯̘m̼̻ę̰.̺̤͓̮̪͙́
̹̦
̧I̭̗ ̡͖̪̹͈͕͕̹á̮̙m͎͈̦̝̱͠ co͍̣͙̠͉m̱̩iͅng̮̘̜̟̟̲̠.̦̲̮̦̝͙̲̀ ̴̻͉ͅI̲͕̣͈̰̭ ̱͕̠a̖̭͢m͉̙͙̲͕͡ ̩̫̭̗̫͈c̶̩om̼̝̟i̮̞̥̭̥̕n҉̲̺̝̻̪̦̜g̥̲̜͕̪.͓͍̭ͅ ͈͔̜͖̙ͅI҉͈͇ ͖̩́am̢̼̲̯̗ͅ ̣̤͎͠c̢̦̳͚o̼̠͘m̖̼̮̭̱͚̫i̸n̨̖͓̫̼g̡̭̗.͔̘͕̪͓͚̩͠ ͈̯I̡͇͇̬̻̯ ̘̬̼̯̞̳͘a̙̼̳͉̜̪̳m̲̠̳͔͉̠ ̙̤̟c̪̜o͖m͈̺̀ì̖̯n̜̪͖̬͚̱̕g̡̝͎̬.̠̤͍̹͔̦̩ ̠̟̪I ͉̞͔à̳͓͔̞̲̼m̡̗̯̟͔͇ ̷̬̬̙̜͉̭c̀o̖͔̯̼̗̺͟m̞̯̟̙i͝n̠̙̱͙̜̩̬g҉̺͕͎̰̗̬.̺͖̰͢ͅ ̦I͎̱̩͈̞ ̨̭̳͇̘̻̺͍à͔̳̳̩m̪̲̝ ̸̹͈̪̲c̘͓ò̤̲̠̭̣m̫͍̦̫̭̜įn̦͚̩͈͇̤͖ģ̲̩͖̘̳̳̭.҉͍͚
͙͠I̱͖̪̱̱̱̮ a̼̘̹̜ͅm̀ ̥͞c͎̗o̧̠̲͓̤̗͚m̻̪in̳g.̭̯̼ I̘͚̻̻ ͔͚̭͡a̹ṃ̰̥ ͇̹͎ͅc̭̹̲̺̣o͕̥͟m̷͎͖͇̣͎͍i̶̟̱͓̗̮̙̗n̞͖͖̤̼g͓̺̪̗͚̬͍͝.̛̞̦͈͔̲̥̟ ̶̦I̜͈̜ͅ ̭͇͎̭͇ͅa̗̝̲̳͍̝͞m͕̬̤͖̦̟̕ ̢̮̠͈c͉̬o͍̞̬ͅm̙͠i̘n̴g͏̹͖̫̩͚̼.̱͔̯́ ̖̠͉͓͓̣̲͝I̦ ҉̞a͖͔͚̦͕͙͚m̦̹̻̩̠̰͓͠ ̯͖̗͎ͅc̬̞̮͠o̸̗̠̭̙m̴i͎̰̜̠͈͝n̻g̟̤̘̣͍̻̪͠.̱̮̘͠ ̧̝̱̱I͚̮̖ ͚a̻̤̖̩m̶̞̼̼̙͙̬ ̜̗̻͈̝̺͙c̺o̬͜m҉̗͔̖͙̞̳̞i̘̹̕n̢͉̼̬̥͎̲g̱͇̗̜̼̟͞.̨̺̩̰̖ͅ ̜̠̗I͉͍̗̱ ̣̪̪̀ạ̠͕̻̬͉̦m̜͈̰ ͖c͔͟o͓m̹͓̯̫͕̞í͙͔͉̘̺n̜̺͙̳̲̻g̶̖̞̘̩͖̞ͅ
͏̘͉I̬ ̼͕̼a̢m̘͕̞͈ ͈̹͖̮͎͢c̨̞͕͕ͅͅo͚͕ͅm̶͉i̪̣̦̲̦͝n̵͕̺̰̲͎͎͇g͇̞̙̼̕.̵̻͎̤̘̗̥̹ I̞͉͔͍͜ ̪͕̞̗a͚̗̘͇̲͉͟ͅm̷̪̘̠̣̻ ͞c̖o͕͓̹̞̞̹m̟̰͕̗͟ḭ̧͍̪͉nģ.̰̗͚ͅ ̢̭͇I͏̲̬̖ ̸̫̣͍a͎͕m̨ͅ ҉͉̝̞̹̠̥̲c̟o̜̲m̭͡i̷̬̠̭̦̭n̼̖̦̰̹͕g̸.̪͖̤͉͉͔̻ ̹̝͎̪I̪̭͉̞ ̤̭͝a̴̹m̢̻ ͕͚̮̻̫̼̜c̵o̢̞͎͕m̟̞̙̤̜͢i̼̘̬͍͙̖̭n͉̭̰g̯.͎̮͠ ͕͎̟ͅI̩̱̜̖͉ ̨̭̝͍̲͔a̝͔m̝̯̞̜̫ co͟m̱̟̱̖͎͕̯͞i̮̺̗̥̱̦̰n͉̱̝͈̺̜͔g̨͈̯.̛̭͍͍͔̘̺̺ ̺̻͎͚̦͎̕I̺͇͎ ̸̻͉̺̣a͔̞̠̪̩̤m̹ ̛͕̝͔͕̺̤c͏͍̩͙o̸͎̼m͚̠͕̳̤̭͙̕in̠̼̣̠̩g͎̺̠
̣͖̭̭̭́I̺ ̻͍a̶̝̦͍̖m̫͓̮͕̝͡ ̢͇c̨͚̜̘̬̜om̲̦iṉ̝̯̪͈̯͓͡g̥͓͎̜.̥͕͝ ̝̠̻̞̦̜I͈̰̥̜͖̹̱͘ ̻͍͉͕ͅam͓̹̫͖͞ ̗̱̠̼c͕̤̪̭͉̻o̡̩ṃ̙̲͜i̶͙̪n͈g͔͟.̖ ̟̘̻̪͍̩͢ͅI̛̮̜͕ ̧͚͉̯͕̳̥a̴̼̯m̕ ̵̥̩̣̺̝̣c͈̼̙͚͍o͏̻̻̻͓̠̲͓mi͔͖̱ṋ̛̝̩̫g҉̱̯.̧̥̺͔̻̞ ̹̙͙͉̞̬̖͡I̸ ͇̮͞a̩͙͙̰̰m͈̭ ͕ć̫̖̞̟om͈̥͉̥̝͔i̼͈̰̙n̛g̮͟.̸ ̛I͟ ̧̙̝̞͓͚̘a̘̺̪m̳̖̜ ͎͔̫̮͍̝c͓̲o҉̜͎̣̫̫̥m̡̺̣ͅi̸̩̹n̸̫g̹̫̱̦.͉̰ ҉̫̗I̠̠͕̤̻̻̳ ̡͉̰̻a͚͇̩m͎̤̦̥̬ ̖̭̯̟ͅc̻̘̞̠̳̘͍o͓̯̭̤̲̙͓m̷̳͕͕͓̰ͅi͚̥͈̳̻̲̙n҉g̯̣͈͈͠ͅ.҉̪̼̬͉͚̝.̵.̤̼͝
̵̳͓̥̼̣͇I̦̰̺͔̥͓ ̖a̠̫̥͝m̠̺̩̯̝͘ͅ ͎͍͙̲̻͎̀c̮̲o̼̖m͙̖͟i͉͕̣n̲̘̗̜g͉̩̤̩͙̭̀ͅ
̴̥̟̖̣
̰̥͕̬͚̱ ͎ ̸̥ ͉̞͟ ͜ ̙̞̪̰̥͡ͅ ͓̮̖̥̠̗ ̠̦̠̜̘ ͙̜̠̬̬̪ ҉͓̺̻̯͓̹̰ ͓͔̳̫̮̳͠ͅ ̯̖̀ ͖̮̙͈̺ ͈͔̦ ̼ ̡̠̺ ̡͚͉̭̫̯ ̦͙̟͇̙̘͘ ̞̮͕͕͓̜͔ ̶̹ ̖͍͔͈͉̪ ͇ ̗͉̱͠ ̨ ̙͡ ̢̹̰ ̺͍̮̬̩̕ ͠ ̵̥̳ ͎̕ ̷͎̻̭̻̟̝ ̞͇̼͚ ̝̯̝͖ ̲̲̜͎̺̩ͅ ̩̭̣ ̭̟̥͖͍́ ̤̪̼̟͉̬̹ ̥͚̱̣͙ ̧̰ ̻͙̳̱ ̯͎̫ ҉͍̯̫̮̺ͅ ̼̻͈̙̟̪ ̫ͅ ͘ ̢͇̲̭͍̦̟̩ ̣̘̟̖̀ ̴͙ ҉͖ ̻̤̭͓͚̩͟ ̱̳̯̗̳̟ ̺̝͈̪ ̧ ̮̜̺̟̟͕ ͉ ̱̫ ͚̬̞͎͓ ̨̪̤̙̻̻ ̖̗̞̰̗̗̭ ̀ ̛͚̹͓͈̯̪ ͓̩̣̜ ̪͡ ̝͓̦̞̙̪ͅ ̵̖̼͓ ͚͈̜ ͚ ͞ͅ ͈̦ ̺̩̺̦͘ ̹̠̟ͅ ͍̯ ̣͚͎ ̱͇͙ ̩̳͓̮̦̕t̝o̼̝ ̫͈̟̖̘̖͜d̤̙̗͢é̥ș̶̦̩̟t͍̲̩̠͈r̴o̸̭y̱͉͢.͍͕͎̳̺͢
͙̤̜̳

̵̼̼̘͎͈ ͎̪̕ ҉̜ ̨̫̝͈̣̤ ͚͍ ̟̭̘̥̫ ̸͍ ̥̭̲̺̜͙ ̬͍͉͈̩͈ ̖̞͎̪̣͍́ ͟ ҉ ̹ ̩ ͕ ̪ ̸̼̩ ̡͓̙̝̠̫͓ ̝ ̝͕͓̲̼ͅ ͜ ͘~͏̰̼*̳̯͓̬͡R̯͙̣̫̝̀ͅE̤̹̗͢D̟͙̙͉͚u̳͓̜̦̬̕c̜̥̖E̥͚̖̹̬͘ ̶̯͈̯i̸̺̣̤̺t̞ ͕̦̥͚̩t̼o̶͚̘̺͖̣ͅ ̡̙͙̞A̰̬ ͚͉̟̖S̶̯͓ ̭̲͍͉̗H̡̱̫̙͔̪̫~*͔̳̠̻̖̲̤

The Mexico Incident

*05/08/2016 – Trios Tournament Round 2*
The Family (Logan (c), Dagvald Riddik, James ‘The Game’ Chevalier) vs The Dank Ridaz Gang aka The Dag Riddik Gang (Joey Splash, Los Tiburones, Prince Lightskin)

Alessandra Malignaggi’s husband had always been a prize-fighter. This was more than a prize for him this night. She had seen him in the same mind-set before a match only once before in the Fall of last year, the week following The Red Wedding – the night he defeated the flesh puppet who had taken Christian from them. This time however, it was nothing personal. This was all business; this was to prove once and for all his place at the epoch of the wrestling business. This was about honouring professionalism and courage.

This was about being champion of the World. The man who had stolen the highest honour in professional wrestling from Joey Flash stood opposite him, only a week removed. The first exchange between Joey Flash and Logan made her stomach flutter and her womanhood throb as the audience took a synchronised inhalation. Alessandra hugged her pillow tight as she gazed in at her television. The pixels flickered from light to dark in a slow, tired blinking haze, then back to light as she watched.

Joey Flash stepped toward his foe, long raven hair flowing behind him as in one languid fluid movement he shows his intention is not simply to win – but to destroy.

Gravedigger: NO – NOT ALREADY IT CAN’T BE…

In almost metronomic precision the crowd screamed with all the air in their lungs the four syllables that would signal the end of this match. They weren’t to know. They weren’t to know that on this night it would signal the end of

As the words left Joey’s lips, the image froze on the screen. Next it distorted - the colours off-setting in a phantasmagoric echo of images. After what seemed like an endless minute, a splash screen came up.

WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

PLEASE STAND BY

The excitement had left Alessandra, a new sense of trembling nerves coming over her. Concern - could that be it? Her hand came up to her mouth, her eyes widening slightly as the splash screen disappeared to reveal an empty arena. No Andre Aquarius; no Neo Nordic; no Game; no Jared; no Logan; no commentary; no audience; no Joey Flash. All that remained was an empty ring, several large television cameras lying discarded on the ground, and garbage debris in the seats. A sign stared back at Alessandra, propped up discarded on an empty seat: “#WATCHTHESKIES”. After a moment of uninterrupted silence, the broadcast cut to an emergency news bulletin.

A sagging faced, older man in a navy blue suit stared solemnly at the camera. Behind him, a still frame of the empty arena was displayed upon a green screen. The words that left his lips brought a single tear of horror sliding down the Roman features of Alessandra’s face.

Anchor: There’s been an incident in Mexico.

She slid her iPhone awake and hit the name ‘TK’ from the Favorites list. One ring, two, thre- Thursday Kerrigan, The Queen of Blades, The Six Goddess answered.

Thursday: Are you seeing this?

The giggling joviality had been drawn completely from her voice as Alessandra’s first port in this storm spoke.

Alessandra: …yes.


♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦


When Alessandra knocked on the familiar door to the penthouse, the shuffling of feet upon carpet was audible, followed by a loud thump against the wall. With a click of the look, the door drew open to reveal the figure of Thursday Kerrigan. Her eyes were puffy and smeared with black mascara, lines tracing down her cheeks like slime trails, and her blonde hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail. She reeked of cheap vodka, and she was dressed in an over-sized “SIX GOD IS WATCHING” t-shirt. Crocked in her arm, a large silver spoon jutted out of an open container half-full of Neapolitan ice cream. She sniffed once, reaching up to brush another tear from her cheek and further smearing the running mascara like war paint across her face. After a moment of her and Alessandra staring at each other in silence, Thursday fell forward to wrap her free arm around Al in a tight hug.

Thursday: W-what are we gonna do?

Alessandra checked the lengths of the hallway - deserted - before guiding Thursday back into the penthouse. The two crossed to the couch (the news report still broadcasting as the still frame of the empty club stared back at them ominously), sitting down as Alessandra reached for a box of tissues sitting on the ebony and glass coffee table. Snapping a single Kleenex, she held Thursday’s chin firm with one hand as she cleaned the make-up from her cheeks and eyes.

Alessandra: Christ, Kay, you’re going to get this everywhere.

After satisfactorily wiping her face clean, Al released her hold and turned to the TV (muted with subtitles), her attention quietly focused on the broadcast. Thursday crossed her legs in front of her, drawing her heels up onto the couch to cradle the ice cream container in her lap as she also turned her attention to the television. Thursday was the first to speak up, her voice low.

Thursday: What happened? Alessandra…please…

Alessandra remained quiet, her eyes intently following the words scrolling across the screen.

“Audience and Wrestlers Missing”

“Company Owner Placed Under Arrest”

Thursday: Al…

“Notable Disappearances include Hall of Famer Jayson Price, Number One Contender Jared Holmes, Former World Champion Joseph ‘Flash’ Malignaggi”

Joseph ‘Flash’ Malignaggi

Joseph ‘Flash’ Malignaggi

Joseph ‘Flash’ Malignaggi

~*Beware the man with two faces, for he is the worst of all your enemies, a smile hides the dagger in the dark, he sits, he waits, the child of prophecy will rise, as lightning falls, he ascends.*~



♠Heartache♣

July 30th, 2016

From: Alessandra Malignaggi ([e-mail])
To: Benjamin Fletcher ([e-mail])
Subject: Tonight.

Good morning Ben,

I trust you have seen the second quarterly figures? I need you to craft a presentation for the board Re: Funding for the remainder of the year. Grazie.

More to the point, I will be in room 208 at The Four Seasons tonight. All you need to bring is that rock hard cock of yours. I am going to abuse you tonight, you will be my toy for the evening – do you agree? Silly. Like you have a choice x

Last time was an absolute delight; if you can make me squirt again I will give you bonus points. If you make me bleed then I will take you to the moon and back.

Don’t be late. I will be naked at half seven.

My cunt aches for you.

Alessandra x



From: Alessandra Malignaggi ([e-mail])
To: Joey Flash ([e-mail])
Subject: Dreams.

I don’t see you in my dreams anymore.

I feel uneasy and my chest tightens when I wake up. I used to find my dreams my haven, a place where I would see you, where I would see Christian – somewhere that I can have everything I want and never worry before getting shocked back into the aching reality of being without you.

I want to see empty beer bottles on the living room floor, I want the musty smell to hit my nostrils as I enter the room. I want to be kept awake by rhythmic thudding on the heavy bag in our gym; I want your screams of anger to fill the night as you struggle to perfect another wrestling move. I want to shout at you for driving too fast, for eating too much, for not putting the seat down, I want to recoil in disgust as I step around the toilet in the morning and found you couldn’t even be bothered to aim.

Every morning I wake up without your arms around me is a blade to the stomach. All experiences of human contact and emotion tell me I am sad that you are not around. Me, sad – what makes me the most upset dearest husband is as much as I want to, as much as I desire it…I can’t even cry for you.

I have never questioned this before. I have never once felt myself at a disadvantage to the meandering cattle I herd and butcher. I have never once envied the weaknesses that bind people to others. There is a hollow void inside me Joseph. You are the only person I have ever let stare into my abyss – you didn’t even blink, you didn’t turn your face, you embraced me, you pressed your lips to mine and you told me you loved me. I stood stark naked in front of you and you didn’t even care. Joseph, know this, the only thing I want, the thing I want more than anything, is to be able to cry for you.

I love you. Wherever you are, whatever happened I will never stop. I will find you.

I want you so bad Joseph.

My cunt aches for you.

And so does my heart.

Xxx

♠Power♣
July 31st, 2016

Alessandra Malignaggi slipped her left foot inside the six inch patent black red bottom Louboutins. Her preparation was complete. She double checked the hold-ups on either side of her stockings as she slinked toward the full length hotel room mirror. She looked good this night. This is what he liked.

“I love it when you dress up.” He had told her.

The heels, the corset, the hold-ups, the crimp in her hair – this was done out of placation in exchange for carnal pleasure. This was a dance she had played often. Joseph enjoyed the same, and every man before him. What a bizarrely interesting quirk. Aesthetics meant nothing to Alessandra. She looked herself up and down once more, her gaze focusing on the ring finger on her left hand. An 18 karat diamond engagement ring stacked with a white gold wedding band. She slid it off with caution and placed it carefully on the sideboard.

Three hollow raps on the door made her stomach flutter. She turned on her heels and approached the entrance to her lair.

“Who is it?” she queried in a coy, sing song voice.

“Room service” a coarse voice replied.

“Oh?” she smiled.

“I’m here to fuck you Alessandra.”

She unlocked the door and pulled it open. There he stood, blue suit and tie, bottle of wine – his short brown hair cropped and styled neatly, pristine smile, perfectly polished brogues. She smiled and placed one finger under his chin. Every time she had business outside of the city she ensured that Ben Fletcher accompanied her. He wasn’t the best with numbers, he wasn’t the most innovative, he wasn’t the smartest – as far as workers in the Allegri Foundation were concerned he was bang average. He wasn’t the most chiselled, he wasn’t the prettiest. Aesthetics meant nothing to her.

“What makes you think you’re going to do that hmm Benjamin?” she purred. With a ferocity he stepped through the door and wrapped a hand around her throat, pushing her against the wall. She gasped into his mouth as he pressed his against hers. It would bruise already.

“Because you are mine.” He said with cold authority.

Aesthetics meant nothing to her. Tonight she would moan, tonight she would scream, and tonight she would bleed. She only cared for one thing.

Power.


♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦


The morning light fell as a descending single beam through the blackout curtains across the bed as Ben Fletcher looked across the bed. Looking back at him with big smoky beautiful brown eyes was the woman he had spent the evening, and the night with. Alessandra Malignaggi gave him a smile as she grazed her nails down his stomach toward his crotch and wrapped her fingers delicately around his already swelling cock.

“It’s early Benjamin.” She said, giving him a squeeze. He smiled back and lent toward her, planting a kiss on her forehead. He felt the electric tingle from her fingers disappear as she released him and slid her feet to the floor, he shoulders draped majestically in the quilt. She let it drop as she stood, her sleek toned bronze body looked better every time he saw it. “I’m showering.” She said as she began her walk toward the bathroom. He slid his own feet to the carpet, she turned to him with a smile. “Alone.”

With the finality of her tone punctuated by the locking of the bathroom door Ben Fletcher sagged backward and winced as his back hit the bed. She had shredded his back and with her nails last night, spots of blood dotted the blanket in a beautiful polka dot pattern – his chest hadn’t fared much better. It was going to be painful just getting dressed, but god was it worth it. He had never experienced anything like her before, the first time they had sex had been a complete revelation. He had been working as a data analyst and forecaster for the Allegri Foundation for the past four years, he had never so much as seen the CEO, Alessandra Malignaggi in person, let alone speak to her until a month ago when she happened by the offices as part of a meet and greet with staff members at the head office in Manhattan.

He said a curt hello and shook her hand, his handshake was always firm – this was no exception. She gave a wince as he squeezed a tad too hard. He apologised profusely and profusely, he was nervous, both that he was in front of his boss, but also in front of such an incredible woman. He thought they only existed in movies. She smiled and told him it was fine, resting a hand on his arm. She lingered a moment before turning to her next greet. She visited him once more before she left that day, she ensured him that he didn’t hurt her and everything was fine. Then she handed him a piece of paper with:

“I want you. Call me: (xxx)xxx-xxxx”

They had been fucking twice weekly since that day. She damn near broke him every time – but god was it worth it. The bathroom door unlocking was like a Pavlovian signal as he felt his manhood stiffen; he sat up and watched as Alessandra emerged from the bathroom naked and sodden.

“Happy to see me Benjamin? How sweet. Though I’m not going to fuck you again this morning.” He felt his mood drop, she stepped toward him and sat on the bed, droplets from her dripping hair scattering across the floor. “You’re going to take me for dinner.”

“Dinner?” She had never gone out with him in public before; such was the curse of being a public figure – and a married one at that. He didn’t complain, just smiled. “Where?” he asked. She stroked her hand down the welts across his chest, giving his left nipple a sensual squeeze.

“Surprise me.”



♥Intergalactic Christ (I)♦
August 1st, 2016

Standing at the precipice of macrocosmic godhood, the man observed. The blue orb turned on its axis as he watched the wispy whiteness whip across the horizon, the glowing embers of nightlife lighting up across the dark side of terra. He raised one ethereal extremity outward and held the globe in his palm for a moment. A mind that had been a vat of eternal darkness for as long as it could remember was beginning to be reborn into this dimensional consciousness.

“If one is at war with cataclysm, do not unleash the apocalypse for protection.”
Jalaxaritkatusian proverb; Robert “The Cranium” Leanan.

The Jalaxaritkatusians made no such mistake. They unleashed cataclysm to deal with their apocalypse. Now the Red Man walks among them reaving everything they hold dear. That is okay. For the apocalypse is gone, contained, and locked away, deeply away. It was a price they had to pay, for Jim Thuggin and Steve Bosstin it was a welcome price.

They made a much worse mistake. It was a Xenocidal miscalculation. This wasn’t something they could contain.

They didn’t have locks strong enough; they didn’t have prisons deep enough. Not nearly strong enough, not nearly deep enough. As the man floated in the lack of atmospheric pressure he reached out once more. He could feel the energy now, the solar rays refracting from the ozone layer painted a picture deep into his mind’s eye. He searched the seven billion life streams in the hope of finding the one he wanted. He found the one that had no light behind it.

The Red Man.

The man raised a celestial palm toward the planet, it was time for corporeal to become manifest. It was time to finish what was started twelve months ago. It was time to end it all. A pyroclastic pulse burst from the being’s epicentre as the spinning globe in his gaze stopped its eternal rotation as if someone had simply pressed the pause button in deep space – there was no movement, no life, just silence. Then, the spin started again and the wispy clouds continued to fly as normal. This was good.

The power was growing; it was growing at an exponentially scary rate.

He reached the palm deeper toward the molten heart of the planet. It was time to go home. The pyroclastic pulse triggered once more, the planet froze and he felt darkness envelop him as the vacuum of space swallowed his voice as he screamed the time and space distorting two words that would finally bring him home.



♠Date Night (I)♣
August 1st, 2016

Cipriani’s. Alessandra Malignaggi was surprised. As Benjamin opened the limousine door for her, she took in the surroundings as she stepped onto the sidewalk. It hadn’t changed much. For the entirety of their eight years together, this had been the Malignaggi’s restaurant – a window seat, up the stairs, third table on the left. Joseph Malignaggi had been an aspiring professional wrestler living from motel to motel, couch to couch and scrimping for every meal the first time he had taken her. For Alessandra, this was a hovel – low quality, bland and full of middle class pond life spending one evening a week trying to seem bourgeois with a glass of Dom Perignon each. He pretended otherwise, but Cipriani’s was so far beyond his means it wasn’t even funny. He told her “Order what you like”.

Order what you like? I already had what I wanted. All I ever wanted.

The ambience was the same now as it was eight years ago, Ben was suited and booted, and Alessandra wore a rather understated blue dress with matching shoes and clutch bag. The same bubble of pretentiousness filled the air, the same routine clinking of dross culinary torture being placed sloppily to the tables by ugly and fat waitresses.

“Mrs Malignaggi! So beautiful to see you again!” this was Gio. His flabby hand ensnared hers and raised it to his mustachioed maw, placing a light kiss before releasing her. He had been the concierge for her entire time as a patron, he had seen her as a fresh faced youth, he had seen her as a young woman, he had seen her with the bump of motherhood, and he had seen her fully blossom into what she was today. He had never seen her without Joseph. “And who is this gentleman?” he regarded Ben, who obliged to his outstretched hand and gave it a shake.

“Good evening Gio.” She replied with a fake smile. “This is-“

“Ben” he cut her off. This made her smile for real. “It’s a pleasure. I’ve never been here before, I must admit it’s a beautiful looking place. Did I do well Al?” he turned to her with a knowing look. She gave him an exaggerated double thumbs up and turned to Gio – she would not let him question them further.

“Is our table ready my dear Gio?” she asked with a subtle undertone that Gio had heard from time to time. The answer had to be yes.

“Of course Mrs Maliganggi, Mr Ben – if you’d care to follow me.” He led them up the winding staircase, what had originally been a clumsy challenge for the young Allegri heiress was now something she could do blindfolded and drunk. Alessandra had become adept at handling the trickiest and tiniest of steps with the tallest of heels – this was child’s play. There, at the tip of Gio’s outstretched arm, third table on the left by the window, it waited. Gio bid them farewell and disappeared back downstairs as Ben pulled a seat out for her. She paused. That was Joseph’s seat.

“This is not my seat.” She said abruptly. Too abruptly, she rectified it quickly – with a giggle. “I mean, I’d like to sit at the other side, watch the world go by. Be a dear Benjamin hmm?” He darted behind her and pulled the correct chair out next time, she obliged and sat down. The pair looked at each other for a moment. Ben was a handsome man, chiselled and broad. He got better with every passing day. She slid a foot toward him and rested it on his crotch. He didn’t even jump in shocking delight anymore – just grinned.

“Hello Mister Fletcher.”

“Hello Mrs Malignaggi. Who IS this gentleman?” he reached a hand below the table, grabbing her by the leg and lowering her foot to the floor. Oh my Benjamin, you really are getting better.

“Hmmm.” She raised a finger to her chin and thought for a moment. Her eyes darted to her ring finger, empty, for the first time in a year, then to the chair opposite her. A different man, for the first time in eight. She didn’t need long to think. “You are my date.”



♥Intergalactic Christ (II)♦

The man took his first breath in over three months- the oxygen ripped through his labouring lungs like a miniature napalm detonation inside his chest. Each sense fired one by one as if someone were rebooting a computer system component by component, he sputtered with the pain of respiration as a noxious concoction of bile and vomit rose into the back of his throat; with a hoarse cough he expelled the substance onto the floor next to his prone body. His muscles felt like molten jelly, an attempt at movement failed immediately as his arm gave way to his body weight and he flopped onto the vomit. He coughed. He sputtered. He vomited again, this time with a crimson hue.

As his eyes burned and hazed into blurred sight, he found himself looking skyward. The stars were out. God. They were fucking beautiful.

The Stars My Destination  Death is My Destination

He reached a frail arm upward and felt a burning wrath throughout every fibre of his being. His forearm muscles clenched and he felt his fist tighten.

Heaven shall fall.



♠Date Night (II)♣

Alessandra Malignaggi took Ben Fletcher by the hand and walked him to the front of the queue.

“Hello James. What a night!” she glanced back at the hundred strong party going revellers waiting for the golden ticket of approval into La Societa, the grandest, most celebrated and renowned evening venue in the entirety of the five boroughs. It was all this, and it was hers.

“You know it Mrs Malignaggi, it’s been fucking hectic” he paused “Pardon my French.”

“It’s been fucking hectic for me too. I’m fluent in French too.” She replied with a smile. “We’re going upstairs. Benjamin here has some interesting things to show me.” She realised immediately that her tongue had been loosened by the bottle and a half of red wine she had already consumed tonight. The bump of cocaine in the bathroom of The Cipriani didn’t help matters. James didn’t seem to care.

“Absolutely. Have a great one boss.” He lifted the BLUE VELVET rope and the pair stepped inside. The club was alive with alcohol, sweat and hormones. Benjamin grabbed Alessandra around the waist and drew her into a kiss before dragging her toward the bar. The bar was shoulder to shoulder full; she turned to the nearest bouncer and spoke three words.

“Be a doll.” Within three seconds a section of the bar was cleared for her and Ben. Good. She waved a server over, the customers who had already been waiting for minutes began shouting in disgust. Ben stepped toward them, all six four of him, all rugged, all muscle.

“Do you have a problem here or are you going to shut the fuck up and just wait?” They all waited. She ordered a Shiraz. Be classy in public Alessandra. Ben asked for a water, she gave him a playful slap and ordered a double vodka and coke.

This is not you Alessandra. Shut up.

They stood by the bar and clinked together in resounding “cheers” while security had to block the paying public from jumping all over them for blocking a quarter of the bar. She took a sip of the wine; Ben cautiously did the same with his vodka.
“Do you think I poisoned it?” she shouted through a cupped hand, it was loud enough to overpower the music.

“No.” he replied. “I’m just taking it slow.”

“You don’t usually” she teased.

“I’m just looking out for you.”

‘I’m just looking out for you’

She didn’t expect these words. This was not what this was supposed to be. This was not supposed to be him looking after her, this was not supposed to be them getting drunk together, this was not supposed to be a date. This was supposed to be the fulfilling of an urge. That’s all. She was caught deep in a web of her own design. She was falling. She was falling happily.

She took him by the hand. “Finish your drink” she commanded. He didn’t oblige. He sipped and held her back.

“In time.” He took another sip. “Let’s dance.”

The strobe lights flashed, the music pounded, the pair danced, the pair kissed. When he had finished his drink, she grabbed him. She grabbed him firmer this time. Alessandra dragged him with yearning purpose toward the duo of bouncers guarding the elevator that would provide access toward the areas of La Societa that weren’t available to the paying public. The conference rooms were for the select few, and the rooftop gardens and office were for the elite of the Cosa Nostra. She had an all access pass.

“Hey boys. We’re going up.” she told them as they casually stepped aside. As the door pinged closed and she stood alone in resonating silence next to Ben, Alessandra was deep in thought. She was going to fuck him in the gardens. Maybe even in the office. She kissed Ben’s cheek then nibbled at his earlobe.

This wasn’t what she liked. This wasn’t what she wanted. This is what she needed.

As the door pinged open and she stepped onto the rooftop garden, she only wanted one thing.

“I hope it’s clear tonight. I’d love to see the stars”


♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦

Stepping out of the elevator, Alessandra felt the fresh air hit her like a freight train; the toxicity in her body seemed to double with the excess oxygen her body was bringing in. It was not a foreign situation. She looked toward Ben, he had been sober, and he had been clear headed. Strong, powerful throughout. She placed a hand on his cheek and stood on her toes for a kiss. Their tongues dancing a moonlight sonata amongst the rainbow colours of the La Societa summer garden.

“It’s beautiful” Ben remarked as they ceased their embrace.

“Isn’t it just?” She affirmed as they began their walk through the gardens. Funny, Alessandra thought. She had only ever been on this rooftop to either kill or to fuck. She took Ben by the hand; it was time to enjoy the latter.

“For fuck sake.” Ben shouted. “Ugh, fucking hell.”

“What?!” she took a step closer.

“Look at that, what kind of disgusting prick does that here?” He was looking downward, his shoes, the bottom of his trousers, and the floor was awash with a pool of sickly, chunky, maroon vomit. All sexual desires left Alessandra at that moment. This turned very quickly from playtime to something completely different. No one should have been here. No one has access. “What disgusting ba-“

“Shut up.” She silenced him. This was not a situation she needed distraction in. “Be quiet, please” she whispered. The vomit was not just a pool, it was a veritable trail leading through the glorious garden toward the rooftop office atop the building. Alessandra and Benjamin were a modern day Hansel and Gretel. They emerged through the arc of foliage to approach the office. The office of La Societa was effectively a greenhouse, a small glass structure mixed with thick mahogany to defuse as much heat and natural wear and tear as possible. It was pitch black on the La Societa rooftop, no skyscrapers reached up around it, no streetlights were below. Through the pitch black of the Brooklyn night, the one sole light source on this rooftop was emanating from the office in front of them.

Alessandra shrugged free of Ben and deftly danced her digits through the clutch bag, fingers resting across the suppressed Beretta she kept as a bedfellow to her purse. Ben simply stode forward – she released her grip on the gun, and followed. Ben knew her as the CEO to the Allegri Foundation. He didn’t know anything about her life before, her life outside. This could be death, this could be worse than death, yet for some reason she was following him. Huh, how funny, she was following him.

Do you FEEL, Alessandra? Do you feel?!

“Hello!” Ben shouted. “Is anyone there?” The silenced answered him; the pair approached the front door leading inward. Whoever it was, whatever it was, they were in there. This time Alessandra wasn’t taking chances, she wasn’t going to let Benjamin’s ignorance cost her tonight. She dropped the clutch bag and stepped through the door pistol in hand, aimed at head height, no shit tonight. Double tap. Be done with it.

“Al what are you doing?!” Ben screamed as she pulled the gun free. “Fucking hell.”

“SHU-“ her retorting scream was cut short by the vision in front of them. The trail of vomit and drool led directly here, directly to the desk at the centre of the room where lay the epicentre of all this trouble. Someone was there. The large leather chair behind the desk was turned to the back of the room; the chair was fixated in one direction – toward the CCTV camera. Alessandra watched the small monitor mounted on the wall flick from bar, to dance floor, to elevator, to the office before turning to darkness.

Ben was having none of it. She watched in awe as the hulking beast strode fearlessly toward the desk. “You need to get the fuck out of here.” He grabbed the head of the chair and spun it round. “You’ve got some fucking nerve. You bum” Ben had seen the man. It moved in aching slow motion. “How did you even get up here? If my girl wasn’t here I’d wreck you something special. Oh for fucks sake.” It seems Ben realised the same time as Alessandra caught her first glance, the man in the chair was naked. He was a dishevelled, dilapidated, and skeletal figure A scraggly mismatched ugly beard, paired with wild black hair that fell almost down to his drawn, undefined stomach. She felt her chest tighten and stomach join shortly after – her vision became hazy as her emotional dams cracked and trickles of joy began to meander down her cheeks. She knew. She knew straight away.

She didn’t want to believe.

Do you FEEL Alessandra? How do you feel?!

There is no joy in hope.
There is no hope.
There is nothing.

There is always me, Al.

“Your girl.” The man said, a voice so harmonic it was liquor to her soul. His gaze fell on Alessandra.

“That’s right you fucking bum.” Ben cocked his powerful right hand backward and threw it downward toward the man in the chair. Bum? You stupid, stupid man. You’re too slo-

The punch landed with a resounding thwack on the jaw of the man in the chair, a globule of blood flew through the air to accompany the sickening crack. He didn’t even see the punch land; his gaze was fixed on Alessandra. She was shaking now. Why are you shaking Al? Why are you shaking?! He spoke again through his swelling jaw. His eyes never leaving Alessandra.

“Alessandra.” He said.

She melted. Ben exploded. She had grown to tolerate Benjamin, he was kind, he was strong, he was powerful, and he was smart. He was a great fuck. “Motherfucker, you’re done” he shouted at the man in the chair. Those pale blue eyes finally broke their intense stare into her eyes and fixed on Benjamin, his swing was wide but it was powerful. It was strong. His balled fist sped toward the chin of the man in the chair. It was then Alessandra knew. This was the first time. This was the first time in her life she was completely helpless. The first time she was completely at the whim of another.

Ben.

The right hand from Ben was close now, inches, centimetres, millimetres. Time seemed to slow to a crawl for Alessandra as the fist crept closer.

You are strong.
You are fast
You are powerful…

The man smiled, the man whispered two words – and then nothing was the same.









…but you’re not Joey Flash.

“The World.”

♥In The Court of the Six God♦
September 17th, 2016.

Seth Lerch was hungover. He managed to drag his groggy carcass into his office for eleven o’clock, he was an early riser this morning. The sunlight in his office was a blinding glare through his windows, he stumbled over to the blinds and pulled the cord to lower the wooden slats ensuring the day's meetings would be conducted in a conducive ambience for his bleary peepers. He slumped back toward his desk to find his schedule for the day.

His next appointment (at 11:15) read: ‘Meeting with SGE Rep’.

What the fuck was a SGE Rep and why was he meeting them? Seth didn’t remember booking this appointment, with a musing shrug he conceded this was true to around ninety percent of his wrestling shows too. The time rattled on and then three raps rang out on his office door.

Seth: ENTER IF YOU DARE!

He often wondered why he didn’t engage his mind before speaking. This was such a time. ‘Enter if you dare?’ what the fuck was he thinking? Was he trying to act like some big bad eighties TV show villain? His musings about his previous words were cut short as the door opened. Stepping through the door, Seth Lerch felt his stomach leap into his throat, then drop back down to his nutsack with a sickening numbness. Stood in front of him was a ghost, not in the literal sense of course. Scarecrow was now a walking undead, not a zombie, so not a ghost. This was a man.

The young man stood opposite him was dressed in unabashed casual attire for what Seth had assumed to be an important meeting - a white Yeezy t-shirt, black Gucci skinny jeans and Red October sneakers. Around his neck hung an Ouroboros symbol necklace. He swept his flopping aryan locks from aside his face as he took the seat opposite Lerch without so much a word.

Seth: You.

The shark like grin grew across the man’s face. The last time Seth had seen him was in Mexico, now the Six God was back. Jared Holmes dropped a brown file onto the table and pushed it toward Lerch.

Jared: Me.

SGE. Six God Enterprises. He had been *back* on terra for the past two months, whereas his friend(?) and erstwhile tag team partner Joey had spent his time trying to regain shape and sharpness for competition Jared Holmes had been doing the opposite. His mind had been active in *stasis* for too long without being able to action any of his desires. This was not the optimum condition for Jared; however, this had allowed him a lot of time to ruminate and plan. This was stage one of said plan.

The Takeover.

Seth: If I’d have know it was you I’d-

Jared: Have said something other than ‘ENTER IF YOU DARE!’. Ya, no shit. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m here to do business. I’m not here to ruffle any feathers or cause all your little bitch boys to moan or complain. I’m here to make you money.

Seth liked lots of things in this world, one of the four things he loved most was money. Money helped acquire numbers 2, 3 and 4; booze, drugs and hookers.

Seth: Go on.

Jared motioned toward the file.

Jared: It’s a contract. I am fully authorised with a registered and listed sports and events managerial and promotional license countrywide. This is a contract for my first client. I thought about giving you a list of stupid clauses like ‘must be allowed random secret world title shots’ and ‘gets immediate rematch for any title lost’ but that would be pretty silly, wouldn’t it? No. This is a contract gives you unlimited booking dates, unlimited usage and full image rights for my client. The contract stipulates that in monetary compensation, my client will compete for your company Wrestling Championship Federation for the national minimum wage.

Seth couldn’t help but contain a giggle.

Seth: Who’s your client, Lilith?

Jared: This isn’t a joke Lerch.

Seth: What’s the catch?

Jared: The contract ends on December 31st of this year.

Seth: Why on earth would I sign anyone for tha-

Jared: Read it.

Seth read the contract, his hand had already begun moving toward a pen and he had jotted his signature before he could even process what was happening.

Jared: A pleasure doing business with you. He’ll be there for War.

As Jared Holmes left the room, Seth let took a deep breath and then an exhalation. What had he done? Was this the right thing to do? It was too late now, no matter the consequences - it was done.

Seth Lerch had just signed Joey Flash.



♥ESPN Exclusive: 'The Dark Room' - Return of the King♦

On the night of Sunday the 18th of September, the whole landscape of the Wrestling Championship Federation was thrown into flux by the return of its prodigal son - Joey Flash. In a brand energising move the appearance of Joey Flash immediately caused a wave of interest both on national and social media.





















We here at ESPN are proud to announce coming up within the week we will be featuring a special feature with Joseph ‘Flash’ Malignaggi and our own wrestling guru and aficionado Brofessor Coach as they talk candidly about Flash, his career, his personal life and preview the upcoming War match that will take place on October 2nd.

Below we have a treat, an exclusive promotional video sent by way of Joey Flash’s new representation (Six God Enterprises) for the upcoming Pay Per View event.

I, for one, am fucking tired
Of conceptions that bring nothing new from the womb
But if every story is the same
Then the rose has truly lost its bloom

I can’t relate to this
I can’t relate
Maybe it’s your preference
But I can’t relate

“Where is the problem? We’re entertained.”
My problem’s the consistency with every concept made
Don’t just tell me a story
What does it convey?

“Where is the problem? We’re entertained.”
I want to feel something more than just betrayed
You are the problem
I am the problem

Are you satisfied?
Don’t be satisfied

A completely pitch black room. A voice.

"The light across the horizon breaks so beautifully, the way the sunlight falls so warmly and picturesque through the clouds. Isn’t it just delightful?

Tell me now, how serene it must be. Tell me, please tell me. Now that storm is over, it’s really over isn’t it? Look outside and my god it’s a brand new world. It’s a world of warmth, a world of laughter and of fun. It’s a new era in the Wrestling Championship Federation. Do you know, can you believe it? The smiles have returned. People are actually laughing again.

We have seen a shifting in the winds, a complete change in the world of professional wrestling. This is truly something special, I feel it, I feel it in my bones. It’s going to be so magical.

We are nearly there, the biggest single match in the WCF calendar year. A federation wide challenge to determine who the best wrestler in the company is. What a match we had in prospect at the start of the year – multiple hall of famers, multiple future hall of famers, all-star talent from top to bottom. A match that would truly be something truly, truly special.

War.

War has changed.


No Dune.
No Howard Black.
No Occulo.
No Wade Moor.
No Jayson Price.
No Torture.
No Gravedigger.
No Jay Omega.
No Alex Richards.
No John Gable.
No Kyle Kemp.
No Dustin Beaver.
No Vengeance.
No Spencer Adams.
No Andre Holmes.
No Bonnie Blue.
No Polar Phantasm.
No Benjamin Atreyu.
No Waylon Cash
No David Sanchez.
No Ethan King.
No Eddie Felt.
No Shadowlove.
No Andre Jenson.
No Joey Flash.

War.

No Joey Flash.

War…

No Joey Flash.

…Never changes."

Then the voice said, "Let there be light" and there was light. The room Flashed to life as we finally see him. The familiar smile creeps across his lips, those same cold deep dark blue eyes stare with the intensity of an exploding supernova into the camera; rocking his trademark white suit and top hat combination – stood in all his ethereal glory is the one, the only, Joseph fucking Flash.







His smile grows.

Joey: Like the systematically abused girl finally able to go outside again, you meet people, you make friends, and you finally start to find your smile again. You finally start to search for the key to unlock your emotions and feelings, Pandora’s about to finally open her long locked box. Now is the time, you’re finally safe, you can finally for the first time be happy-

Nope. Backhand across the chops, pow - fuck you Pandora. Daddy’s home.

Joey waves a hand at the camera and takes a pronounced bow.

Joey: To those who know me, to those on the current roster whose heads I’ve stomped about a billion times (*waves at Gemini Battle*). Hey!

To those on the current roster who haven’t had the pleasure of seeing me in action:

HEY GUYS. I’m Joey Flash!

By the way, the stories are true, every single one. You’ve seen the accolades, you’ve seen the record but you probably don’t believe, at least not yet.

I had the most dominant, sweeping, all conquering (@grime) period in the company’s history. I swept everything before me.

People in this federation are on a big ego trip right now, for one simple reason – I am not around. The ‘great’ Gemini Battle that you people anoint at the crème de la crème, a superstar, a future Hall of Famer is my own person nutrag. I’m the Bobby to his Whitney, your ‘mountain’? That fuckin fat bum high tailed it from the federation when I was on top only to come slinking back into contendership because all the big scary main eventers had gone. Well sorry Rotundo the Immense, I knew you before all this you grandstanding pompous self-aggrandising prick. You’re not the nice guy, you’re not the backroom leader - you are a user and abuser, a confidence man and snake oil salesman. I’m not going to stand by and watch you constrict your Huttese fingers around the life force of this federation any longer.

This whole month has been bizarre to me. I came back to the WCF for one purpose – to ruin Gemini Battle’s Christmas. I figured it would be good for a laugh. You couldn’t even hold that for ONE DEFENSE. You’re so fucking incompetent; you couldn’t even hold the belt until One for me. We could have sold another nice redemption story for you before I crushed yours, your families, and your fans dreams. It’s a good thing that knocking the shit outta your fat redneck friend is just as satisfying. Congrats on winning the big boy belt, Batesy. It took you long enough you amorphous blob. All that bullshit about ‘I WILL WIN ALL BELTS IN THE FEDERATION AND LAY THEM AT YOUR FEET’.

That didn’t go so well for you did it huh? You seem to have trouble grasping that this is the real world and not ‘the Thomas Bates story’. You won’t win every match you have, you don’t HAVE to come out of every match looking strong, and you don’t HAVE to be the Grand Poobah backstage. You need actual talent for that. God damn it Tommy. You went and threw the WCF’s most prestigious title five hundred feet into the stands with your own self-respect.

I bet you made a special place for it up on the mantle, probably moved the field hand’s severed head up to the attic for it and everything. You gonna be tellin’ all your family’s future generations about how you managed to pick up the big one in a lesser competitive environment? Well done buddy. You’ll tell it like you slew five thousand men, when nope; you beat a complete bum and no hoper. Brent Alpine was also in the match.

What happens though when you’re challenged for real again? I’ve seen that the booking team has chosen to give the old “Joey Flash treatment” with the easy win tag matches and a “hard fought” TV title defence against BioWalker. *applause*

The difference between me and you, big fella? I never needed that shit to look strong, never asked for the training wheels. Quite the opposite – I live for, thrive on competition. You? You thrive on people stroking your fat ego.I guess that when everyone up and left people like you to rot here huh? Seth needed a champion. Seth needed a bring light, a dominant force to restore stability. Sadly all he had was a fat lumbering oaf, but it’s the best he had. Seth decided to revive project TOOOOOMMMM CEEENNNNAAA!! DOO DOO DOO DOOOOOO! Ya time is up ya fat, lumbering bastard. Unlike that roided out faggot from West Newbury, there ain’t no way we can’t see you, Batesy. Like an Elephant hiding on a freshly mowed lawn. I can see that “oh shit.” look in the eyes of the big bad Mountain, like said elephant has spotted a mouse. WCF’s newer viewers may be asking themselves “Why would the mountain fear a scrawny little man like Joey Flash?” It’s because when guys like Joey Flash were around, Mr. Mountain had as much trouble finding the summit as he does his pencil dick.

Now, please. Lose to Corey Black so I can actually have some fun at Christmas. Thanks.

These are your kings. This is what you are reduced to. This isn’t the return of the king, this is the motherfucking Rapture.

I’m a two time World Champion.
I’ve never lost a World Title match.
My record is 44-5.
I haven't lost a match for nine months.

Wanna know what’s sickening? That doesn’t even scratch the surface. You’re sceptics, and quite rightly. I wouldn’t believe water turning into wine until I saw it either. So I’m going to be gracious. I’m going to give you one hell of a treat though. I’m going to give you the type of show you should have to pay tens of thousands for, the type of story you will be able to regale to your future generations and say to them: “I was there”. This is history.

It’s been five months since I’ve stepped through these ropes to compete. The first half of the year was dominated, as was every other second of my career here, by me. No one else even had a sniff of glory. I didn’t allow it. Not a single person, legend, hall of famer could so much as lay a glove on my godhood in the square circle. You only know the World Title as a trinket, the World Champion as a hot potato tossing joke. Take out your notepads. Headline: Champion – have you underlined it yet? Good. Now, take some notes.

This is what a champion looks like; this is what a big match promo looks like. This is what your fucking deity looks like.

This is the first War match Joey Flash has ever been a part of, see last year I was all about one thing – beating the most dominant World Champion in WCF History - Dune. I didn’t care about Ultimate Showdown, I didn’t care about War, I didn’t care about anything else. It cost me. Oh fuck it cost me, but in the end I did what I do best, I did what is clockwork in this business. I won.

I win, I win, I win. This is the story of my career. There is no hidden trick; there are no smoke and mirrors. This is the greatest in the history of the business and my god; you’re going to actually get to witness it. This is my first foray into the greatest contest that the WCF has. This is the time where the entire roster gets to show their talents, their skills, and their toughness in one ultimate match. Winner take all, everyone else goes home with nothing. Anyone could have won this year; this was the most open a War match has probably ever been. Will it crown a new star? Will it create a new legacy?

It’s a shame really. How sickening for you all.

The outcome was decided the moment I put pen to paper.

This is not a match you people can win. This is not a match you people can even do well in. You are here as extras in the story that is ‘Joey Flash returns to WCF, Wins War’.

Taken your notes? Okay. Put your pad away, go on, put it away – I’ll wait.

He pauses for a moment.

Joey: Wow you actually took time to do that? You are complete faggots holy shit.

With a sweep of his right hand, Joey whips his top hat off and tosses it to the back of the room.

Joey: Let’s get it started – The WCF is a fucking wasteland. There is not a single talented member on the roster any more. Wall to wall, top to bottom full of complete and utter bums and jobbers. Sorry to be the one to tell you this guys, but really, you’re fucking terrible. I’m not saying this for effect, or to somehow seem snooty or above everything, just, you suck. The WCF I know is the crème de la crème, the greatest of the greatest punctuated by yours truly. What I see now is a rape of the ideal and a bastardised version of the product.

Your weekly shows are shit after shit of terrible nonsensical matches and segments that lead absolutely nowhere except into a mire of self wankery.

Your roster is a revolving door of sewage, let’s flush and see what floats up next week.

The champions are a complete fucking joke. Are you actually kidding me here? Really? This is what it’s degraded to? The atrophy of WCF is so gross that THIS is what we’re left with?

Current Champions
World: Thomas Uriel Bates
Television: Gemini Battle
Hardcore: Crazy J
People's: Kevin Bishop
Internet: Teddy Blaze
Alpha: CJ Phoenix
Tag Team: Tomohawk/Captain WCF

Joseph slaps himself in the face with the most epic of facepalms. That shit rings out so loud motherfuckers in China hear the reverberations. They write it off as Lilith’s vagina lips slapping together as she walks. She also has fat thighs. Chunky bitch.

Joey: Titles I don’t care about – Tag Team, Internet, People’s, Hardcore, Television, Alph- hang on. What in the fuck is the ‘Alpha’ championship? God dammit I step away for five minutes and we have you spastics creating your own idiotic meaningless trinkets to add to the six trinkets that already exist here? Who gave the green light for this shit? Seth, don’t make me slap the shit out of you. You will rename this title to the ‘Beta’ Championship and award it to every pathetic faggot/cuck in this federation. See, you’re all winners really guys, just like as children – you can get a ‘participation’ award or even better ‘tried hardest’. God this makes me feel dirty just talking about how bad this is going to be for you fucking geeks.

This is literally the BNOC stepping into the yellow bus where little Thomas is sat at the front of the bus with his foam and plastic replica belt while drool drips down his spastic chin and he tries to adjust his safety helmet – I should feel bad for you guys, I should just step off the bus and walk away. I don’t need to satisfy my ego by beating down little Kevin Bishop blovatingly rehashing the same monologue every five seconds while he releases his bladder over the poor kid next to him or Zombie McMorris with a ‘I WAS JAIME LANNISTER ONCE’ T-Shirt masturbating to a neverending loop of Big E, Xavier Woods and Kofi Kingston. Yep, you’re one witty guy. Real witty. For a complete autist. I should walk away. I really should.

Every bone in my body is telling me ‘Joey, old buddy old pal this isn’t worth it. This federation at the current level is so far below your level why are you even bothering with it? Why? Every single wrestler here is trying their best. They are having fun in their own little safe space, their bubble where nothing bad can hurt them. Just let them be. Please, won’t you let them be?’

I listened, for like, half a second.

Then I thought: Nah, I’m going to slap the drool straight off ya fucking chin you fuckin reprobates. This isn’t a challenge for me, know this, not a one of you is so much as worth a second thought to me. This match isn’t a showcase, an epic brawl, a match to find out who the next big contender is. No, this match is a cleansing.

I am here for one reason: to bring this company back to greatness. This is the greatest wrestling company in the world, this is the pinnacle of this business, and in the past you would look at the list of champions and be able to pick half of them out as future Hall of Famers, wrestlers who could win any title in any other company in the world. This was a federation so deep in talent that its bottom tier wrestlers like Gemini Battle and Thomas Bates would be world champions and dominate any other-… oh wait. Well ain’t that a bitch. Now these fucking guys blathering like they want to be a Hall of Famer? Fuck my life. Yeah, great achievement buddy, you winning the World Title here at the moment is like winning the NBA Title during a lockout…when you are the only team competing. Please don’t take any personal pride in your achievement when the competition you beat absolutely fucking sucked. I took absolutely none any time I beat you. Why? You absolutely fucking suck. It would be like being happy I beat up Stephen Hawking. ‘YAY WAY TO GO CHAMP, HEY STEVE YOUR NEW BOOK SHOULD BE ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF GETTING BRUTALLY KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT!’

You tomato cans are poison to my company, to my profession. I take half a year off and THIS is what happens? Then we have a legitimate wrestler in Rabid want to restore an itsy bitsy smidge of legitimacy by challenging the World Champion…who then completely ignores the challenge and ducks him completely. Then all these fuckin no namers on social media are riding dirty for the ‘honour of WCF’, slating Rabid at every turn.

Joey hawks a glob of venom laced mucus into his mouth and deposits it with anger on the ground.

Joey: There IS no honour in this rats nest. There never has been. This isn’t an US vs THEM, this isn’t an invasion of an outside force who wants to ruin your fun, this is the big bad bully wolf coming back to blow the house down once and for all. This is the best wrestler in the world taking what he wants, when he wants, how he wants.

You think this is all a coincidence?

Look where we are. Madison Square Garden, New York City. If it wasn’t bad enough for you people.

This is a fucking home game for me.

I was eleven years ago sat at ringside with tears in my eyes as the national anthem was sung, drops of pride and melancholic salt filled my eyes as 20,658 New Yorkers screamed defiantly following the day that forever changed our skyline as Bernard Hopkins knocked Trinidad out in the twelfth and final round. Five years later and I stepped through those same ropes and was the youngest ever NY Golden Gloves Champion, now at twenty six I step through those ropes once more. I stand on the shoulders of giants that came before me and built this arena. I have all five boroughs behind me – every single voice is a performance enhancing drug to me. Every eleven year old at their first ever wrestling event is watching this match, watching Joey Flash. Who the fuck am I if I don’t give that kid the same performance that Hopkins gave me? This is not a match that you can survive in. This is not a match that any of you can even aspire to win. Not here, not with Joey Flash in the match. I’m here not to crush dreams; I’m here to make them come true.

So what happens now? Where do we go from here? We are deep in the ninth inning now. You’re feeling pretty hopeless, I know. It happens. Knees weak, palms spaghetti, all that good shit – I love it when they show fear. This, this feeling right now that we are about to enter in about twenty seconds though? It’s the stage past fear, the stage when the predator is on top of the prey with its jaws about to tear the throat straight out. Hopelessness.

As I said earlier. You probably made some quite big assumptions about me, about this match. Remember what I said earlier? The WCF is a fucking rats nest, to survive here, to thrive here it isn’t a game of honour, it’s not a tickling contest – it’s a fight, bullshit right? Not here. You win, or you die. I know, believe me, more than anything, more than anyone in this match what it takes to win here, what it takes to succeed and dominate on the highest level possible. Is this success? Is this what it takes to win War?

‘B-b-but Joe, you haven’t even shot on anyone here!!!’
‘He’s shit; he’s past it holy shit THIS is what we’re supposed to be scared of?’
‘This is the king of shoot, more like king of SHIT, AMIRITE?!’
‘YOU JUST TALKED ABOUT GOING FOR THE THROAT YOU FUCKING VAPID STUPID CUNT, DO IT’

Well it’s not going to happen. This isn’t the time or the place for that. I don’t need to tear down people who are already in their death throes. What good would it do? No. It wouldn’t be the gentlemanly thing to do.

I will be taking what is mine in the main event of One; this first step is the biggest match in the company to the rest of the roster but to me, to everyone in the know, it’s a formality.

I’ve got a conveyor belt of bodybags prepared. So line them up, drop them in and I’m going to zip the whole fucking federation up.

It’s over.

CUT...


...We open again to the room fully illuminated, a smile bigger than Thomas Bates’ gut across Joseph's face.

Joey: SIKE. I LIED. HOLY SHIT you fucking idiots thought I was going to play nice? You thought I was going to play…fair? I don’t need to tear down people who are in their death throes, you people really musta forgotten, I want to.

So roll up, roll up. It’s time for the most turbulent and tumultuous time of promotional video influx in the calendar year. Ladies and gentlemen I am going to be taking bets, I call this game:

“PREDICT WHAT STUPID FUCKING ‘CREATIVE’ WAYS PEOPLE WILL TRY TO PROMO FOR WAR”

• Promotional video featuring interviews of with people they know, explaining how they got here and why they’ll win.

• Dense, most unintelligible, psuedo-intellectual garbage with garbled formatting and unexplainable syntax (aka “I Really Want to Look Creative By Just Being Obtuse Promo”)

• Shooting on just the champ/his challenger. That worked really well last year Jared. I hope that the twat who lumbered you with that stupid idea would say sorry as it likely cost you the match. (Sorry)

• Getting interviewed by Hank Brown who asks you about each competitor one after the other. Please...please god…

• Dream sequence incoming, dream sequence incoming. Conversely, drug trips. Both are equally as stupid.

• Origin stories! Hey numbnuts, no one cares how your shitty wrestling career started. Unless you have a badass dog. Dune’s dog is better than you.

• Last minute War and Peace renditions of pure rebuttal and response. DOO DOO DOO DOOOOOOOOOOO!

• Cameos of old superstars no longer around, praising you or talking about people they’ve faced in this match.

• A promo where you are faced with a variety of ‘War’ like scenarios. Yes, your Iraq tour combat experience will help you in the wrestling ring. As did you killing that bear in the woods. (Prediction for number of Promo Titles featuring ‘x’s War’ ‘x goes to War’, ‘War comes to x’: six. JACKPOT BONUS if ‘War? What is it good for?’ is referenced in anyway shape or form)

• Discussions with family members. Why the fuck would your cousin know anything about anyone?

• Discussions with dead family members. I’m watching you Gemini. What advice will they even have? ‘GOO GOO FUCKING GA GA - Win War…also, why did you leave me to sleep after putting twenty plastic bags in with me daddy?. Also, there is this four year old Italian boy who beats both of us up every day, but we keep going back to him for more. We need professional psychological help.”

• A family member dying and it having some great emotional impact that will drive you to victory. Let us pray, and grieve for the loss of creativity.
  

• A1) Poetry. Enough. Enough with the fucking poems.

• A2) Songs. DO NOT. I REPEAT, NOT RECORD A FUCKING SONG. This does not to be explained further. It worked. Once. Stop with the fucking songs, I’m looking at you Gemini, I swear to God if you start warming up those nasally fucking vocal chords I’m going to seriously hurt you. I am more triggered by the thought of you singing than wrestling you. Muse on this. Plus there’s isn't that midget bitch Howard Black to steal Promo of the Year from.

• Cartoons. Unless you’re Natural ICE Beckman, in this case you will have a forty minute long promotional video of nonsensical ramblings littered with unfunny tripe drawings. You will also win the match. Congratulations Natural ICE Beckman for winning War.

• Shoot on yourself. Yes, we all watched 8-Mile too.

• Trying to predict the shoots of other people. It’s not big, it’s not fucking clever – way to denigrate everyone else’s hard work and write it off as trash you condescending cunt. If you’re wrong, you look an even bigger cunt.

So what about you Joe? What’s your angle?

I don’t have one. I don’t need one. It’s getting close now – the hopelessness. You’re feeling so tender now. You are going to need to bring everything you have, every last bit of protection you have – Rainier Wolfcastle meet acid river; your best efforts arghhh they do nothing. This is Baphomet in the flesh, I’m the GOAT, man.

No punch lines, no catchphrases. This was light work, what’s coming next though? It’s like a hurricane tearing your shit up and ruining your life - you know it's coming, you can prepare for it, but there is nothing you can do to stop it.

It starts at War, it ends at One. I will bring this federation to its fucking knees and not one of you can do a single fucking thing to stop me.



♥End of The World♦

It was the first time in half a year since Joey Flash was able to look at himself, and he winced at how pathetic had had become. Resting his forehead on the mirror he took a deep breath before backing up and looking at himself, the body he used to laugh and liken to being that of the gods was now wasted and scarred. He brushed his hair back and threw a weak punch in the air, finding no snap that was once there. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Looking around the small locker room that has been given to him he couldn’t suppress a thin smile. To be reduced to this was one thing, for others to see it, for others to recognise it, was another. The pain of inferiority, of helplessness…

He knew it from the moment he was being led to his locker room among the facilities deep in the heart of Madison Square Garden, his guide; a woman in fourties with crimped blonde hair, cheap perfume and a name tag of ‘Viv’ led him painfully past the two biggest dressing rooms in the building. ‘Thomas Uriel Bates’ and ‘Corey Black’ emblazened on the front - it was like a dagger to his gut.

Those are my dressing rooms.

Then, at the end of the hall they finally found it. It was out of the way, hidden and confided. Seth didn’t want to have anything to do with him, and didn’t want him to have anything to do with the rest of the roster. Fine, it’s fine.

The sign on his door was there to intentionally mock him further.

It read:

Excalibur
Heavy Metal Machine Logan
Grime

JOEY FLASH

He could forgive the placement of the locker room, he could forgive the ignominy of the sign on his door. What he couldn’t forgive, the one slight that he would never forgive Seth Lerch for:

Joey: He wrote my name in fucking Comic Sans.

Viv had left left him without so much as a goodbye, the room was small, the room was shit. It looked like a spruced up latrine. This was fine by him. This was perfectly fine. He came up this way - he would go out this way too.

Joey pulled his old faded Rocky shirt on - the golden writing had taken a battering through years of gym work and subsequent high temperature spins. ‘Italian Stallion!’ it read; not anymore, he thought. He picked his baseball cap from the cheap bench next to his locker and span it onto his head. He glanced at his watch and sighed. It’s almost time, finally to be back...

Time to put on your brave face.


♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠♥♣♦♠


The familiar squeak of rubber on parquet flooring was silent as Joey Flash stepped out into the the main arena of Madison Square Garden. He had competed in virtually every arena in the country, his name and likeness had been plastered across every billboard in nearly every city - never New York City. Stepping onto the the sidelines of the hardwood that Patrick Ewing and Walt Frazier built he took a long look around toward the stands.

He felt his chest tighten and legs begin to get restless with tension and excitement. He had fought in front of bigger crowds, in bigger matches, with bigger stakes but he had never experienced anything like this before. For the first time in his professional wrestling career, Joey Flash was nervous. The combination of the venue, the match and the long layoff amalgamated into a feeling Joseph had never experienced before a match.

For all his confidence, this match was still full of absolute savages. Elite athletes who could indeed win belts and big matches in any federation in the world. This wasn’t any federation. This was WCF. This is not a federation where you can survive on talent alone. Not here in Joey’s WCF, not in Joey’s World. War would see stars made and legends built. That’s what War is. This is a match for legacy as much as dominance.

Joseph begins whispering under his breath as he paces up and down the centre of the court.

Joey: Give me all the disadvantages you want, I’ll take your shitty locker room, I’ll take the curtain jerker billing and treatment, I’ll take the routine spit on my legacy, my name never being mentioned on your programming, I’ll take being painted as the perennial bad guy when all I have ever done has been for the furtherment and betterment of this fucking place.

His voice grows louder as he continues.

You create your ‘great hope’ white knights to try and erase what I’ve done, what I mean to this business. I see it at every turn, at every angle. You want to give me that Chris Benoit treatment and get rid of everything I've ever done here. That's not going to happen. *BLANK* didn't alpha the federation for his entire career with no peers, that person has a name. Joey fuckin Flash. I've been peerless since the moment I stepped through those doors, there isn't a man in the history of the company that can stand in front of me.

I'm on a level right now that not a wrestler in existence can touch. This match will only solidify my status as a walking myth in this game. This is childs play to me. You people are pathetic, when I was here I was treated like a fucking God.

Now? I'm treated like Voldemort, he who must not be named, hush kiddes, don't say his name he might come back. It might work as a band-aid, but guess what? I didn't fucking work and I’m ripping that shit straight off and shoving a blade straight into the festering wound - at War we start again. I’m hitting the reset button, I will eviscerate everything before me before rebuilding this federation pure and clean from the ashes.

Everyone in the WCF locker room wants me to fall flat, to fail miserably. You expect me to do what exactly in this match? Lose?

This is not a match that Joey Flash loses.

There is not a match in this company that Joey Flash loses.

They want war…

...they will get a fucking genocide.


Fin.