NFW Collision #136! 06/14/2022!

The fans come to life as the opening dialogue from "Triumph of the King Freak" by Rob Zombie blares across the arena and Jansen Myrrh's graphic appears on the tron.


Jansen Myrrh's name comes across the screen as her music continues to play. Jansen Myrrh finally steps out of the shadows as she carries a steel folding chair with her. She glances from one side of the arena to the next and then just shakes her head in disgust as behind her. She finally strides down towards the ring. As she gets near ringside, she snatches the microphone from the ring announcer and rolls into the ring.

Nick Hanson: One of the challengers for the World’s Heavyweight Championship has something to say.

Jansen points to the commentator’s table.

Jansen Myrrh: Shut up when I’m trying to talk, geek.

Jim Reynolds: Yeah, shut up, Nick.

Jansen Myrrh: So, Jansen Myrrh is in the main event of Reckoning Day One Vee. That’s four, for the idiots over there in the corner licking their NFW programs. Cherry Addams is a person, not a flavor, dumbasses.

There’s a pop for that.

Jansen Myrrh: So, I know what you’re thinking. Fuck. Jansen Myrrh coming out to talk about getting her shot at the title again. Been a broken record, right? I’ve been talking about my destiny for four fucking years now. Four goddamned years. How many shots have I gotten? One. And that one shot wasn’t even in this fucking company. Ask me how many titles shots I’ve gotten of any kind in this fucking company. Ask me. Fucking, zero.

The crowd boos.

Jansen Myrrh: Not a Silver Mountain championship shot. Not a Undisputed title shot. Not a Perserverence title shot, whatever the fuck that is. Not a US title shot. Not a Genesis title shot. Not a Zodiac title shot. You get what I’m saying? I’ve been here nearly three fucking years and not one title shot.

Jansen smirks as she looks right into the camera.

Jansen Myrrh: That’s because Jansen Myrrh fucking comes to the ring. Fights her opponent and fucking leaves without stirring up shit. I come into this company, I do my goddamns job and I go the hell home. Well, now I got a fucking expiration date. I gotta date where I’m gonna hang up my boots and call it a day and go sit at a fucking desk for 8 hours a day because I made a fucking promise to someone. That means I got a few months to make my dream come true.

She motions around her waist.

Jansen Myrrh: I gotta make Jansen Myrrh, World Heavyweight Champion, a reality. Because if I don’t, it’s going to eat at me for the rest of my life. I gotta go through my boring ass day, reminding myself that I just wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t championship material. That when the time came, I fucking choked. So, here’s what I gotta do.

Jansen walks over and steps up the turnbuckle and sits down on the top one.

Jansen Myrrh: Let me get comfortable here for a goddamned minute. See the last time I came out here to challenge for a championship, some asshole jumped me from behind like a fucking coward. What I do? I whipped his ass so badly that he fucking fled the company. Since I gotta another competitor, I figure I ain’t giving her the chance to jump me from behind. I mean, if Dona Rotten wants to come out and fight me now, I’m right here. I just ain’t gonna let her hit me from behind. I guess the only thing I don’t know is if Laura Ingalls running shit around here with her ‘gosh’ and ‘golly’ is sticking to the cell stipulation or not, but once the door closes, all this loving kindness that I’m showing right now goes out the window. I’ll bite, choke, kick, clobber and main to win that championship once the bell rings. So, Rotten, I hope you’re ready for this bitch. I’m planning to walk out of Reckoning Day as the World’s Heavyweight Champion or I’ll be carried out on a fucking stretcher.

As Jansen’s music begins to play, she throws down the microphone. She hops down from the turnbuckle and rolls from the ring, heading back up the ramp towards the back.
The view fades to a very disconnected Katelin Descarrilado, sitting in her steel chair. Katelin stares off towards nothing before simply just piping up.

Katelin Descarrilado: Another do-nothing Collision, another match where the rut in NFW presumably deepens. Another week where I'm forced to pay for the sins of two instead of just my own. They could have just said they wanted me to leave once Tren left. At this point, I wouldn't have been offended. Every other avenue I've taken, I'm currently succeeding in anyway.

Descarrilado shakes her head no before continuing, putting her index finger to her head.

Katelin Descarrilado: Think about it. Zion Wrestling... I hold the Chance Briefcase, effectively ensuring I'm it's next world champion. XIX Wrestling, I'm still the favorite to be their first world champion, even with the hiatus and even with the change in my path to get there. Even with Blazenwing, I left a mark the first night I was there... and intend to again.

Mouth agape, Katelin motions to present the opposite of... that.

Katelin Descarrilado: But here at the New Frontier? Ever since losing the Genesis Championship, I've been in a rut that seemingly only ever deepens no matter the way I try to dig myself out. Hence my question last week: were those fifty days worth all this? And I'm beginning to think... it really wasn't. Everything I worked for to put myself on the map here, it's all backfired.

Descarrilado finally looks at the camera, rising from her chair in the process.

Katelin Descarrilado: Now, do you honestly think any of that is going to change fighting Morgan Payne? I'll leave you to find out.

On that, Katelin simply tips over the chair as she leaves off, causing it to fall to the ground with a metallic thud. The view fades to the ring on that note.
As “Thank You For Hating Me” blasts over the speakers, Morgan pulls herself to her feet, jerking her arm away from the referee as she moves to the corner nearest the announce table and time keeper. She sticks her hand through the ropes, impatiently motioning for Roger Arden to bring her the microphone. Once he extends it out, she SNATCHES it from his hand and moves to the center of the ring again.

Morgan Payne: Cut da gahdamn music. NOW!

The music cuts off and the crowd’s mixed reaction of cheers and boos can be heard but Morgan just waves them all off, dismissively.

Morgan Payne: Fuck alla yinz, right now. I’mma make dis shit quick…

Pause. She leans forward, resting a hand on her knee as she stares ahead at the stage.

Morgan Payne: ARIANRHOD!!!!

The crowd gets loud again with anticipation. They know Morgan’s gotta be pissed at Arianrhod’s actions last week regarding the Kingdom’s property. Morgan straightens up and pushes her hair out of her face.

Morgan Payne: Bitch, ahnno yer back there listenin’. Yer somewhere. Maybe in da locker room. Maybe up in da rafters…

She looks up and waves a lazy arm out of exhaustion towards the ceiling.

Morgan Payne: Maybe yer keepin’ a safe distance cuz yanno in just two weeks from now, yer gonna find yerself in a fuckin’ predicament when you step in dis ring wif me and I - literally - beat da hold o’yers over Lilith, outta her. She’ll forgive me. She’ll survive. But you? Yer on borrowed time bitch…and there ain’t a gahdamn thing…dat you can do ‘bout it!

Morgan tosses the microphone aside, takes a step towards the ropes…and the lights go out.

Nick Hanson: Uhhh-ohhhhhhh…

Jim Reynolds: Oh no!!! The Dark Faerie might be here, afterall!

There’s silence in the arena except for the low commotion of the crowd until the voice of Arianrhod is heard throughout the arena.

Arianrhod: Glass surrounding us all the day,
In it all we will do is play.
Blood there will be spilled,
Only one of us can be killed.

Nick Hanson: Glass surrounding us all day…?

Jim Reynolds: Blood spilled…? Only one can be killed…? Nicky, what in the he–

Crowd: OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

The crowd goes wild as the lights come back on. Morgan is still inside the ring. However, the ropes are now covered with light tubes attached on all sides. Surrounding ringside are multiple trash cans filled with light tube bundles wrapped in barbwire to keep them together.

Nick Hanson: Oh my god!!

Jim Reynolds: What the hell, Nicky?! Wh…what is this?!

Nick Hanson: I don’t think I wanna know, Jim!

Morgan turns in a circle, looking at the macabre setup of the ring. There’s actually a look of horrific realization on her face at what this means and the shot fades out with the haunting sound of Arianrhod laughing throughout the arena.
”When all is said and done, John, I wonder what will hurt worse: the fact that you were no different than the rest… or that I was right all along?”

The voice unmistakably belongs to Damon Cross. He is not, however, seen at the present moment. Instead, we’re looking at the view from within a car, staring out the front windshield, watching as trees and thick foliage pass by on either side. The vehicle moves at a leisurely pace along the cracked asphalt, causing the view to bump around a little. Soon enough the view opens up and a neighborhood comes into view. Old-style houses, some rather large to the point of reasonably meeting the definition of mansions. Most of them are decades old, if not pushing past the century mark. Having survived the nasty weather conditions that seem attracted to Louisiana, most of them look to be in excellent states as well. Fine retreats for those of money and means.

But the destination ahead is an exception to all this. A more secluded site, indeed. Where there is not a home to be found, but a ruin.

Damon Cross (voice-over): I’ll say it till I’m blue in the face, John: you brought this on yourself. You said my name. No, you yelled my name. Rather than making your mark in the ring, as is proper, you tried to do it with your mouth. And no matter how many times you get smacked in the teeth, your jaw keeps on flapping. You could have avoided all this by showing even the faintest shred of respect. Except you don’t know the meaning of the word. But… I suppose we’re all slaves to our true natures, aren’t we?

The Redeemer’s voice takes on a musing tone. It is easy to imagine him staring off into the distance thoughtfully, perhaps stroking his chin, wearing a bit of a smile… even though we cannot see him yet.

Damon Cross (voice-over): I will always be a monster, John. And you will always be a thug. We cannot escape this.

Cross sounds a touch sad as he says this.

Damon Cross (voice-over): I call myself the Redeemer. Once upon a time, I was the White Knight and, before that, the Creole Charmer. But somewhere between then and now, I got the idea into my head that I was a Demon of the Crossroads… and then the God of Ascension. The Black Ronin, too, as well as a Crusader. I have more titles than a character on Game of Thrones at this point.

A dry chuckle is heard. The vehicle has stopped by now, and the view of the burned-out, weather-damaged husk of a two-story house with its wraparound porch and half-hanging, ravaged porch swing is clear from the driver’s side window. Rain is starting to come down outside, even. The place must have burned down at some point… or worse.

Damon Cross (voice-over): Some people probably have other colorful names, or epithets, to describe me. Most of them are less than flattering. Once a monster, always a monster, John. Do bad things and that’s all some people will remember… and the things some will never forget. And that’s my cross to bear. I will not shirk that weight, either. But you? What are YOU, John?

You think pretty highly of yourself. But what ARE you, JOHN?

That is the voice of a man making a demand.

Damon Cross (voice-over): You’re not a monster. You’re not a warrior, either. Calling you a thug is a reference to your mindset. What ARE YOU, JOHN?!

The view changes now, the person holding the camera getting out of the car and stepping up onto the cracked, pocked concrete walk before the charred ruin, half-overgrown with grass and weeds. Even the cobblestone walk leading up to what was once the front door looks… broken. The camera is swept around slowly, making sure all watching get a good look at this place.

Then, just like that, the camera’s view is swapped around. Looking into the device is Damon himself. Black jacket, black shirt, black tie… black sunglasses. His dark hair hangs long and loose, his lips twisted into a snarl.

Damon Cross: You’re a victim.

Continuing his walk forward, Damon steps off into the grass, switching the camera’s view as he wanders around the house. Signs warning against trespassing and squatting alike abound, but to him they may as well not even exist.

Damon Cross: I’m sick of having to remind people of who they’re messing with when it comes to me. I’m tired of giving examples, of conducting the nostalgia train down memory lane for the sake of thick-headed dimwits who can’t see the truth when it’s spitting in their eye. But it isn’t as if you would pay attention, John. And even if you did, your little tagalongs Sid and Tyler would be whispering sweet nothings in your ear, trying to tell you that it doesn’t mean anything. Them and the young lady you scooped up to try and even the odds, throwing our match into chaos two weeks ago.

Bullet wounds, burn scars, surgery remnants… this house…

A pause is given as the walk around the ruined home continues. Damon stops before a door leading down into what was once a cellar. He stares at it silently for several moments. Remembering, perhaps?

Damon Cross: I’m sick of reminding you and people like you, John. So sick that I could puke. Because every time one of your type steps up, failing to see the forest for the trees, I have to remind you. Which reminds me. Which brings all the pain back to the surface. The gun to my chin, the doctors digging into me and trying to stitch me together, the deafening roar and blistering heat of an explosion all around me… but you know what they say, don’t you?

Another pause. Then the camera is back on Damon. He wears a sad smile now.

Damon Cross: People like us aren’t allowed to forget.

Taking off his sunglasses, he tucks them into his breast pocket and focuses on the camera once more, walking to the front of the house.

Damon Cross: You’ll never forget what you have done, John, and more importantly, you’ll never forget what I do to you at Reckoning Day. I will make sure of that. There will never be a moment that you look into a mirror or feel a twinge in your body that wasn’t there once upon a time that you will not remember that night and what I did to you. You will not be the same person coming out of this war, whether you win or lose. I damn well promise you that. And if ever there comes a moment where you DO start to feel the memory slipping?

I’ll be in your fucking nightmares that night to remind you all over again.

That cold, dead-serious tone. The hatred in Damon’s eyes. This plus the pounding rain, plus the location, the moment, the memories… those eyes look pure black. Supernatural demon black.

Damon Cross: Get a good look at this house, or what’s left of it, John. This is where your life changes forever.

Damon turns the camera around, making sure that Towers, and everyone else watching, gets just that. His voice rings out in the background again.

Damon Cross: The house that helped make me is going to be the ruin that breaks you, John. You will not walk away from this place. Your friends will have to carry you. For that matter, I might not walk away either. But I can damn well promise you that you’ll fall before I will, John. On that I will stake my life and career.

Right here, John. The Cross Family Ruin. You and me, Last Man Standing. Reckoning Day. It is not for you to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, John. This is what will be. What you started will be finished… but not at the talons of a monster. No, this time, I go to war as what you wish you were, John:

A real man.

Footsteps crunch upon debris natural and not-so, back to the car, one last shot of the house given before the camera is shut off.
The camera cuts to the bowels of the Colosseum, where Dane Preston is seen walking the halls with yet another book tucked beneath his arm, whistling as he walks.

Dane Preston: A nice evening for a stroll…

Stopping just outside a door, Dane cocks his head to the side just enough to read the name taped on the door. The camera focuses in on the name “S. Lopez”, when Dane makes an exaggerated bee-line for the door. Quietly pushing the door open and sneaking in, Dane finds Sylvia down on her knees with her back to the door, repeatedly whipping her back with a leather strap.

Sylvia Lopez: Sylvia is sorry! Sylvia is sorry! Sylvia is sorry!

Slamming Paradiso down on the ground, Dane startles Sylvia from her repentance. As Lopez gets to her feet, leather strap still in hand, Dane places one foot on the book. Sylvia’s eyes go from Dane to the book and back to Dane, with a gaze that could be murderous.

Dane Preston: Are you quite finished yet? By the Gods woman, why do you do that to yourself when you know that I’m going to whip your ass bad enough for ten lifetimes of repentance?!?

Sylvia raises her arm back, the leather strap dangling in her grip. Dane holds his hand up and points to the book beneath his foot.

Dane Preston: Ah ah ah, if you want to complete your Divine Comedy collection, I highly advise that you rethink whatever you’re planning on doing to me with that strap…

Sylvia lowers the strap, prompting Dane to remove his foot from the old tome before stepping back to allow Sylvia to grab her prize. Instinctively Dane raised his arm just in time to catch the leather strap as Sylvia snapped it toward his head.

Sylvia Lopez: Sylvia challenges you to a strap match!!!

With a well placed foot, Dane shoved Sylvia back, yanking the strap out of her hand in the process. Dane’s eyes narrow, he looks at the leather strap in his hand, then stares daggers straight into Sylvia’s eyes.

Dane Preston: You really are a glutton for punishment, you know that? If it’s more pain and torture you want, then that’s just what you’re gonna get. You want a strap match? You’re gonna get one…

Dane spat those last few words when security came rushing through the door, preventing Preston or Lopez from engaging in further physicalities with one another. His nostrils flaring, ears and face beat red, Dane smirks as he slaps himself on the back a few times with the leather strap and then throws it across the room in the direction of Sylvia’s head. The camera cuts back to ringside.