[Exclusive to www.theswf.com]
The screen fades up from black to reveal a figure swathed in a black cloak, the hood coming down past his eyes and shadowing his face so that only the chin and mouth are visible. He stands in what bears a vague resemblance to a control room - vague, because the ‘consoles’ are clearly made of cardboard boxes stuck together and covered with tinfoil. Behind him is a map of the world with the United States coloured in red and the words ‘We Are Here’ along with a large arrow pointing to it, whilst the United Kingdom is coloured in black with the words ‘This Country Rawks!’ scrawled underneath. The figure is leaning on the only legitimate-looking console in the room, although on closer inspection this merely proves to be the ‘world map’ control panel (complete with joysticks) from the smash-hit Capcom game ‘Streetfighter 2’.
“OK Toxx, we’re running,” a Canadian accent hisses from somewhere offscreen, and the mouth underneath the hood spreads into a wide smile.
“Hi there,” the distinctive British voice of the SWF World Heavyweight Champion - albeit with an uncharacteristic helping of smarm - greets the viewers, “and welcome to the humble abode of Revolution Zero. Scott Pretzler, JJ Johnson and myself have decided to let you see the innermost workings of our organisation on this one occasion in order to dispel some of the nasty, hurtful rumours that have been circulating about us. As you can see, we are not planning world domination,” Toxxic continues, waving a hand vaguely at the map behind him, “this atlas is merely used for our games of Risk! And as for the idea that we keep files on our past and future opponents, well,” the straight-edger chuckles heartily (a noise never previously heard by most audience members) as he reaches for a ring binder, “that’s a load of balderdash. Balderdash, I say!”
The camera zooms in on the pages as Toxxic’s black-nailed hands flip through them, revealing mugshots of prominent SWF wrestlers like Johnny Dangerous, Landon Maddix, Spike Jenkins, Mak Francis and Wildchild - each one with glasses and moustaches drawn on in thick black marker. Meanwhile, the cameraman (presumably Scott Pretzler) can be heard to whisper “did he just say ‘balderdash’…?”
“So,” Toxxic begins again, closing the file with a *snap*, “as you can imagine, it has been quite hurtful in recent weeks to hear some of the comments being passed around backstage at SWF shows, or between the fans in the audience. And as for the internet message boards and chat rooms, oh!” Toxxic’s face - what little can be seen of it - is a picture of wounded misery as he continues, “you should see the things they write about me! About us! Do these people care nothing for the guilt that wracked JJ after he tied the Insane Luchador to a tree and beat him with a kendo stick to win the Hardcore Gamer’s Championship? Do they have any idea how much dedication and effort it took Scott to deliver the Tildebang Driver to Wildchild on the steel entrance ramp? No,” the Straight-Edge Sensation sadly concludes, “these internet ‘fans’ cannot imagine the sacrifices we make for our sport. And so they call us the one word that springs to the forefront of their minds. Scott?” Toxxic asks, extending one hand to his loyal follower/cameraman.
“Er… ‘fuckwits’?” Pretzler responds uncertainly.
“No…”
“Well, I’m not sure what chatrooms you’ve been going in,” Pretzler continues, the camera growing less steady as he continues speaking, “but that’s certainly one of the more common epithets levelled at us. Perhaps you’re thinking of ‘bastards’?”
“No, not that either,” Toxxic replies impatiently.
“‘Assholes’?”
“No-”
“‘Pricks’?”
“Look-”
“‘Morons’?”
“EVIL!!” Toxxic roars, abruptly losing his patience. Pretzler doesn’t respond, and the World Champion begins to speak to the camera again (rather than the cameraman) with the smile oozing back across his face.
“That’s right,” he says with all the mock-sincerity of a TV evangelist, “people are calling us evil. Needless to say, such an accusation chilled me to the marrow when I first heard it. ‘Evil?’ I thought to myself as I casually decapitated a passing goat, ‘surely not?’. But alas, it was true. ‘So’, I mused as I leaned on my International Megalaser of Death and Destruction,” here the Straight-Edge Sensation pats a big red button with the words ‘Do Not Press Unless You Are At Least 80% Evil’ written underneath in large letters, “‘how can I convince the fans of the SWF that I am in fact as pure as the driven snow?’. Well, I pondered this problem for some time and even used the entrails of a couple of virgins as auguries, but was eventually forced to face up to the harsh reality.” Here Toxxic’s mouth sets into a thin line - the very image of a man readying himself for the unimaginable worst.
“I cannot.”
The bottom lip quivers for a moment, then steadies. There will be no floodgate of emotions opening in this Hoover Dam of British restraint.
“I am afraid that the backstage workers, the crowd and the internet fans have got me bang to rights,” Toxxic states sadly. “I am, in fact, truly evil. I know this now, and believe me it caused some severe soul-searching… once I had found it. But the evidence is unassailable.” With a grim finality, Toxxic raises his hands and begins counting off points.
“Firstly, and possibly most heinously, I win matches on a regular basis. Clearly this can only be achieved through the favour of the Devil. It’s true,” Toxxic continues with a sad, ironic grin, “that I had once thought that it might be because I was simply better than the majority of the roster, but I now realise my fatal error in assuming it could be the result of anything else but Unholy support.”
The World Champion nods his head in unhappy acknowledgement of this fact, then continues.
“The rest of my crimes form an unpleasant list, but I feel that I must bring them to the light of day,“ he states as finger after finger is ticked off. “I bring pestilence to crops. I am British, which after all marks me instantly as evil in Hollywood and all surrounding areas, BUT I am also made in Taiwan. I am unable to recite the American National Anthem - in fact, I am uncertain which of the many stomach-churningly patriotic songs you persist in singing it actually is. The sun hides its face from me wherever I go. Finally, and perhaps most damningly, I own a small but growing collection of plastic bowls.”
A sharp intake of breath is heard off-camera, and the camera itself suddenly jerks as it is set down on something at a slight angle. Scott Pretzler can distinctly be heard saying ‘right, that’s it - I’m leaving this stable!’ and footsteps move away. Toxxic lets out a sigh, then approaches the camera.
“Remember, SWF viewers, what you have heard here,” he says in doom-laden tones. “When Mak Francis challenges for my World Title this Sunday at Battleground, he is doing more than simply wrestling for the greatest prize in the business; he is wrestling for your souls! For assuredly, should the self-proclaimed Franchise lose I will rule the world! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” The booming, extraordinarily fake laugh continues for a couple of seconds before Toxxic grips the edge of his hood and throws it back… revealing eyes that instead of the usual steel-grey are now a blood-red colour (thanks to a handy pair of coloured contacts) and two small red plastic horns glued rather unevenly to his forehead.
“Look I’m evil! You can tell!” he shouts in a rather deranged manner, before suddenly calming down. A grin spreads over his face again, but this is the familiar lopsided rictus associated with the Straight-Edge Sensation.
“This is wrestling, not American Gothic,” he informs the camera. “Jesus people, get a bloody grip! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!”
[FADE TO BLACK. BLACK! BLAAAAAACCK!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA-]
