Willie Kent pulls his Meals on Wheels van up to the driveway for his next delivery. Janice, the sweet but lonely old lady he’s spent the last few years delivering not just food but small moments of happiness to, eagerly awaits him at her door. He hops out, grabs her food, and begins marching toward the steps. A grin sweeps the good-doing man’s face. He doesn’t get paid for this job; it’s all volunteer work. He gets paid in the knowledge that he’s helping those in need when others won’t.

What a great guy!

Suddenly, a female voice yells the iconic Jack Black line: “COMEONAYEEEEHHHAAAAA”

(like so)


Our resident Bubblegum Blonde Badass, Regan Vale, pops out from behind bushes and ambushes Willie with a Super Duper Superkick. Willie collapses like he’s been shot by a sniper. The food spills all over the steps. Janice is screaming.

“Shaddup, Nana.” Briggs snorts while hurling one of her potted plants at the door, smashing it to bits while she retreats inside.

We now find out that it’s Dashford Luxe behind the camera filming this, and the focus turns to Preston, who’s looking slick as always in his suit.

“Well, well, well. It’s me. PVE. Ha. I know what you’re thinking. Why attack a Meals on Wheels driver? Why deprive a little old lady of her much-needed meal? Well, it’s simple. My opponents, Atara Raven and the alphabet assassin XXXXXXXXXXXXVVVIIIIXXXXXIIIVVVV, need to know that I’m willing to do anything, and I do mean anything, to get what I want. If I do this to the Meals on Wheels program, imagine what I’ll sink to in order to win more matches.”

In the background, Briggs and Regan raid the van. Briggs stuffs his face with any meal he sees, while Regan pickily looks for certain kinds. Looks like the other elderly folks on Willie’s route won’t eat tonight either.

“This especially goes for you, Alphabet Boy.” He scoffs at XXXVI’s stupid name. “Rumor has it you had it all. Born into wealth, but you wanted to know what it felt like to suffer. Eventually, that led to wrestling, XWF, ego, blippity blah blah, and you sucked so bad at it that you ran away and immersed yourself in religions and cultures to find some answers as to why you absolutely, irrevocably, sucked. Or perhaps you were so good at wrestling that it bored you and you wanted to seek true meaning in your life?”

Willie groggily sits up. Preston no-look mule kicks him back to unconsciousness.

“Either way, you hid. You’re a fucking coward, ABC. At least I’m up front with my stuff, pal. I don’t wear a mask. You’ve got fans cheering and commentators hailing you as someone with some integrity, yet didn’t you debut by blindside attacking someone? Get the fuck outta here. Let’s call you what you are: a coward who just so happens to be surprisingly good in the ring. You beat Frances and Oz, pal. You’re good. No idea how JC Queef-ton got the best of you; everyone has an off-night, I guess. But look at ya now, number 1 contender for the Revo title, and you might be the TV champ by Anarchy. You won’t be anywhere near 100% though, will you? Not when you’re wrestling Sarah Wolf a few days prior.”

He taps his temple and smirks.

“That’s the difference between you and me. I wasn’t born into wealth. I poisoned the other kids at the orphanage and made my way into richdom adoption. I suffered while you coasted. I didn’t put my faith in magical sky daddies and trashball cultures stuck in the Stone Age. I put my faith in myself. I learned to exploit, and I’m gonna exploit all your weaknesses like I did Saint and his winged twinks, and I’m gonna exploit what Sarah’s done. Don’t think Atara’s gonna save you like Shitbag McGee did against TNGB when they were gonna turn you into alphabet soup. She’s gonna be too busy trying to fuck me instead of fighting me after she sees me in person. That anger she has for me over her hubby will dissipate. Speaking of that broad.”

Preston finger snaps, and we’re in Athens, Greece, at a big public spectacle he’s had to pay corrupt Grecian politicians to facilitate. Preston stands beside a large object hidden under a cloth.

“Atara, I came here to do a peace offering. I removed your hubby’s statue from HoL, so now I’ve made one for you. This one reflects your true nature, since your friends are too afraid to tell you, and you disregard your enemies telling you because you think they’re jealous.”

He yanks the cloth off, revealing an unflattering Atara statue.



“You’ve got an overrated face, sagging tits, and you’ve gained weight since the kid. You’re not as sexy as you think. I mean, look at this pic..”



“That’s mid. That’s any Wal-Mart shopper. Know what else is mid? You’re wrestling. You went from a Classics member with numerous accolades, sponsorships, and video game cameos, to recently losing to people from the Mesozoic Era. Tact has to get his pacemaker recalibrated before every match, for fuck sake. It’s so bad that the legendary coattail rider, Solomon Kline, took pity on you and invited you to join his success surfing safari on Aiden’s ass. Aka, the Tribe.”

The Grecian crowd isn’t having any more of their goddess being slandered and begins rioting. Is Preston bothered? Nope. The undefeated Hall of Legends member continues.

“Even worse, Atara, you're mailing it in now. You show up, wrestle, usually lose recently, then leave. Rinse. Repeat. Me? I’m Black Rainbow. I’ve got Trickleman wanting a piece of us. I’m already in the HoL. I’m ruffling feathers. I’m flogging King. I’m getting eyes on Anarchy. I’m rocking Freebird Rule, baby. Above all, I’m holding more cards than you and 36-ways-to-suck come Anarchy.”

Hell breaks loose now and forces this vignette to end.