***Conducting an Interview at the Scheduled Time? Way Too Mainstream!***

The Interview Room that Sayors had brought Teodoro to was, in appearance, a stark contrast from what the interviewee was expecting. The room actually looked to be well furnished, looking more like a Conference Room straight out of a highrise Manhattan office building than anything related to professional wrestling. In the middle of the room sat a large, long wooden table with six chairs on each side. Without thinking, Teodoro takes a seat in one of the chairs on the side of the table closest to the door. Sayors makes his way around the table to the opposite chair, taking his sweet time in the process. While waiting, the seated man tugs on the sleeves of his shirt, looking down at the table with widened eyes.

"You okay?" Steve asks as he takes his seat. His voice sounding less nasally and unbearable now that he wasn't yelling. Looking up from the table, Teodoro nods his head - yes, before jerking his head back downward. Shaking his head, Sayors rests his hands on the table, tapping his fingers against the wood in an awkward, rhythmless rhythm, waiting for the arrival of the camera man to allow this interview to actually begin.

In a matter of minutes, the glass door swings open, and a slightly overweight, pimple faced man in a black T Shirt that read: "XWF Staff" steps into the room, handheld video camera in his left hand. "Finally!" Steve exclaims, the sudden noise forcing Teodoro's eyes open and his mind to return back to the world of consciousness. Groggily, he looks around the room, before his eyes land on the cameraman. Pushing the glasses, that had been falling down his nose, back up, he sees the man more clearly than he had initially. That wouldn't be odd, were there actual lenses in the glasses. Score one for the placebo effect!

"You two ready?" the cameraman asks as he sits down.

"As ready as ever," Teodoro responds.

Click. The red light on the camera flickers and then stays solid, signifying that everything from this point is being recorded and is property of the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. Any attempt to record or replicate the content without the express written consent of Shane 's taint will be met with police and shit.


Steve Sayors: "Let's start with the basics, newbie. What's your name?"

Teodoro Stephenson: "You mean, like real name?"

Steve Sayors: "Cut!"

Just like that, the camera man presses the same button that turned on the red light, and it dies immediately. Steve looks down at the table, shaking his head.

"For future reference, I always mean ring name in interviews." Steve turns his attention to the cameraman once more. "Run it again."

The Interview, Take Two

Steve Sayors: "Let's start with the basics, newbie. What's your name?" (#Deja_Vu)!

Irony: "Irony."

Irony flashes a smile for the camera, before pushing his glasses up his face. Something tells you, the viewer, that this won't be the last time you see that action in this interview. In fact, this narrator would assume that you should prepare your anus for all of that action. Seriously, spread them ass cheeks now, bitches.

Steve Sayors: "Okay then... Any reason why you chose that name? I mean, that's not something most people would think to use-"

Irony: "Precisely the point, Steve. You think that I would actively choose something so common that the dime-a-dozen hacks this company chooses to promote as 'talent' would think to use it themselves long before my own arrival? No, I wanted something with a little bit of a twist to it. Something, dare I say, ironic. So, sorry for not layering on the wannabe Satanism that everyone and their fucking mothers thinks is so edgy and clever to do."

Steve, who was talking a drink of water from an unlabeled plastic bottle, coughs and nearly chokes on the tasteless liquid as Irony finishes his spiel. Clearing his throat, he manages to cough out a follow up question in response.

Steve Sayors: "Well then! It looks like the name worked, as Paul Heyman took it upon himself to book you in a match with the former King of the XWF, John Madison! You have to have some thoughts on that encounter, right?"

Irony: "Is this the part where I'm supposed to act like I have some inherent hatred of the guy because of his affiliation or something, like seemingly everyone else in the company? The part where I'm required to say a couple of defaming things about him for the sole purpose of saying shit?"

Steve Sayors: "I'm afraid I don't quite follow. There's no doubt that John Madison is one of the most hated men in the federation..."

Irony: "Exactly! (Irony slams his fist on the table to accent his one word response) That's what I mean! Everyone seems to hate the fucker, and I'm sure it's gotten tot he point where people are hating him for the sake of hating him because everyone else is doing it! Wow, and not a single soul who's so adamantly against him even realizes that they're playing into his hands more than his hand after he gets done jacking it to the sheer fact that he can make any fucking puppet dance to the rhythm he plays every single time he opens his mouth and makes a statement.

He's played you all. Do any of you think the Black Circle, his little cult of personality was the only thing that he was controlling? No, he's got everyone in this company wrapped around his finger, from the Theo Pryces to the Peter Gilmours, all the way down to the Resistance Incs and whatever the hell Smoke Man wants to call his little abortion of the word 'Revolution'. He wants you to hate him, to insult him, to spit on the very ground he walks on because he likes the look on the XWF's collective faces whenever he proves them wrong.

No, I don't have a personal problem with John Madison. There's nothing about him that's truly hateable because everything he does reeks of 'trying too hard.'

Remember the Juan Madison fiasco? After binge watching the events of the XWF over the course of twenty-thirteen, I found that was one of the most talked about occurrences of the entire year. Everyone pointed fingers back to John about how he was Juan because that's what he wanted you to do. Same thing with the chick that 'he' might even show up as this week. Another ploy to get you to point fingers at him, to berate him on this new front.

Because you all let him get under your skin. Watch how quickly he falls quiet, now knowing that nothing he can say or do will get under my skin...

...Or better yet, watch him decide to go even further down the spiral of insanity, desperately clawing for something he can twist and turn to make me buy into his inoffensive attempts at offensiveness because that's all he's really capable of.

Maybe he'll challenge me to a match where if I lose, he gets to snip my penis off with a pair of pliers or something equally ridiculous just to have some ammunition. Kinda like how he likes to take Gilmour's rage for him and turn the guy into the butt of his jokes, because that's how John Madison does business.

Good ole John Madison! A real pioneer in this wrestling business. Too bad his innovation is about as effective to me as decent acting would be to Tommy Wiseau's 'The Room:'

Not at all. 'The Room' was still an injustice to film writing. Just like Madison's inevitable attempts at getting into my head will have no impact on me, whatsoever.

May the better man win, John."

Steve Sayors: "Very well then. No, no further questions."

***One Change of Surroundings Later***

"I'll call you when I need to be picked up," Teodoro began as he pushed open the door and swung his legs out of the cab. The very same driver from the airport (because yes, apparently this option he signed on the contract made this poor shmuck his chauffeur for the entirety of his stay in Tampa) looks back from behind the stiff leather driver's seat he's seated in and nods to his fare. "Seeya later, Abu!"

"...My name's Dennis, you racist fu-" the driver starts to say, before being cut off by the door slamming behind the exiting passenger. He sighs, resting his head on the steering wheel a few seconds before driving off into the sunset or something equally as cliche. Left, now alone in front of a cloud of hastily fleeting exhaust fumes, Teodoro takes a deep breath and makes his way toward the unwelcoming entrance of this bar in Downtown Tampa.

One could only guess what his purpose here is, and those guesses would likely be incorrect in some way. Logical answers are too mainstream and all that good shit.