The scene opens to a desolate and dilapidated cabin, in the broad daylight it is noticeably darker than it’s surrounding. As the camera surveys the warped and cracked boards, the shattered windows and flowerpots filled with dead flowers, a faint laughter can be heard. As the camera moves around to the front of the cabin, the creaking of splintered wood can be heard.

“Is there humor to be had in utter cluelessness? Are we to laugh at a pathetic child’s desperate attempts to mask his hopelessness?”

The camera rounds the corner, reaching the run-down front porch--Titan is seated in a rocking chair on the far side, slowly rocking back and forth. As the camera moves closer, the shoddy rocking chair’s creaks become louder and louder. Titan never raises his head, his gaze is focused on his feverishly moving hands. Each hand clutches a long knitting needle, their rapid work produces a growing black garment.

“Tell us, little one: Do your words spend any period of time in that ill-formed brain of yours before they escape your lips? Or perhaps you simply lack the intelligence to string together enough words to create a coherent thought? We could appreciate your words more if they were the least bit amusing, but that is simply not the case. For a creature who prides himself on humor, you seem to only be capable of entertainment when you are least expecting it--such as nearly drowning in a toilet bowl, or even worse, losing a match to Peter Gilmour. As much as we enjoy our own exploits, we must admit that seeing you lose to the laughingstock of the XWF was something that we greatly enjoyed. Because we will never be in such a position, we must ask: How does it feel to have Peter Gilmour...yes, Peter Gilmour, pass the torch of the XWF’s worst joke onto you? Will you receive some sort of commendation? Perhaps a medal bearing the likeness of Barney Green.”

The rocking chair halts as a snort escapes from behind the mask of Titan. He slowly shakes his head back and forth, releasing a deep sigh.

“In all fairness, Peter Gilmour is at least at the very back of the minds of the people of the XWF...where are you Frodo? Outside of that pasty gargoyle Zak Misery, does anyone care about you? No, you’re nothing but a mentally crippled little troll who lurks in the shadows of the XWF, hoping your juvenile humor will attract some sort of attention. And when you do get noticed? You become a human toilet plunger, mingling with the same manner of filth that spews from your mouth on an annoyingly constant basis. Cry, little boy, cry about how I snatched you from your lumberjack perch only after you had done battle with Nazi and Mr. Supernova. Had you any testicles rolling around in that child-sized scrotum of yours, you could have easily dispatched of those two. Were you so taxed by doing battle with the greatest underachiever the XWF has ever seen, and a delusional cripple? What chance have you against a fully functional, fully competent individual such as myself? No chance, Frodo, you have no chance. Did you not witness what transpired last Monday against the host of our upcoming event? Neonero, an individual infinitely more capable than you, witnessed first-hand exactly what power lies within our hands. The feeling of his spine bending across our shoulders was divine, and it is a feeling we are eager to feel again. And that’s where your role lies, Frodo, one that somehow you should be used to: A toy, a hollow vessel that exists solely to derive pleasure from. Search inside yourself, you know we speak the truth. Do you really believe that you could be the recipient of genuine affection? You will always be nothing. Whether it be extremely unsatisfying sex or something pathetic to look down upon, even that ghastly queer of yours needs it’s reasons to keep you around. What a terrible downgrade it suffered, going from a physically crippled queer to a mentally crippled one. What a sickening, pathetic love triangle that is. Even you, in your own sad little way, are aware that you are desperately grasping at the quickly unraveling threads of the only thing in your life worth anything. It is only a matter of time before instinct takes over and the strongest come together, leaving you the odd man out. Will you find your jokes as humorous when you’re broken-hearted and all alone?"

Titan’s hand stop and he calmly places the knitting needles on the armrest of the rocking chair. He holds up the long black scarf and tugs on it, testing its strength, before wrapping the scarf around his neck. Titan stands walks through the cabin’s doorway, entering the dimly lit structure. The camera follows, and reveals numerous taxidermied animals posed about. What little furniture is in the cabin is covered in plastic and layers of dust. With every step Titan takes, it sounds as if the floor is going to give way. He stops and examines his surroundings, his hands brushing against his freshly knitted scarf.

“Alone, Frodo. That is your destiny. Your Administrator lost his head, the despicable you grovel to will upgrade you, you will have nothing left but bad memories and nightmares. Had you had any semblance of a functioning brain operating that laughable husk that you call a body, you would have aligned yourself with real power. Real strength. The kind of power and strength that The Axis will start displaying through violent shows of force. Along with Paul Heyman, Brock Lesnar and our associate, we have ensured that we will never suffer the same fate as pathetic cretins like yourself. Have you any idea what absolute power looks like, Frodo? Affix your eyes to Axis, and you shall know. The mind of Paul Heyman dwarfs that of even the likes of Eli James. The power of Brock Lesnar, the most fearsome figure that the XWF has seen in some time. The cunning of our masked associate is enough to simultaneously spit in your face and stab you in the back. And then there is us. The Titan. We take all of these and we combine them, along with a viciousness that the XWF has never seen. That is what we will be bringing into the cage with us at Nero’s games, Frodo. The formula for the most dangerous individual that the XWF has to offer. And yet you still offer nothing more than pointless knowledge of made-for-television Disney movies and jokes cornier than the feces your seem to enjoy eating. You think we contemplate running from the match? Novel. What have we to fear? The ability to annoy is the only area of life where you may claim superiority to us. Hell, you may even have Peter Gilmour beat in that category. Kudos to you.”

A sobbing cuts Titan off, who instantly perks his head up.

“Ah yes, how could we forget?”

Titan walks over to an open door leading to the cellar, and begins his descent down the stairs. The camera cuts to the dank cellar, lit with a singular light bulb hanging from the rafters. In the middle of the room is a single chair with a sobbing, pale man. A burlap sack covers his face and his shirt is ripped open, revealing a pale, tattooed and bloody body with the word ‘Zak’ carved deep into his flesh. Titan emerges from the darkness behind the man, with the black scarf in hand. Titan drapes the scarf around the man’s neck, causing him to jump. Titan pats him on the shoulder and leans down, putting his head next to the captive’s.

“Where will your icons be Monday night? Charles Manson will be in prison. Erik von Detten will be unemployed. The stars of 21 Jump Street will be Channing all over each other’s Tatum. And not a single one of them will know you exist. Not a single one of them will be in the audience, watching your dismantling. Not a single one will be there to help you escape. Your jokes won’t save you, your pop culture heroes won’t save you, and your disgusting partner in sin?”

Titan grabs each end of the scarf and pulls, tightening the scarf around the captive’s neck. The man struggles to breathe, sending his body into convulsions. Several moments pass as the man struggles to free his neck to no avail. His movement slow, his convulsions become less and less violent, until he stops and there is no movement.

“It can’t help you either. Tell us Frodo, when everything you hold dear abandons you on Monday night inside that cage, will your jokes still be funny?”

Titan rips the scarf off the dead man, in the process knocking off the burlap sack. The man is clearly not Zak Misery. Titan wraps the scarf around his own neck and walks toward the light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Laugh heartily now, clown. Come Monday night, you will have nothing left to smile about.”

Titan pulls the chain and the scene goes pitch black.

1X - GOAT.