Here we are, folks…the home stretch, the end of the road as it were, to War Games. Lemme tell ya, there’s a chill running down my spine as we get ready for this year’s event. Why? Because this is my year, and don’t let anyone try and tell you otherwise.
Least of all Scottywood, the man I eliminated from last year’s affair…and I’ll fuckin’ do it again. Just you wait and see Scottypoo, if I catch sight of you inside that structure I am gonna go ham and make you regret your little resurrection story. After all, simply calling myself an artist a few months ago managed to draw your attention, make you undig the grave you essentially put yourself in back at Dead or Alive, and boom…now we gotta put up with the Hardcore Artist one more time. Give me a fucking break, Scotty. Nice to see you filling up a space in the War Games match for a third year in a row.
Speaking of men named Scott, as if that joke hasn’t gotten tired over lord knows many years…hi Scott Stevens, nice to see you also being here. Consider this the closest thing to a warning you’re gonna get from me: on Sunday night, it’s on sight, and I’m fixin’ for a fight.
Well, that sounded better when I workshopped it. Anyway.
I haven’t even gone in on ol’ Jace Parker Davidson yet, but that’s because I’ve been trying to think of something not related to the whole eye mess. You see, unlike Jace…wait, no, sorry. Anyway, unlike Jace I actually take the time to formulate good points when I talk, instead of coming up with some stupid shit that’ll get me losing half my eyesight. Shit, that’s twice now.
All that shit you’ve talked for weeks on end is finally coming back around to you, Jace. Some call it karma, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from a very long car ride, it’s that karma is a cat, flexing like a goddamn acrobat. Me and karma vibe like th–fuck, that just about does it.
Last time I let someone control the music in the car. Anyway.
We haven’t properly met, Charles de Lacy, but I want to congratulate you on the most notable thing you’ve done since arriving in HOW…qualifying for War Games. Just a shame it’ll be a footnote when the night is done, as I plan on surpassing you even with taking the long way ‘round before I pick up the win and my championship.
And then there’s Evan Ward, the man, myth, and legend himself, making a glorious return just in time for the most chaotic season of the year.
We’re gonna have a grand ol’ time in Mexico, aren’t we? Four teams, seventeen people in all, and every one of us with our eyes (or eye) on the biggest prize in the business. My prize.
And since the vast majority of you all have decided I’m not on your radar, I will just have to make that be the biggest regret of your lives come Sunday. When I enter War Games, when I take down every single one of you jackasses and come out of the structure with my championship, you will acknowledge me for who I am.
Xander Azula. A real fuckin’ problem, and the real fuckin’ champ.
The U.S.-Mexican Border
“Xander, wake up.”
After snoozing in the backseat of the rental van for the past few hours, on the third leg of their journey to Mexico, Xander Azula is woken up by the voice of Mysti as she carefully nudges the Fighter. Xander sits up, looking around the inside of the van to see Thomas at the wheel and Vagn at the passenger seat…but no sign of the fan. Xander’s eyes widen as he starts to panic.
“Where’d Horace go?”
“Bathroom,” replies Vagn, pointing to the nearest porta potty stationed in the area. “We were just discussing that we needed our passports ready for the border patrol, and, uh…Horace…said he needed to go take a piss. He’s been in there for ten minutes…I suspect it’s more of a poo.”
Xander just rolls his eyes at that last remark as the van moves forward slightly, creeping up near where border patrol agents are chatting with drivers as something of a pre-check situation. Eventually, the van makes it to where an agent inquires with the group about their passports…and like the good American citizens they are, the Eternal Circle present their passports to the agent.
“All clear, then,” the agent states plainly, looking at the motley crew from behind his aviator shades. “Enjoy your stay in Mexico.”
The crew give a nod of approval, but hesitate to move forward as they remember the man still in the porta potty. This confuses the agent somewhat, and he isn’t afraid to speak up about it.
“I said, all clear. We’re gonna need you to go on ahead, can’t hold up the line.”
Thomas and Vagn just look at each other before Thomas turns to face Xander for a sense of what to do next, and Xander nods with a sense of acceptance.
“Just go, Thomas. We’ll sort it out later.”
Thomas seems to mutter “alrighty, then” before the car pulls forward, heading through the gate to enter the country. Literal minutes later, the porta potty opens as the fan pulls out a passport from his pocket with a smile on his face.
“Well, sorry for the wait guys, but I’m ready to g–” the young man stops, his smile quickly fading as he realizes he’s been left behind at the border. The man starts to panic, sobbing as border patrol agents are quick to grab him and send him to detainment for questioning.
As for the Eternal Circle, they have bigger fish to fry as they head down the home stretch to Mexico City, a big night ahead of them at War Games as we fade to black.