04-28-2019, 07:40 PM

Dear Mikhail Nabakov;

I, Kassandra Jimenez, have sent this letter on behalf of my husband and the LPW Heavyweight, International, and Martinez Cup Champion. I have brought to his attention that his four year deal that was signed under unfair negotiations is soon to expire.

He hinted at such in your meeting before Altered Reality.

************************************************** ************************************************** ****

From Gabriel “Mourn Despana” Jimenez:

I was a mid-card wrestler in my last deal and in a feud with a dictator disguised as management. I was told my worth and to find my value elsewhere should I not agree. I have been the workhorse of the company. With that as a reality I have no choice than to officially announce that I am going into the free agent pool should a deal not be made before the 90 day open negotiation period ends on July, 31st, 2019. This time, I have proof of my value as the man who won the biggest match of his time here in the main event of Altered Reality. I expect you to understand that with each day more phone calls about my availability can be made my way by other, possibly richer, companies. I am only looking to take care of the financial future of both me, and my wife (who continues to ask for no money from your coffers.)

This is not personal.


- Gabriel -

************************************************** ************************************************** ****

Here is a list of our demands. I cleaned them up for you. I hope you will find them reasonable:

1. New media rules: Gabriel dictates who he speaks with. But not how much media work he does. Over the last four years Mourn has been on non-LPW TV, listened to on numerous radio interviews, and even has appeared at sporting events. He will continue to do so. All on the behalf of LPW. As long as this is adhered to.

2. A proper office at LPW headquarters. And one we can see before we sign on the dotted line.

3. Paid Vacation. Four weeks a year. Camera crews allowed to follow along for LPW exclusives should you want content. But time away from the road. Where we do not have to be anywhere at night. With this expected to be a long ass extension, this will make it easier for when we intend to start a family in a few years.

4. Domestically, A Tour Bus. I, as Gabriel’s wife, am tired of my husband treated like a fucking horse. Like other lock and step wrestlers who refuse to hold to a moral code or improve their craft. He, like I, tire of airports, disgusting late night autograph seeking virgins, unpredictable weather delays, TSA agents, and uncomfortable seats made for pygmies. In an effort to not only keep a home environment during media tours and traveling, but also extend the length of your World Champ’s career (which is now at seven years straight on the road), I insist that Gabriel have a way to rest while he travels. And something OTHER wrestling organizations do for their high end stars. The “Mourn Despana Brand”™ has been built to those levels. And I demand he is compensated as such.

5. On international trips, first class air travel paid for plus appropriate transportation to and from all activities both for LPW and on private time.

6. A World Champion’s contract with a favored nations provision. A fair one. Gabriel would have his contract raised should his not be at least 90%* of what the highest performer makes.

((Example: Should some legend return and management try to make him the next Al, whatever you back up to the poor fucker, Gabriel gets a raise.))

*This % will raise up should either of us feel disrespected during this business negotiation.

7. Last. And one he PERSONALLY wants. The ability to name and design the soon to be newly created championship to be formed in the wake of my husband’s grandest moment. Gabriel has earned this. With blood.

Now… From me to you Mike, I hope this doesn’t come off as too much. And I am sure you will have issues with some of these, and there will be pull from you. I respect your business acumen and look forward developing a proper business relationship that will make both our families rich and even more famous.

Fuck with us, you lose your freshly minted superstar.

Your Matron;
Kassandra Jimenez

Owner of LPW Mikhail “The Kid” Nabokov lets out an exasperated sigh as the letter flutters to his desk. He leans back in his chair, massaging his temples.

Kid: These two here…


LPW VERTIGO LIVE from the Mandalay Bay Events Center in Las Vegas, Nevada Voting and Promo Thread

Event Card:

Non-Title Match:
LPW Hardcore Champion David Gideon Smith vs. Reece Raymond

Non-Title Match:
LPW Western States Heritage Champion Bobino vs. Bane Uzzah

Andy Savana vs. Sebastian Flynn

PLUS! Mourn Despana’s first words following his landscape-changing victory, an update on the LPW Tag Team Championships, introductions, returns, and surprises galore!

Promo Only until Monday, May 6th, 2019 at 11:59pm PDT, Promo and Voting only until Wednesday, May 8th 2019 at 11:59pm PDT, Voting Only until Thursday, May 9th 2019 11:59pm PDT

05-05-2019, 06:00 PM
The thick smell of burning grease fills the air of a midwestern hamburger joint. Dozens of teenage workers guffaw and toss condiments at each other as the customers rage slowly start to built up in the lobby. A young man no older than 20 comes around the corner red in the face and barely able to contain his rage. He is the manager of this establishment and a customer really let him have it just now.

Manager: Goddamn it, everyone! Let’s focus! This receipt clearly said no lettuce on every one of the burgers and every one of the burgers got lettuce.

The crew looks to him indifferently. He knows that they don’t care but if he shows them that he doesn’t care it would only make things worse. He must remain focus on his companies guiding values and deliver that service he promised to deliver every night when he accepted the position.

Manager: Am I the only one that cares?

He walks down the lobby food prep side of the kitchen and comes to a man hunched over with his head resting just above the vent sucking the excess smoke out to the air. The man’s greasy hair hangs past his ears and eyes.

Manager: Andy, my friend, what have I told you about wearing a hairnet. You know your hair rubbing against your face makes you break out in pimples.

Andy raises his head to reveal his worn face. He is far and away from the man that had won the Hardcore Championship and United States Championship all those years ago. This man has fallen from being one count away from being World Champion to one more raw burger going out from being let go. He’s barely made ends meet these last seven years and his soul was sucked from him within six months of starting this job.

Andy: Please fire me.

The young Manager taps his fingers on his thighs as he attempts to put together and HR friendly response to his aloof grill guy. He taps Andy on the shoulder and motions for him to follow him to the office. He follows the young manager to the office besides the walk-in freezer. The manager sits in a rolling chair and motions for Andy to sit on a box of ketchup.

Andy: I don’t think that’s within food code.

Manager: Just shut up and sit down.

Andy looks uneasy and instead leans across some empty bread racks.

Manager: What’s going on my friend? You’ve been checked out for these past couple of weeks. If you keep it up like this, I can’t come up with a good reason to not fire you. Benny has really been riding my back lately.

Andy: You know that I use to be a star.

Manager: A star, Andy? You were a third-tier champion as the Hardcore Champion and your United States reign wasn’t much better. You were a flash in the pan who fell off the radar as soon as you got close to the World Title and lost.

Andy: I mean…the matches I won them in were entertaining at least.

Manager: Sure. I don’t deny that. What I do deny is that it matters anymore. This is what you are now. You are my best Tuesday night grill guy. I can count on you to generally keep these kids focused on getting those orders out fast and right.

Andy (Sheepishly): People use to rely on me for a good squash match or two…

Manager: But that was in the past. This is the now. You’re not going back to LPW any time soon. You’ve had too many chances and your succeeding is the exception not the normal.

Andy: Look that loss to Kafu was not me at my best.

Manager: You now is you not at your best. What I’m about to say next is not meant to be mean but here it goes. You don’t have too many options for work outside of here.

Andy: Please stop.

Manager: I got to go on, Andy. You are responsible for multiple murders, kidnapping, drug possession, terroristic activities, terroristic threats, and terroristic literature in the country of Armenia.

Andy: To be fair that is a weird law to have in general.

Manager: You’ve been charged with drug distribution, solicitation of prostitution, prostitution, impersonating a police officer, solicitation of a police officer, assault of a police officer, kidnapping a police officer, stealing a police officers vehicle, stealing a police officers weapon, and stalking a police officer.

Andy: In my defense all those charges involved one single police officer. Really he was an investigator so…

Manager: To top it off you have robbed people, hung people, cut them, shoot them, shock them, throw them through glass, barbwire, wood, nails, tacks, legos and windshields.

Andy: Now you’re just making me miss being Hardcore champion.

Manager: All of that is behind you now! You’re just the March Employee of the month now, and that isn’t a bad thing, Andy. In fact, you’re a three time employee of the month. More than anybody since I was a team member.

Andy: Please fire me.

Manager: Andy the shift is almost over. I’m going to let you go home and get your mind right. You’re off the next two days so I’ll see you this Friday and 5pm.

Andy hangs his head and takes a deep breath. The young manager looks to his computer to check the labor and sales for the day. His personal way of ensuring that Andy knew that the conversation was over.

Andy: Best of luck to you, Mitch.

Andy slowly leaves the office while Mitch scrolls up and down on a food cost report. He watches Andy leave the restraint on the cameras and lets out a sigh. His moment of silence is interrupted by the sight of a customer bringing in a massive order that must’ve been made wrong.

************************************************** ************************************************** *****

To whom it may concern,

This is my suicide note. I just want to start right off the top with letting you know that. This isn’t one of those whack ass notes though that talk about how I don’t know why I’ve felt this way. To be straight up I don’t want to show up to work Friday. It’s prom night and those goddamn teenagers are some jackasses. They throw ketchup all over the place and I gotta go out there and clean it up so they can do it again.


Some of it has to do with the fact that I’m a goddamn wrestling star who is serving goddamn burgers to goddamn kids. I should be World Champion! I should be Hardcore Champion! I should be tag team champion with a friend, or a strange bedfellow partner at the least! LPW never asked me to make guest appearances or warn others about the dangers of matches. I haven’t been asked back to do interviews or legends deals or to even commentate once or twice. I’m incredible at commentating.

I pushed away, or murdered a lot of people, in my pursuit of fame. I did all that and yet here I am still. Sitting in this restroom of a starbucks with enough in this needle to put me away forever. I can’t remember if I killed the love of my life or if she walked out on me in one of my drug binges some years ago. I keep looking around the corner thinking she might come and start slapping me for being such an ass, or maybe murdering her. It never happens though and I think that is what hurts the most.

I miss her.

And the attention.

It’s a tie. Not having her and the attention of the LPW universe booing me or cheering me leaves me alone with myself. Alone to assess my value and my friend, or whoever happens to find this, I’m not worth much if you were to go based on what I’ve done these last couple of years.

As it is, it’s been good world, and whoever found this, please make sure you pass this forward or else I wasted like fifteen minutes of my time. Which would make you a bit of a dick if I must be honest. So be a pal and make a copy also. Email it to yourself if you don’t see it posted on any of those wrestling dirt sheet sites. I want all my fans to know how I really felt at the end. I know I’m asking a lot of you random person but just imagine how much I did for you in my wrestling career…which isn’t worth much to you if you didn’t watch wrestling.

Just know I was kind of famous at one point. I literally got away with murder. Like it was in one of my vignettes and probably a promo for one of my matches. That’s insane. I served like two weeks tops. So if you won’t do it for my legacy then do it for that at the least.

As they say in France,


************************************************** ************************************************** **

The pounding at the door of the restroom jolts Andy from his focused writing. He tosses the paper to the ground and gets to his feet. The pounding is relentless and is only growing louder. This Starbucks had two unisex restrooms and there surely wasn’t another person sitting writing their suicide note in the other.

Andy: Fuck off I’m writing something!

The pounding stops and Andy leans down to pick up his note.

Manager: Andy! I’ve gotten a letter from LPW!

Andy raises an eyebrow and stuffs the suicide note into his pocket before opening the door. Mitch forces himself in and shuts the door behind him to lock it.

Andy: Hey my friend I don’t know how much you think I want that job but this isn’t happening-

Manager: Fuck off, Andy. I’ve gotten a letter from LPW. They want you to return for a match against someone named Sebastion Flynn.

Andy: Who the fuck is that?

Manager: I have no idea. It’s pretty low on the card so you had to be their last chance at fitting this guy into a match.

Andy: Well I wouldn’t go that far.

Manager: Even your matches set up as squashes weren’t shoe-ins for you to win.

Andy: Is this guy good or what? I never heard of him and I’m not even sure if I should accept their offer.

Manager: I don’t have any idea who this guy is. To be honest I don’t give a shit if you accept the match or not. My only issue is the date for this match has it happening on a Saturday evening and you usually work Saturday evenings.

Andy: If you didn’t want me to go then why did you even tell me they offered me the match?

Manager: I want you to go though. You’ve been working like shit lately and I like to think that if you go out there and have a match you won’t be so shit.

Andy: Jokes on you because I lose a lot. Lost enough to get relegated to grill guy on Saturdays.

Manager: Don’t be dramatic. You had an above .500 win record. Sure it took you like four years to get there and you definitely had your fair share of losing streaks. I think you can do it though. I think you stand a chance of revitalizing your career.

Andy: But I still have to work my shifts?

Manager: Friday through Tuesday you are still expected to be there five in the afternoon until ten, yes. To make sure you don’t miss your shifts I plan on managing you.

Andy: You’re already my manager.

Manager: In wrestling, Andy. I want to be your manager in wrestling. Follow you to the ring, low blow people, keep you on the straight and narrow. I’ll do that until one of two things happen; you lose so much you stop getting matches, or I finally have to fire your ass.

Andy: I’m not so sure about this. I was just writing my suicide note and I think I really got some good material in this one. Usually I just go off the rails and ramble on.

Manager: Let me read it.

Andy passes Mitch the suicide note and waits a second as he judges it. Andy fidgets his fingers and taps his toes impatiently as Mitch seems to be having problems making out a few of his words. Mitch nods his head and crumples up the paper before throwing it in the toilet.

Andy: What the fuck!

Manager: That was a shit suicide note. You literally rambled on. Are you on meth?

Andy: Of course.

Manager: Yeah, as soon as you crashed you would’ve saw just how bad of a suicide note that was. I expected better of you, Andy. Your promos use to be legendary…ish. Memorable at least.

Andy: I’m writing with a goddamn crayon.

Manager: Either way, you could have done better. Just like you could be doing burger on the grill and you certainly could’ve done better in LPW.

Andy: So what now?

Manager: Well you need to report for your shifts as usual. The actual event is a bit of a ways out. Until then I’ll have to figure out who this Flynn character is.

Andy: Is it really important? I’ve beaten Cynical, Hatchet Ryda, and Nigel Vanderbilt or whatever the fuck his name was. I’m up for any challenge and unless they get lucky, namely Kafu, they don’t stand a chance.

Manager: No, unless you get lazy, they don’t stand a chance. When you’re in your prime focus space you are incredible but when you let outside life get in your head you fall apart. Just like I made you the best damn grill guy in the company I’m gonna take you to the top of LPW.

Andy: What do you get out of this? Why are you choosing to help me?

Manager: Like I said earlier, I need you to work your shifts. Also I was kind of a fan from back in the day. I remember you came in and had that five match win streak and the first set back sent you on a slide. When you started at the restaurant I always thought how cool it would be to be your manager, besides already being your manager.

Andy: Well at least one of our dreams come true.

Manager: What do you want? What’s your dream come true.

Andy: To be the World Heavyweight Champion of LPW.

Manager: I think I can make that happen if you trust me.

Andy: Well….I did ask for the fifth off like two weeks ago and I know I told you to your face, but then the fifth came and they kept calling me trying to get me to come in, and you claimed I never told you but I definitely told you. Tony was watching me tell you, but he got fired so he wasn’t a good witness, then-

Manager: Just fucking trust me.


05-06-2019, 03:15 AM
LPW Western States Heritage Champion Bobino vs. Bane Uzzah

A faint light from the torchlight zipped, to and fro, across a dark room, frantically shifting around as though the person holding the light was running away in fear. All of a sudden, the light shone still onto a big brick wall, dripping blood from top to bottom.

The light moved slowly to the right revealing the message, written in blood:


*cough* Ho Hee

The torchlight swung upwards and revealed the person making the laughter - Bane Uzzah. His handsome features were contorted into a manic monster- his brows were furrowed, his cheeks puffed and his eyes staring straight as if into the soul. His grin was forced wide, unnaturally jovial as he continued to laugh.


Oh how have the heavens favored the wise and brave...
Bobino… Bobino… How’s… Bobbbbyyyy? HAHA! HA! Ho HEE!

A big boo-boo perhaps?

Oh, what use do you have for that championship, my dear….
Hardcore enthusiast,

If your very soul is ripped from the socket of your empty heart?

You let Bobby's mum die! You were too late!

Ain't this a bloody mess of sin? Said the Mother, a torn lady.

Bane started speaking in a high pitched, lady-like voice.

Bobino, you came TOO LATE
He made a sweet wreck of my spirit.

But I've already forgiven you.

I already did, baby.
I already did.

Bane turned towards the camera, his signature low growl returned as he continued his monologue.

And Your Soul said to the Mother:

I remember the last time we touched,
the last time we spoke,
the words ricocheting off empty walls,
vandalizing the souls on our dirt-stained walls.
And I can feel…

Oh, how I felt!

Your mouth as it opens and closes,
your blistered lips forming the shape of your shock,

It’s the curves of your arms, it’s the bend in your elbows.
it’s the remnants of life’s portraits in the cracks of your pale lifeless lips.

Oh, How I remember!
I remember the love of my life...
How I would push my fingers through your mouth,
my heart praying to make those muscles move!
The same lips, the same tongue, the same joy,
that made your voice so smooth and sweet...

But what is left?


The curve of your bones, the melting of your flesh.
Your crooked teeth, as you wallow in the darkness knowing it’s the end.

And still you forgave me! You forgave me, baby. You have to.


BUT Bobino, no, no, no. No happy ending for ya.

You failed. You failed. You failed Bobby!

Hi Bobby, did you know…. Your dad let your mum die?


Before you think that I am mocking your loss…

I am NOT! No I am NOT!

I am joyful, exhilarated… Because SUFFERING IS THE WILL of YAHWEH!

Were you told as a child how cruel the whole world can be?

Did anyone told you that?

How to cope with pain and tragedy?

Did anybody ever show you how?

When it finally hits, will our hearts burst or shrink or grow stronger?

Is there really only one way to find out?

Is suffering the only way to learn?

I tear this beret from the top of my head.
I break each and every badge of honor with my bare hands.
It’s best to just forget and let go.
Paint it white as snow, like how God’s mercy painted us sinless.

I have been here before, staring at the Western States Heritage championship.

Never had I felt more…. Freedom than ever before. The LORD has spoken. I am here, as a friend. As a guiding light for your soul. As we fight over what is material, are we losing what is eternal?

one day, the championship… may fall on my lap, it might not.

But that’s not the point.

The point is, Bobino, for all your achievements….

Is the title worth it?

Worth the price of your wife’s soul?

Worth Bobby’s soul?

Worth the big boo-boo?

My loved ones have died, left me in ashes.

But will I wallow? Will I wither? Will I die?

No! My God needs me.

No! Israel needs me.

Every single death, is a lesson to move forward to greater heights.

Look at the doves, and the crows - they led me to the most wonderful conclusions.

The most wonderful choices. I get to do God’s will. Because my suffering elevated me.

Without my suffering I am NOTHING!

And Bobino. Even today, as you lose your fight against me, you will be elevated.
You will be greater. Stronger. Because loss… is liberation.

The lifeless, bloody body… is a gift….



The light fades.

05-07-2019, 10:01 AM
The moving spotlight of an old chandelier dances around a dusty floor. As it swings from left to right and back again we see momentary glimpses of a beaten, bloodied and blindfolded Sebastian Flynn who is tied to a chair. The thick layer of dust of the floor is only interrupted by clean lines made from the dragging of the chair to it's spot underneath the old light. Droplets of blood from Flynn's wounded body pepper the trail. On another day it could be mistaken for a train track with beautiful sparkles of red following it's journey. Not today.

"I wasn't always like this you know?" says Flynn

"We know." comes the response from a gravelly voiced man, not in shot.


My name is Sebastian Flynn. You can call me Lú.

Have you ever wondered what the world looks like through someone else's eyes? The answer, somewhat disappointingly for some, is remarkably similar to your own. Every now and again there is a moment, a split second where seeing what someone else can could change things, turn the tables or give you an advantage...an unfair advantage but it's what you do with it, right?

Belfast, The Hatfield House, March 19th 2009.

The downstairs bar and lounge is packed with clusters of 20-something's dissecting the previous weekends antics. Students sip tamely on ciders as their hangovers from a two day St. Patrick's Day binge vibrates through their bodies. Upstairs four tables of eight men and women are carefully positioned around the function room, a dealer at each table. This is the annual St. Patrick's Day Poker Tournament.

If this had been 40 years previous the idea of anything other than the Hatfield being somewhere the rebels gathered to discuss how they could free Ireland was laughable but when the Good Friday Agreement was struct in the mid-90s things changed, and with that what was once a Republican stronghold was now one of the most popular student bars in the city...but...some relics remained. Two of which where taking part in the poker tournament. Ryan and Kieran O'Hara. Provos in a time when they weren't supposed to exist. Still fighting the good fight when there was no fight left. Two. Dangerous. Men.

"Well boys, what's the craic today?" asked Sebastian.

"My head is busting, Flynn. Go and get me a pint before this thing starts." said Kieran O'Hara as his head rose from his hands.

"No bother. You fancy anything Ryan?"


"Right...one pint it is."

"Hahahah. Get that grumpy cunt a pint too." piped up Kieran.

Sebastian, the grandson of the bars owner, went to fetch Kieran's drink. No big surprise Ryan didn't respond to him. He hasn't spoken to him in months since his girlfriend at the time spent the night with Sebastian. Only for the fact that Kieran and Sebastian were close he could have been looking for new kneecaps, fortunately pleading ignorance was enough to get him away with a verbal warning.

The tournament kicked off with it's usual bluster. The drinks where flowing out of the bar as quickly as the cards where being dealt. The O'Hara brothers where notoriously bad poker players. Loose with their cards and flash with their money. They would bully people with bets they knew their opponents wouldn't be able to match and if that wasn't enough to put them off their hands the unspoken threat of violence was never far away.

"Full house wins." calls the dealer.

"Fuck ye, Flynn. That'll do me. My heads still booming. I'm doing a candy run, either of you want some brought back?" asked Kieran as he rose from the table.

"Nah, you're grand. I'll win this first and worry about what to do after that." replied Sebastian with a grin as he pulled the chips he'd just won off Kieran into his already impressive pile.

Ryan shook his head and turned back, steely eyed to the dealer, prompting a quick deal. The tournament continued and more patrons dropped out, with Sebastian and Ryan taking most of the casualties. Ryan is his over betting and aggressive bluffing and Sebastian using every ounce of poker knowledge his grandfather had taught him over the years.

"Here we are, Ryan, heads up." said Sebastian. "What's the winner taking home, dealer?"

"There's 8k in the pot, Seb." answered the dealer.

"Nice. That'll help the hangover."

Most of the players who had been knocked out earlier in the day had left and been replaced by beer swelling friends of the O'Hara's. St. Patrick's weekend was a time where even the least nationalist person in the country couldn't help but be proud to be Irish, so think what it does to the neanderthal mind of a drunken provo. The fact that this was Sebastian's grandfather's bar gave him very little security as he was becoming increasingly aware that without Kieran to act as a buffer to Ryan and his cronies if something kicked off here he'd be in big trouble.

Out the cards came. Sebastian is dealt the Five of Spades and the Nine of Hearts.

Fuck you, dealer, could you have gave me anything worse!?

"Double the pot." said Ryan.

"What?!" asked a taken aback Sebastian.

"You can't do that." interjected the dealer.

"Can't I?" said Ryan, with the dealer quickly sinking back into his chair.

"You know I don't have that can't of cash, Ryan. Just play the thing out."

"You don't want to double it? How about we treble it then?" snarled Ryan.

"Fuck it, it's all coming to me anyway. Call"


Out came the flop, Four of Diamonds, Seven of Hearts, Jack of Clubs.

Shocking. I'm in bother. I have nothing.

"I'm all in." said Ryan

"What's that even mean at this point you fucking clown, you've already bet over all the money that was already on the table."

"I bet you the bar. Put the keys to The Hatfield in the pot or fold your cards, keep your bar and fuck off." aggressively roared Ryan.

Ah shite. What am I supposed to do here. Jesus I'm surprised this fucker can't hear my heart beating out of my chest. I've a mad man in front of me who clearly wants me the slightest reason to kick the ever living shit out of me. I'm surrounded by his army of roided up, free Ireland morons. I've barely a penny to my name. I can't bet my granda's bar. It's his, not mine to bet.

Sebastian could feel the sweat collecting on his brow. As his hand swept across his forehead sweat trickled down into his eyes, stinging them and causing him to close them tightly. When he opened them...he could see himself.

He blink again he was staring down at his hands. His eyes stung and he squeezed them close, opening them again to see himself as if he was looking in a mirror. But he could see his head was bowed. He could see that his own eyes where closed. For a split second he was seeing through Ryan's eyes.

Sebastian blinked again. Disorientated he opened his eyes wide, looking across the table at Ryan, shaking his head to try and snap out of whatever panicked daze he had found himself in.

What the fuck is going on? Am I having a panic attack? Am I having an out of body experience? What is happening to me?!

Sebastian closes his eyes tightly one more time, trying to compose his thoughts, only to open them again as Ryan is looking down at his cards. He feels as if time slows down. He see's the Two of Hearts and the Eight of Clubs.

He bluffing. Of course he's fucking bluffing...

"Are you betting or not you piece of shit?" shouts Ryan while banging the table.

"The keys of this place, Ryan? You can't afford that, mate." replied Sebastian with a calm demeanour that riled O'Hara up to no end.

"Last chance, call my bet or walk out with your tail between your legs, Flynn."


Sebastian turns up Five of Spades and the Nine of Hearts. He has nothing. There is a shocked silence in the room, a mixture of confusion and glee. The collective optimism is quickly engulfed by a cloud of rage as O'Hara shows his cards. He has worse than nothing. Flynn is winning.


"I knew you were bluffing, Ryan, you always bluff. You are a bluffer. Bluffed all these lads into thinking you are something and if not for your brother no one would look at you sideways."

"If not for my brother you'd be a fucking deadman, you cunt."

"Two cards left to deal." said the dealer, his hand shaking with nerves. "Ace of Clubs....Queen of Diamonds. Sebastian wins with nine hi-."

Before the dealer got the chance to finish his sentence Ryan O'Hara flipped the table...


"That's how I got the scar on my neck. One of those mad cunts bottled me. I didn't see a penny of that money either. Kieran sent Ryan off to Engladn after that..."

"We know...it's also the first time you experienced your...ability. You've came a long way since then, Sebastian."

"If you say so."

"We know so. We know more about you than you know about yourself, Sebastian. We've been eager to talk to you for a long while now."

"All you had to do was ask. Beating me to a pulp and tying me to a chair is a little overkill."

"Perhaps. Or maybe it was the only way we could have a conversation with you...on a level playing field. We have a job for you."


Las Vegas, Mandalay Bay Hotel, May 7th 2019

Sebastian stood at the bar looking down at the poker tables with a wry smile as he waited for the LPW representative to come back with his paperwork.

"Could I have a coke." asked Flynn

"Anything else with that?" replied the barman.

"Eh...you know what, maybe throw a whiskey in with it."

"No problem, will that be all, sir?"

"Actually, hold the coke. And put it on The Kid's tab."

Sebastian spun around on his high chair and gazed across the casino floor. Each person on their own personal roller-coaster of luck and misfortune. He watched as a young couple won big on roulette, he seen an old man lose a fortune on blackjack, he watched a kid hit the jackpot on the slots and do a runner because they thought they'd set off an alarm. He did this all in one blink of an eye.

"Mr. Flynn, everything seems in order. Here's your pass, your first appearence under the employment of LPW will be to face an old fan favourite in Andy Savana in the main event of their Vertigo show. If you have any other questions, queries or issues that I can help you with, my name is Blake, my numbers on the card I've clipped to your pass and I'm only ever a phone call away from helping you as best you can."

"You'll have a drink with me, Blake?" said Sebastian, whirling his finger around to the bar man and nodding toward his new friend.

"I don't drink on the job."

"You've jobs done. You've got me sorted, relax and enjoy the fruit of your labour."

"O...OK." replied Blake sheepishly. He takes a sip of his whiskey and grimacing as he swallows.

"Tell me about Andy Savana, Blake."

"He was gone before I started here, Mr. Flynn, so my kno-"

"Just let me stop you real quick, you can call me Sebastian, Seb, hell if you want you can call me Lú, that's what all the fans will be shouting soon enough but that's enough with the Mr. Flynn. Carry on."

"Eh, well I haven't much more to add. He was a decorated mid-card performer who had a shot at the title and when he wasn't able to achieve the big one, like so many others, he seemed to disappear."

"Not the most succinct scouting of an opponent I'll ever do but it's something to work off." Sebastian then points across the room. "What about that guy."

Blake's head turns and he gasps slightly as he see's Chris Austin staring across the room at the pair.

"That's...that is Chris Austin."

"Aha...well he's been looking this direction ever since you landed over here with my pass. So either you've pissed him off or he's wondering who I am. Have you pissed him off?"

"I've never even spoke to Mr. Austin."

"Funny, I thought that."

What are you looking at Austin? I see you staring at me.

And I can see me looking back at you.

Sebastian nods toward Austin in the distance who declines to respond in kind. Flynn then spins back around to the barman, requesting another round. As his eyes lock on the barman's, for a split second - which lasts forever - he now see's what the bar man does, which is Chris Austin is walking away.

"Back to Savana, you said if I've any questions or queries come to you. I want to know everything about him. I have one chance to make a first impression here, Blake, I want it to be a good one."

I see you, Andy.

05-08-2019, 08:08 PM
“Fucking hell, this is agony,” Reece Raymond thought, staring at his phone in the middle of the bustling Las Vegas train station. His ill-fitted, long-sleeved Salt Lake Stallions hoodie, coupled with a pair of sweatpants wasn’t the most appropriate wear for a decidedly warm Nevada day, in hindsight.

He taps his knee in anxious wait. His sunglasses fog up as he begins to succumb to the rising warmth.

“Hurry up already” He mutters under his breath.



He looks at the message: “Locker 415. There is a key behind the ficus next to the drinking fountain”

He peers across the station and locates the ficus at the far end. With a dead focus, he begins walking. A few yards up, he looks to his left and notices a promotional poster for the Vertigo show. He winces, seeing his face nice and prominent promoting the card against DGS.

“Goddammit. Of fucking course” He brings his hood up a bit more and hunches his shoulders, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible. Picking up the speed, he is able to get to the plastic plant in relative quickness. Looking at the base of the trunk, he spots something under the mulch. He ruffles his fingers through the chips and pulls out a key. He breathes a sigh of relief and stops to get a drink of water. The cool and refreshing wave relaxes the nervous wrestler.

Turning around, Raymond spots the set of personal lockers across the station. He briskly walks across the populated floor, keeping his gaze towards the ground. “Just a little further.” He thinks to himself. He finally stops in front of the locker and uses the key to open the door. There inside, he finds a small, rectangular US postage box, addressed to “Reece Raymond” with no return information.

“All right, easy enough”

“Mr. Raymond?” A curious and excited voice rang behind him.

“Holy Fuck Cakes!”

Reece turns around to see a young, happy woman standing behind him. Her bronze skin allowed her flowing white dress and long blonde hair to pop out even more. Her youthfulness, only half obscured by the large sunglasses taking up half her face, with the other half taken over with a smile from ear to ear.

“Uh…..” Reece stammered.

“I’m sorry! I hope I didn’t startle you,” The woman apologized “I… is it you or not?”

“Oh, uh, yeah no it’s okay, hi! Nice to meet you!” Reece perked up, trying to put on an equally as excited a persona.

“Huge fan.” The woman professes as she reaches into her bag, “And... I was wondering… would it be too much to ask for an autograph?” She pulls out a small notebook with a pen and presents it to the wrestler.

Reece looks around to make sure no one will notice “Oh, uh, sure! Absolutely!” He grabs the notebook and begins to write.

“So how has everything been since you came back to LPW?” She ponders.

“Oh, it’s been fine. Wish I got the win at Altered Reality, but I’m just happy to be back”.

“How is the neck holding up?” Her smile fades.

“So far so good.” Reece tries to say with a tinge of worry in his voice. “Just have to take things easier on it. Who can I make this out to?”

“Is it worth it for your family?” She deadpans.

The frankness of the question makes Reece stop. He looks up to the woman, now gazing at him with the same concern one would have for a loved one.

“I’m sorry?” He responds quizzically.

“Have they hurt you or forced you to do anything? Have they?” The worriedness in the woman’s voice growing more and more.

Reece tenses up and begins to tremble in the knees. He asks himself. “What is she talking about?”

As if on cue, a loud train whistle blows. The woman looks back to the massive clock in the middle of the station. 2 O’Clock.

“Shit,” She mutters. She turns around and grabs the notebook from the wrestler’s hand. She opens it up to the back and tears out a small piece of paper. She proceeds to stuff it in his front hoodie pocket. “If you ever find yourself in a situation… you know… just, call me. I’ll try to help.”

The woman runs off in a hurry before Reece can respond. “Wait, what was your name?” he tries to call out, stopping half way realizing he could bring attention to himself. He swerves his head looking around and pulls out the note. On the paper in green ink is only the word “Mechanic” followed by a phone number. He looks back up to find the woman, but she has vanished into the crowd of people attempting to catch their train. Reece takes this cue to walk out of the station.

Arriving outside, he walks towards a bright white limousine where the driver is waiting, smoking a cigarette. The driver notices Reece as he approaches and quickly puts out the butt. Reece doesn’t even wait for him to open the door and shuffles into the back. The cool AC air hits him hard as he enters and sits down limp onto the leather upholstery.

The driver gets into the front and rolls down the separating window “Back to the hotel, Mr. Raymond?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just do it.” Reece replies wearily.

The limo pulls out and proceeds to head down the street. Reece finally looks back at the package and opens it. Inside is a tape recorder. He presses play.

A distorted voice comes out “Got this? Good. Now here’s what’s going to go down…..”


Go ahead.

Say it.

I choked at Altered Reality.

On the biggest stage of them all, in front of everyone I hold dear and the entire world, I didn’t get the job done. I set myself up for great heights, only to crash down even harder.

And you, David, you took on 3 other men and took home the grand prize. You got the win and the belt around your waist. Not even facing me, you already proved to be the better man.

I’m not even talking shit, DGS; at Altered Reality, you cucked me harder than I’ve ever been cucked. “The Boy Wonder And His Miraculous Return” being shown up by the guy who put him out of action to begin with.

David, with as much professional respect I can muster for you, you are undoubtedly the better of the two of us.

But with all that said, why are we going at it without that title on the line?

See, before that big win, I beat you. I beat the LPW Hardcore Champion. I didn’t need to do anything fancy. I got the better of you clean. Yet I’m not worthy of taking that title away from you?

My reward for beating you wasn’t revenge. We may be 1-1 but we are far from fucking even. You tried to take away my life; the one thing I hold dearest of all, the reason I can put food on my family’s table: wrestling.

You broke my neck. I’m not sure how longer I can do this with that literally on the back of my mind. Any day, any time, one wrong move and it’s all gone. That scares me.

David, the only way I will ever be even with you is if you feel that fear too. I want you to be in constant agony. I want the nightmares to never end. I want you to dread every new day. I want you a miserable husk of a man. That starts by taking that precious title from you.

But that isn’t happening. This isn’t a title match. This is non-title action.

That tells me you are already scared. You don’t even want to humor me with a chance. You know that I can take it away from you just like that. You know I can snap your arm off.
You know I’m dangerous.

You’re a fucking coward. I’m more than worthy for a title shot, but you are too scared shitless knowing I can take everything away like you almost did for me.

But the funniest part about this? It almost doesn’t matter. Title match or non-title match, I love any chance I can to hurt you in any way. Even if I can’t win a title at Vertigo, I will enjoy choking the life out of you.

However, after that big win and the fact this is non-title, I worry you won’t bring your A-Game, David; that this isn’t a 110% effort match.

Well how about this: after two consecutive victories, I may as well call myself the LPW Hardcore Champion.

I may not have the title, but I beat the little shitbag bitch who held it.


David, let’s fucking go.

05-09-2019, 12:30 AM
Bobino's Promo begins after the asterisks.


You don’t deserve plot development.

You would waste the emotion and progression of my tale.

You are nothing, and that is what you deserve.


That’s what you claim the history of, isn’t it, Bane?

You know nothing of strength, you know nothing of toughness.

You know nothing, Bane Snow.


“They said they need a big match to kick off the new tour, Bob.”

A nervous looking stagehand stands staring at the New Western States Heritage Champion, Bobino.

“They need… They need… you’re gonna tell me what THEY need?”

Bobino steps closer, he’s been notoriously harsh on stagehands, so this one has already been prepared to back down.

“I’m just telling you they need you to defend or title, Bobino.”

The stagehand is making it clear with his body that he’s a messenger.

“Listen, kid. I know you’re not happy they asked you to come here. Let’s start over. Do you know where I’m from, kid?”

Bobino has very noticeably toned his body language down to be less threatening.

“Boston… I think?”

Bobino nods, “Close enough, I was born in New Hampshire and raised and live in Boston. My grandparents are from Canada and their grandparents were from France.”

The stagehand nods along, still uneasy, but following Bobino words.

“Let me ask you,” Bobino leans his body in and holds up the LPW Western States Heritage Championship. “Does it sound like I have any Western States in my Heritage? Does it sound like I care what they -NEED-?”

He shoves the kid off of him and tosses the championship back on the pile of shipping boxes it lazily rested on.

“Tell them no go on the title match. I’m not defending that waste of a belt until I absolutely have to…. and I’m definitely not defending it against someone like Bane.”

The stagehand takes his opportunity to get away from Bobino who is being an even bigger asshole than normal.

“I warned them… I’m not saving the belt they let Mourn toss in the trash. They let this thing die… Not me.”

Bobino reaches back and grabs the title belt as he starts to walk away. He holds it by the end of the strap, letting the leather and metal hang down, dragging the other side slowly across the pavement as he walks away.

As he turns the corner, he sees the usual promo drop set up. Without warning he steps into frame, and the crew barely notice before he starts.

“Over here, camera monkeys. I want the people at home to hear this. I want the people at home to know what their precious LPW has been reduced to.I just had some faceless, nameless kid deliver a message that they NEED me to defend my title. You see there’s a problem with that…”

Bobino holds the title into frame.

“This… this isn’t my title. This is Mourn Despana’s afterthought. This is an abortion. This is failure.”

Bobino tosses the title of screen, audible clinging can be heard.

“I warned them, I’m not their savior of titles, not this time. That piece of leather is my hostage. I am -NOT- defending the LPW Western States Heritage Championship at Sin City… because I don’t want to. Nobody will get near it until as late as I’m possibly required. I came out here and defended -MY- Hardcore Championship against more challengers than any champion in history… because THAT title MEANT something. This title… over there somewhere is meaningless.”

Bobino paces while collecting his thoughts.

“They NEED me to save this place and defend my title for a big match… but then give me Bane… Not someone who won at Altered Reality to earn a shot… but Bane. You people listen and pay attention. I will destroy Bane, because I enjoy it, not because I’m defending some belt. This place will either follow me and evolve… or I will burn everything to cinders.”

Bobino cracks a small grin before looking into the camera one more time.

“They finally are at my feet, begging me to save them… and I am staring back telling them….



This isn’t your story to tell, Uzzah.

This. This is my world. This place is -MY- legacy.

You can try and twist and interpret anything you’d like, but much like against Jensen at Altered Reality, you’re going to fail… yet again.


That is your legacy.

You tried to appropriate the legacy of one much stronger than you. You try to coast off the emotion tied to the name, Uzzah. As always, at everything you do… you failed,


It seems wrong to continue letting you desecrate the name like that, doesn’t it? Do you really personify strength? The only thing you’ll share with the Uzzah of legend is your demise will be the result of reaching for a prize you cannot touch.

You are not an Uzzah.

Your name holds no meaning. You want to see meaning?

I am Bobino, first of his name, last of C.H.A.O.S., Educator of Hardcore, Victor of the Owner’s Cup, Ender of Careers, and the Father of Evolution.

You. Are. Nothing.

At Sin City, I -END- Uzzah.

Long Live Bane Mahalah.

05-09-2019, 02:53 AM
You disappoint me, Reece, as thoroughly and as utterly as anyone ever has.

Let us be frank with one another on this, the eve of our rubber match: your time here has been nothing short of forgettable. If you were to retire tomorrow – if this last stand against me were to be your last stand altogether – the sum total of your career as an LPW wrestler, of yourself as an LPW wrestler, would be a footnote. An afterthought.

A fading echo against the vast symphonies of history, ringing ever-hollow with litanies of elsewhere-achievements and smacking sour of the competitor – the man – you imagine yourself to be.

You can feel it, I think. Closing in on you – the inevitability of it, the timeless weight.

This is your future I’m describing, Reece. Your legacy.

Your epitaph.

Your star reached its zenith at Altered Reality, coming up just shy of the Western States Heritage division before crashing back down at the hands of… well. I doubt you need me to recount the sequence of events, having been there yourself and all. The feeling of your shot – your first, best, perhaps only shot – as it crumbles to dust and slips through your fingers… it’s a sensation not easily forgotten.

Trust me – I know.

But I digress.

You are correct, Reece, and to do anything other than say it would be a disservice to the event and its implications: you failed at Altered Reality. You choked.

After beating me, you choked.

I cannot allow that to stand.

David was washing his hands and tools when he heard the apartment’s front door open, heard the sharp and rhythmic clack-clack of wingtip shoes on hardwood floors. The sound crossed the living room and came to a stop at the kitchen threshold, and he let his head roll from side to side, fighting the urge to tense his back as he felt Gato’s eyes boring into him.

Gato: Finished, I take it?

DGS: Yeah.

There was a moment of silence. David glanced over his shoulder to see Gato peering over his own, regarding the living room he’d crossed through to reach the kitchen. When next the yakuza spoke, it was without turning back around.

Gato: And?

David turned back to the sink, picking the screwdriver up off the counter. He dabbed a bit of soap on the fingers of his opposite hand and then ran both back under the water, pinching the flathead between two fingers and working away at the thick, arterial red that caked it.

DGS: Nothing.

David heard Gato’s footing shift as he turned around.

Gato: … nothing.

DGS: Nothing.

More footfalls, this time quicker and carrying the sharp edge of linoleum as Gato approached his back.

Gato: All that in there, and he had nothing?

David shrugged, eyes following crimson-stained water on its way down the drain.

DGS: Don’t know what to tell you, he didn’t have anything to say. Maybe your boys got the wrong guy.

Gato: Hm.

Gato’s footfalls carried him back over to the living room threshold.

Gato: … and what all did you do, exactly?

DGS: Enough.

Gato: Clearly not.

DGS: Hey.

At last David turned, locking eyes with his retainer and leveling an unrepentantly burning stare at the man. Gato’s face was pinched, drawn; utterly unlike the detached and impassive gaze he typically wore. All the same, though, he never once wavered, peering intently at David from across the kitchen. Another moment of silence passed them by, this one longer and heavier and far more fraught with grievances unspoken.

Gato: … you would have no reason to lie.

A statement of fact posed as a question, a yank of the chain disguised as slack.

DGS: I’d not.

Another tense moment passed before Gato finally averted his eyes, peering contemplatively back over his shoulder and into the living room.

Gato: … hm.

David turned back to the sink, setting the now-mostly-clean screwdriver aside and subjecting a pair of needlenose pliers to the same treatment. He managed to get through those, a corkscrew, and four drillbits before Gato spoke again, beginning to pace as he did so.

Gato: LPW’s restructuring was finalized today.

David took pause at that, but it was only a moment before he resumed cleaning.

DGS: That right?

Gato: Indeed. You will be back at your day job soon, as opposed to the…

He trailed off, and David could almost hear the wry smile forming on his face in the moments before he continued.

Gato: … moonlighting you have been doing.

Gato took a measured step closer, and now David could see him, out of the corner of his eye, wearing that same light and inquisitive smile that he’d come to loathe over the past several months. All the same, he took a deep breath and said nothing, narrowing his focus to the few fugitive flecks of blood still dotting the final drillbit.

Gato: I do mean soon, by the way, Mister Smith. LPW’s first card post-structuring was live today as well: you will be in the main event of a renascent Vertigo opposite Reece Raymond.

The yakuza retainer had taken a step back by this point, so he wasn’t able to see David’s face darken; or his eyes go dim and hooded; or his lips peel back from his teeth in a silent snarl. No, Gato saw none of these things, instead continuing right on with his present thought.

Gato: I hope I do not need to impress upon you the importance of victory here, Mister Smith. Between the significance and potential exposure of this match on this card and the current state of your… professional relationship with Mister Raymond, I feel quite comfortable calling this particular contest a must-win situation for you. Do you concur?

A moment passed, the apartment falling silent save for the sound of running water.

DGS: … mm.

Gato: … come again?

David’s shoulders rose and fell as a great, calming breath passed through him.

DGS: Yes.

He again felt the weight of eyes on him, so surgical and precise even when hidden behind a grin so cheshire. A moment later he could hear it, the same jovially sterile tone he’d been subtly mocked with not a minute earlier.

Gato: … good. Very good. I am quite glad to know we are on the same page, Mister Smith… just as my superiors will be, I am certain.

David finished cleaning at that moment, setting another screwdriver, this one far smaller and slimmer, down hard on the drying towel he’d set out and shutting off the water. He remained there for a moment, staring at the tools arrayed on the countertop to dry, counting every single spot he’d missed or unable to get. Then he turned, following Gato as the latter retreated back into the living room; the smell hit him immediately, almost the second he’d crossed the threshold, and he felt the taste of iron trickling down the back of his throat.

Gato stopped just short of the dropcloth, folding his arms over his chest and giving everything one last once-over. David posted up catty-corner to him and watched the man’s eyes intently, unnerved by the practiced precision with which they roved over and committed to memory even the most minute details.

Gato: … mm. You do seem to have been quite busy.

He raised his eyes to meet David’s, affixing him once again. David felt a toxic heat slither into the pit of his stomach and coil there, oily and hissing, but he nevertheless held the man’s gaze.

DGS: I gave him plenty of chances. More than you advised. He squandered them all.

Gato: Mm, yes. I suspected so. And you are sure he had nothing to say?

David leaned forward.

DGS: Nothing.

Gato glanced back down at the scene before them, then back at David, and nodded, finally seeming satisfied.

Gato: Oh well. Sometimes it can’t be helped.

He immediately turned and made his way back over to the front door, speaking to David without looking at him as he went.

Gato: Clean-up is due to arrive in fifteen minutes. Gather your things, leave your key on the kitchen counter, and be gone as soon as possible.

David nodded, more to himself than his retainer’s retreating back, and turned to return to the kitchen.

Gato: Oh, and Mister Smith…

David turned back around to find Gato eyeing him from the doorway, one foot already out, that cheshire grin trained on him once more.

Gato: Cheer up. You really do have quite the knack for this sort of thing – very clean, very precise. A rare primeval artistry.

And with that Gato was gone, the door closed and latched behind him, and David found himself alone.

Fifteen minutes. No rush, then.

Rather than immediately gathering up his tools from the kitchen, David instead moved over to take a seat on the nearest piece of furniture, a black leather loveseat that sat adjacent to the living room’s stereo system. He sat leaned forward – elbows on his knees, chin in his hands – and spent some time regarding what he’d done, the mess he’d made, in the middle of this apartment that wasn’t his, that he’d never been to before today.

He hadn’t been given the man’s name. He knew nothing about him: not who he was, or what he did, or who (if any) would miss him – any friends, or family, like a wife and daughter – or anything else that might’ve given him cause to stay his hand. All he’d been given were questions to ask, and a precise order to ask them in, and a list of unpleasant things to do every time one of the questions went unanswered.

He then wondered briefly about Madison and Ava – where they were, what they were doing, how they were doing. He hoped they were at home in Boston, at the safe house in the safe community they’d bought. He hoped they were in bed, that they were sound asleep, that the doors were locked and the security system was armed.

He hoped they were safe.

But if the curious, bloodsplattered life David Smith had lived to that point had taught him anything, it was that hoping for things wasn’t terribly productive. And on the heels of that realization, he stood up, gathered his tools from the kitchen, and took his leave of that place.

I’m built for this, Reece. This, our shared craft, our common artistry – the sport of gods and kings – I am quite literally constructed for it, piece by piece, from the atoms on up in a way that very few, if any, can lay claim to. And in light of that, though I am loathe to admit it, I have come to possess a bit of arrogance, of pride, with regard to my aptitude for this craft we ply.

The man that can decisively defeat me, Reece Raymond, is a rare and exceptional man indeed.

But if you think that I am afraid of this man – that he could compel me to fear, or trepidation, or desperation – I strongly suggest you reconsider, if for no other reason than that the entire body of evidence runs counter.

Tell you what, though: I had nothing to do with it being booked as a non-title match. But if it means that much to you – if, like the man who put you out to pasture at Altered Reality, all it’s come down to for you is whether there’s something shiny around your waist – you can have the Hardcore Championship.

Beat me again – repeat the fluke – and it’s yours.

Only… you won’t beat me again, Reece. You know that as well as I.

In point of fact, I’ll admit to a bit of bitterness towards you, Reece. Because fluke-in-hindsight though it may have been, you did defeat me… and I respected that. I’d even go so far as to say I was impressed by that. You were suddenly something worth taking notice of, someone who could step up and go. Given your triumphant comeback from what should have been a career-ending injury (won’t be making THAT mistake again), victory over me, and qualification for your match at Altered Reality, part of me really did wonder if you were going to take it all the way.

But you didn’t. Did you?

No. You took the gift I’d given you – victory the likes of which constitutes your single greatest achievement to date – and you squandered it. Made it trivial. Carved into it and hollowed it out, leaving it more of an empty husk than someone like you could ever hope to leave someone like me.

On that topic, though… I’ll be needing that gift back, Reece. No, strike that – I’ll be taking it back.

The cosmos we reside in is shifting, changing. The monolith that was Al has gone, the myth of Chris Austin has been debunked, and the very tides we drift upon seem to have changed direction. It’s all any of us can do to right ourselves and acclimate to these new tides, these foreign gravities… but before any of that, I’ll be setting right the heresy you committed with your abject failure at Altered Reality.

You may have choked, Reece, but I didn’t. I don’t.

I won’t.

This will be the last time. Your last time.

Alex O'Rion
05-09-2019, 01:51 PM

LPW VERTIGO LIVE from the Mandalay Bay Events Center in Las Vegas, Nevada Voting and Promo Thread

Event Card:

Non-Title Match:
LPW Hardcore Champion David Gideon Smith vs. Reece Raymond

Non-Title Match:
LPW Western States Heritage Champion Bobino vs. Bane Uzzah

Andy Savana vs. Sebastian Flynn

PLUS! Mourn Despana’s first words following his landscape-changing victory, an update on the LPW Tag Team Championships, introductions, returns, and surprises galore!

Promo Only until Monday, May 6th, 2019 at 11:59pm PDT, Promo and Voting only until Wednesday, May 8th 2019 at 11:59pm PDT, Voting Only until Thursday, May 9th 2019 11:59pm PDT

05-09-2019, 06:13 PM
David Gideon Smith
Sebastian Flynn

Macho Mourn
05-09-2019, 07:26 PM
Non-Title Match:
LPW Hardcore Champion David Gideon Smith vs. Reece Raymond

You two bring out the best in each other.

Non-Title Match:
LPW Western States Heritage Champion Bobino vs. Bane Uzzah

Bob.... eesh.. damn bruh...

Be nicer to Bane why don't you...


Bane doing work. You're onto something, just need to zone in on it. Good luck on that.

Andy Savana vs. Sebastian Flynn

Great showing by both men.

05-09-2019, 08:31 PM
Non-Title Match:
LPW Hardcore Champion David Gideon Smith vs. Reece Raymond

Non-Title Match:
LPW Western States Heritage Champion Bobino vs. Bane Uzzah

Andy Savana vs. Sebastian Flynn

05-09-2019, 09:02 PM

05-09-2019, 10:14 PM

05-09-2019, 11:39 PM

Silver Kazama
05-09-2019, 11:39 PM

05-09-2019, 11:54 PM
Thorny's Votes


05-09-2019, 11:55 PM
My votes


05-10-2019, 12:04 AM

05-10-2019, 12:35 AM
Bobino's votes:


Macho Mourn
05-10-2019, 03:13 AM
Voting closed.