| Daddy Doomsday |

A makeshift studio in a warehouse somewhere in Fort Worth, Texas. A portly man wearing cammo cargo shorts and an American flag tank top stands in front of a RED camera. Behind him is a green screen and before him is a table with various types of semi-legal automatic weapons. This man is Daddy Doomsday. He is loud and abrasive as he addresses the camera, his neck veins popping and spit flies from his mouth in limitless supply. It’s a jarring scene. Everyone is uncomfortable. Everyone but Doomsday.

Baz Jacobi sits off camera, nursing a can of Dead To Rights Witch’s Brew while his manager Shortcut sits on the floor behind him, doing his best to entertain Baz’s ornery new pet pommeranian Gomez.. Baz finds himself wondering why he came to Fort Worth. This is most definitely not his scene and he has other matters to attend to. He sighs and tries to think about anything other than the ridiculousness that he is being subjected to. He takes a swing from his tall can and sighs again.

Ya know some soy boy motherfuckers might tell ya that there's a big overlap between conspiracy theorists, racists, gun nuts, doomsday preppers, fans of the rapture and poor white Republicans. They might tell ya that we all have one thing in common: We feel like the oppressed underdogs!

The man said with great conviction. Baz could picture the intended audience. Disgusting, slovenly pigs, their fingers covered in cheese dust and their hearts full of hate. Entitled "victims" who feel that they are owed everything because of where they were born.

Daddy Doomsday says that they are exactly correct! As Americans we have a right to bare arms and to protect our fuckin’ selves. Don’t EVER let any dickless snow flakes tell you what your rights are as an American!

Baz rolls his eyes. His Uncle Doc had been created a right wing YouTube channel right after Obama was elected. and his fear mongering and inccessent ranting had found an audience in the lowest common denominator of the American population. If only it had ended there. Soon he was racking up views from conservatives and alt-right dickheads the world over. Daddy Doomsday started as a pro-gun channel and had evolved into something much, much worse.

Not one to really give a shit about the feelings of… well… anyone, Baz felt uncomfortable having any association with this. He knows that his Uncle doesn’t believe all of this shit but he is making good money trading in his beliefs for an easy living. Baz wanted nothing to do with it. But despite his disdain for most of the people in his family, Baz knew that his Uncle was his biggest supporter. He always had been. When Baz wanted to become a wrestler, when he went to prison, when he felt that he could single handedly bring back powdered wigs -- Doc was always there. When Doc saw that Baz would be coming to Texas to wrestle for Union Battleground, he pestered Baz day and night until the latter agreed to visit. If only to shut him up. If only he could shut him up at this very moment.

Alright my children, that’s gonna do it for Daddy Doomsday’s guide to the COVID-19 hoax. Imma be back next week with a brand new video where I tell ya all about the vegan terrorist movement that is spreading like wildfire in our great nation.

Fucking what?

Until then, remember this -- You never know when the day before ... Is the day before. Prepare for tomorrow. And remember to vote!

The red light on the camera went off and Doc turned to Baz.

So whadda ya think? That’s how we make the magic, boy.

But like… that’s not you Uncle Doc.

Yeah it’s a character. Like Larry The Cable Guy! You’re on tv, you know what it’s like. You don’t actually enjoy hurtin’ folk but you say that on TV to sell tickets.

Baz doesn’t respond, he just finishes off his beer and his Uncle stares at him cockeyed.

---

It’s a desert atmosphere outside Daddy Doomsday’s production warehouse. Baz feels the the rocks crush under his feet as he paces around, a cigarette perched between his lips. Being around his Uncle made his skin crawl and yet he felt a sense of obligation to him. Being surrounded by people that he loathes is nothing new to Baz but it being a family member makes it somehow worse. 

Do I need to say truly depraved, fucked up, and outlandish things to get what I want? Do I need to betray my own humanity? Is that what this industry is? This is professional wrestling and while it is a land full of scum and villainy, do we have to threaten literal murder to make a point? Am I out of touch?

No. It’s the children who are wrong.

A lot of people in this fucking Sunday morning cartoon that we call pro wrestling say a lot of insane things in order to pop a rating or cultivate interest in themselves. A lot of people are fake and when it comes right down to it they don’t have the stomach to make good on what they claimed.

I don’t fuckin’ do that. I say what I mean and I mean what I say. Maybe I’ll win, maybe I’ll lose, but if I say that I’m gonna make you bleed then you can put money on it coming to fruition. I try not to go overboard because if I say I’m gonna crack someone’s head open and feast on the goo inside -- and then I don’t -- well then people can call me a liar. I’m a lot of shitty things. A cockroach. A felon. A shitty tipper.

But I’m no liar.

The question of the day for me is -- is Miles Lucky a liar? Are you Miles? Your Baby Rorschach bit has served you pretty fucking well since you came to Union Battleground. Your Nihilistic disdain for humanity is a fun avenue to pursue, I get it. I’ve seen it before and I know I’ll see it countless more times before I’m dick up in the dirt. It’s working for you, the War Horse Title proves that.

We’ve had a bit of back and forth. You told me that you wanted to drink my spinal fluid, you said you were going to eat my dog, you even accused me of beastiality. That’s a bit much bud. You’re running the risk of becoming parody. I mean I get why you’re doing it, people will tune in just to see if you actually make good on any of these things. Perhaps it has scared your opponents in the past and it’s given you an edge on them. “He’s so wild! He’s unhinged! He is not a man to be fucked with!”

I don’t feel that way. I’m happy to fuck with you.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot Miles. That’s what you wanted right? You wanted to try and get in my head? Try to twist my words so that you could feel like you have some measure of control over me? You tried. You failed. See I am thinking about you but not in the way that you want. I am thinking about how far we are going to go in our title match. You’re willing to get hyper violent, but so I am I. It comes natural. Does it for you? Or do you have to give every ounce of yourself to maintain this image that you’ve cultivated. You’re a clever guy, you see that it’s working. You go out for blood and you get it. Gallons in some cases. That doesn’t worry me Miles. I don’t scare easy.

It’s not even the grotesque things that you say that bother me, really. Comes with the territory. I just think you’re running the risk of going too over the top. The hyperbole that you so effortlessly throw around makes you look like a someone who would go to any length to raise someone’s eyebrow. It's pitiful. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you drank your own piss in middle school gym class just to get a rise out of you classmates. The psycho, societal outcast schtick is so passe that you might as well have a Disturbed song as your theme music.

I will go to whatever lengths necessary to win because of one indisputable fact -- I’m fucking poor. That’s the reality of my situation. I’ve got debt up to my eyeballs and most of my purses go towards collectors and legal bills. I want to be free of it so badly that I don’t what it takes. I’m a very desperate man Miles. Honor doesn’t interest me. Legacy can lick my nutsack. I want money. The best way to get that in this industry is to win matches and win titles, when I can.

I want that War Horse Title and I’m gonna find a way to get it. I don’t expect it to be easy, you might even be able to get one over on me. But I promise you Pigeon Boy however violent you think you are -- I’m right there with you. You’re not gonna drink my spinal fluid, you’re not gonna hurt eat dog. You’re gonna come to that ring and give me a real battle. Cut the cartoon bullshit. Let’s fight.

Don’t get me wrong, I want so badly for you to be the monster that you think you are. You take teeth, you take eyeballs, probably a side of crystal meth. That doesn’t worry me Miles because I know that when it comes right down to it, I want this more than you do. I need it. I want to win, not maim. I’ll suffer a disfigurement before I give up. You’re going to be standing in the ring with a real piece of shit. A desperate man. But also someone who is every bit as capable of horror as you.

Just know that you can’t kill this cockroach. Even if you beat me, this won’t be the end of it because I don’t die. I don’t go away. You wanna get nuts? Come on, let’s get nuts.

Come L!GHTS OUT, you’re gonna see some evil.