#1 Contender for an AWS Championship
Champions Carnival Rumble

An elimination transpires when a competitor is sent over top rope and makes contact with the floor. The last remaining participant secures the position of the next contender for either the AWS UltraViolence Championship or the AWS Assault Championship.

↓ Only way to be part of the rumble is reply below. ↓

Good luck

"The Kaos Effect"

A Roleplay for the Champions Carnival Rumble

[Scene opens inside the Kaos Dojo – a private gym in Orlando, Florida.]

The gym isn’t the flashy, polished kind. No, this place is a battleground. The faint scent of sweat and leather lingers in the air, the walls adorned with posters of classic wrestling moments, including Kid Kaos' own legendary death-defying stunts. In the center of the ring stands Kid Kaos (KD Feigel)—the anarchic high-flyer, the man who defies gravity for fun, pacing like a caged animal.

On the apron sit Jonathan and Adam Kaos, the Kaos Twins—two mirror images of destruction, their arms folded as they listen intently. At ringside, their ever-calculating manager, Abbie Kaos, leans against the ropes, her clipboard in hand, adjusting her glasses as she studies notes.

The Champions Carnival Rumble. Fifty competitors. One winner. March 17th in Boston.

KD Feigel (Kid Kaos):

“Alright, listen up, ya little lunatics. This ain't just any ol' match. This is THE Champions Carnival Rumble. Fifty bodies in that ring, and only one of 'em gets to stand tall at the end. Now, I know what you're thinkin’—‘Kaos runs through our veins, we were born for this kinda fight.’ And you ain’t wrong. But this ain't about just surviving, this is about owning that damn ring. You hear me?”

Jonathan Kaos:

“Loud and clear, KD.” [Cracks his knuckles, a wicked grin forming.] “We cause Kaos everywhere we go. But fifty guys? That’s a lot of bodies to toss out.”

Adam Kaos:

“Yeah, but who cares? The more, the better. We thrive in chaos.” [Laughs, rolling his shoulders.] “Besides, with three of us in there, we’ve got better odds than most.”

Abbie Kaos:

“Exactly, and that’s what I wanted to discuss.” [She flips a page on her clipboard, her eyes sharp behind her glasses.] “Numbers don’t lie. Statistically speaking, a wrestler’s chances of winning a battle royal increase significantly when they have allies. But here’s the catch: only one of you can win. So the question is, how do we handle that when the time comes?”

Kid Kaos:

“Oh, we’ll get to that. But first, let’s talk about how we even get to that point. ‘Cause let’s be real—forty-seven other dudes are gonna be tryin’ to dump our asses over that top rope. We gotta work together until it’s just us.”

THE STRATEGY

Abbie Kaos:

“Exactly. So here’s the breakdown.” [Adjusts her glasses, tapping her clipboard.] “First off, spacing. You two—” [Points at Jonathan and Adam.] “—stick close. No separating unless it’s absolutely necessary. KD, you’re different. You move too fast, and you’re unpredictable. That works to your advantage, but it also makes you a target. So, we use that.”

Kid Kaos:

“Ahhh, you want me to be the bait?” [Smirks, tapping his chest.] “The ol’ ‘distract ‘em with my aerial insanity while the Twins clean house’ routine, huh?”

Abbie Kaos:

“Precisely.” [Smirks.] “No one expects a guy who spends more time in the air than on the ground to last in a Rumble. But that’s where you prove ‘em wrong. Dodge, weave, make ‘em waste their energy trying to get you. Meanwhile, the Twins play wrecking crew.”

Jonathan Kaos:

“So we’re the muscle, you’re the distraction. I like it.”

Adam Kaos:

“And when it comes down to just us?”

Kid Kaos:

“Then we fight. No holdin’ back. No bullsht. We settle it the way it should be—Kaos style.”

THE THREATS

Abbie Kaos:

“I like the confidence, but let’s not ignore the competition.” [Flips a page.] “We’ve got some serious threats in this thing. I’m talking former world champions, deathmatch psychos, powerhouse brawlers, and even a few sneaky little weasels who’ll stab you in the back the second they can.”

Jonathan Kaos:

“Names.”

Abbie Kaos:

“Alright. First, the big one—Damien Kostich. Former two-time world champion elsewhere. over seven feet, built like a tank. If we don’t team up to get him out early, he’ll be a nightmare in the final stretch.”

Adam Kaos:

“Easy. We chop the tree down. Hit him low, wear him out.”

Abbie Kaos:

“Then there’s Eric Herrera—lucha legend. Fast as hell, just like KD, but sneakier. He’ll be looking to use momentum to his advantage. Watch for him.”

Kid Kaos:

“Pfft, I invented flipping off things recklessly. He can try, but he won’t out-air me.”

Abbie Kaos:

“And then there’s the wildcard—Mike Dimter. No alliances, no morals. He’ll throw his own mother out if it means he wins.”

Jonathan Kaos:

“So he dies first.” [Grins darkly.]

Kid Kaos:

“See, that’s the spirit! Ain’t nobody gonna stop Kaos when we’re in sync.”

THE ENDGAME

Abbie Kaos:

“Alright, so let’s say we get past all these obstacles. Let’s say it’s just the three of you in the final three. What happens then?”

Kid Kaos:

“Then we do what we do best.” [Cracks his neck, grinning.] “We let Kaos decide.”

Jonathan Kaos:

“No holding back?”

Kid Kaos:

“Nope. No alliances. No brotherhood. Just pure, unfiltered Kaos.”

Adam Kaos:

“Now that… that sounds fun.”

Abbie Kaos:

“As long as you three understand that, I have no problem with it.” [Adjusts her glasses.] “But no matter what, one of us is walking out of Boston with that victory. That’s the mission.”

Kid Kaos:

“Damn right. March 17th, we turn that Rumble into a Kaos playground. And when the dust settles, one of us—one of us—is gonna be standing tall. The world better be ready.”

FADE TO BLACK.

The Sphinx Is Ready

The Silent Tempest Is Ready

Representing UNC Charlotte!

[The lights in the IWE arena dim as the sound of smooth jazz mixed with a bass-heavy hip-hop beat fills the air. The tron lights up with a montage of high-stakes poker games, luxury cars, and city lights. Then, in bold gold letters, the words appear:]

THE SYNDICATE

[Stepping onto the stage in immaculate designer suits are three of the most dangerous and stylish individuals in professional wrestling today—"The Diamond Don" Donavan Di Niro, "The Iron Rose" Kat Genovesi, and "Big Money" Adrian Cole. Leading the way, dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit with a golden pocket square, is their enigmatic and silver-tongued manager—"Mr. Providence" Victor Gotti. With a smirk that oozes confidence and danger, Gotti adjusts his cufflinks before raising a microphone to his lips.]

MR. PROVIDENCE (VICTOR GOTTI)

"Ladies and gentlemen… no, no, no… peasants and pretenders, allow me to introduce you to the future rulers of this industry. The trio standing before you ain’t just wrestlers—they’re a power shift. They’re a hostile takeover. They’re the Syndicate. And they ain’t here to play fair—they’re here to win.

Now, I know what all the so-called ‘stars’ in the back are thinkin’—‘Oh no, not another group talkin’ a big game.’ But lemme tell you somethin’—the difference between us and everybody else is that when we say we’re gonna run this place, we ain’t just talkin’— we’re investing. And trust me, this investment? It’s a guaranteed return.

At the IWE Champions Carnival Rumble Match, twenty-nine other poor, unfortunate souls are steppin’ into a war they already lost. You think you got a chance against "The Diamond Don" Donavan Di Niro—a man who treats every match like a high-stakes poker game, calculating, cold, and cashing out with the W? Or maybe you think you can stand toe-to-toe with "Big Money" Adrian Cole, a man who breaks backs and cashes checks with the same brutal efficiency? Oh, and let’s not forget the ace up our sleeve—"The Iron Rose" Kat Genovesi—as beautiful as she is deadly, and she ain't afraid to stomp out anyone dumb enough to stand in her way.

So, let me make this really simple for all you dreamers in the back—this match? It ain't a rumble. It's a robbery. And The Syndicate? We're walking away with the bag.”

[Gotti hands the mic over to Donavan Di Niro, who adjusts the gold cufflinks on his suit, a slow, amused smirk on his face as he steps forward.]

"THE DIAMOND DON" DONAVAN DI NIRO

"You know, Gotti… I look at this roster, and I see a lot of guys playin’ checkers while we’re out here playin’ chess. Me? I got ice in my veins. I read my opponents like a bad poker hand and fold ‘em just as fast. And this Sunday, when the dust settles, the chips are gonna fall right where they always do—in my pocket."

[Next, "Big Money" Adrian Cole, the powerhouse of the group, steps forward, cracking his knuckles with a slow, sinister grin.]

"BIG MONEY" ADRIAN COLE

"They’re callin’ it a rumble, huh? Nah. I call it a financial restructuring. And trust me—when you step into that ring with me, you're gonna find out really quick—either you roll with us, or you get rolled over."

[Finally, "The Iron Rose" Kat Genovesi takes the mic, flipping her hair back before shooting a sharp glare at the camera.]

"THE IRON ROSE" KAT GENOVESI

"All these little Cinderella stories about who’s ‘gonna shock the world’? Cute. But fairytales ain’t real, sweetheart. What’s real is power. What’s real is control. And what’s real is The Syndicate owning this place. So go ahead, play your little games—but when it’s all said and done, there’ll be only one story left to tell—ours."

[Gotti steps back in, laughing to himself before straightening his tie.]

MR. PROVIDENCE (VICTOR GOTTI)

"Champions Carnival? Pfft. Please. It’s just step one. When The Syndicate wins this thing—and we will—it’s a straight shot to championship gold. And when that gold is around our waists? That’s when the real fun begins. So get used to it, IWE… ’cause this ain't hit-and-run.

This is a hostile. Freakin’. Takeover."

[With that, The Syndicate smirks at the camera before turning and making their way up the ramp, the crowd booing loudly—but deep down, they know that every word they just heard? Might just be the truth.]

[Scene: A dimly lit backstage area of the IWE Arena. The air is thick with tension, the sound of a distant crowd roaring as the night’s show rages on. A large shadow looms over the camera as "The Executioner" Damien Kostich stands, his 7-foot-6 frame nearly scraping the ceiling. Next to him, pacing with his signature vile smirk, is his manager, Maxx Vile, dressed in a gaudy suit with a sickly green tie.]

MAXX VILE:

“Heh… You hear that, Damien? You hear ‘em out there? They’re all talking about it. The Champions Carnival Rumble Match. 30 men, one winner. And every single one of those chumps back there? They all got the same idea in their tiny little heads—they wanna be the guy who takes down The Executioner. They wanna be the one who does the impossible… the one who somehow throws a 7-foot-6, 500-pound MONSTER over the top rope!”

[Maxx snickers, shaking his head, then slaps Damien’s massive arm as if hyping him up.]

MAXX VILE:

“But here’s the thing… that ain't happening. These punks? They got no clue what they're stepping into. One by one, they’ll rush at you, thinking if they all gang up, they can do the unthinkable. But what happens when YOU grab ‘em by the throat, huh? What happens when YOU start tossing bodies like sacks of meat?! BOOM—over the top rope! BOOM—another one gone! Just like that!”

[Damien Kostich remains silent, towering over Maxx, his cold, lifeless stare locked on the camera. His breathing is slow and methodical, like a beast waiting for the hunt.]

MAXX VILE:

"Damien, you ain't just the biggest threat in this match… you're the inevitable. The walking execution order for EVERYBODY who steps foot in that ring. And yeah, they're gonna come at you. They're gonna throw everything they got, all to make a name for themselves. But what happens when you don't fall? What happens when The Executioner stands tall, unmovable, unstoppable?"

[Finally, Damien steps forward, his deep, guttural voice cutting through the tension like a blade.]

DAMIEN KOSTICH:

"They try to throw me out… they fail. They try to break me… they fail. And when I get my hands around their throats… they do not leave that ring the same."

[Damien slowly clenches his massive fist, the knuckles cracking like thunder.]

DAMIEN KOSTICH:

"I am the shadow over this Carnival. The last thing they will see before they hit the floor. They can try. They can fight. But in the end… I execute them all."

[Maxx grins wickedly, rubbing his hands together as he steps back in front of Damien.]

MAXX VILE:

"THAT'S RIGHT! One by one, they're all gonna FALL! And when that bell rings, when that last body crashes to the floor, there's only gonna be ONE man left standing… THE EXECUTIONER, DAMIEN KOSTICH!"

[Damien lets out a slow exhale, his eyes dark and unyielding. The scene fades as Maxx continues to laugh, the ominous shadow of the Executioner looming over the screen.]

Scene: A dimly lit lounge, the air thick with cigar smoke. The Syndicate—five of the most dangerous figures in the business—are gathered around a polished oak table, drinks in hand, eyes gleaming with ruthless ambition. The Champions Carnival Rumble is on the horizon, and the message is clear: domination. The camera pans in as Donavan Di Niro leans forward, adjusting the diamond-studded ring on his finger before speaking.

"The Diamond Don" Donavan Di Niro:

"Business, gentlemen… and lady… is about to boom." He smirks, swirling his whiskey before taking a slow sip. "The Champions Carnival Rumble? That’s not a match—it’s a goddamn takeover. And The Syndicate? We don’t ask. We don’t wait. We take. That ring’s gonna be our playground, and every poor bastard who steps in our way? They’re gettin’ tossed like yesterday’s trash."

"The Iron Rose" Kat Genovesi:

"And if they don’t go willingly? We’ll break ‘em till they do." Kat smirks, cracking her knuckles, her eyes flashing with the kind of cold confidence that makes men second-guess their choices. "The thing about a rumble is, most people come in hoping for a miracle. They pray they get lucky, they dream about standing tall at the end. Us? We don’t need luck. We make our own fate. By any means necessary."

"The Sicilian Shooter" Giancarlo Mazzanti:

"By any means necessary," Giancarlo echoes, lighting a cigar with the calm, lethal aura of a man who’s already planned the downfall of every single opponent in the match. "They call me the Sicilian Shooter for a reason—I don’t miss. Every elbow, every knee, every throw over that top rope? Precision. When The Syndicate’s in that ring, we ain’t just eliminating people… we’re sending a message. And that message is simple: you don’t belong in our world."

"Il Lupo Cremisi" Giovanni Sabbatini:

"Hah! They’re dead men walking and don’t even know it," Giovanni snarls, leaning back with a wolfish grin. "You ever watch a pack of wolves go huntin’? They don’t rush in like idiots. Nah. They stalk. They wait. Then, when the moment’s right… they strike. That’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna tear through ‘em one by one, and when the dust settles? Ain’t gonna be nobody left but us."

"Big Money" Adrian Cole:

"That’s the thing," Adrian Cole chimes in, adjusting the cuffs on his tailored suit. "This ain’t just about winning. This is about power. This is about money. And everybody knows, in this business, money talks… and The Syndicate? We got more of it than anybody else. So when that final bell rings, when the last fool gets thrown over that top rope, you best believe the ones standin’ tall will be the ones who own this industry. The Syndicate always gets what it’s owed. And at Champions Carnival? We collect."

The five of them clink glasses, a unified front of ruthless ambition and undeniable dominance. The camera fades to black as their laughter echoes—cold, confident, and knowing. Because the Syndicate doesn’t make empty promises. They make guarantees.

The Syndicate. The Champions Carnival. Inevitable.

Click here and I am back.

My Debut click here

A Broken Mind: Part Three

A Surprise Entry!

Shattered Mirror, Burning World

The room is dim. The air is thick with tension. The low hum of fluorescent lights flickers as The Sphinx, Drake Nygma, sits across from the therapist’s desk. His hands are folded in his lap, fingers twitching ever so slightly as if to hold back something… monstrous. The calm façade he’s put on now feels like an illusion, thin and fragile.

Therapist: “Drake, how are you feeling today?”

His smile is wide, unnaturally so, like the mask it is.

The Sphinx: “Feeling? That’s a quaint little word, isn’t it? Feeling… like it means anything. Like it’s some kind of sweet release. But it’s not. Not for me. I know the drill. How I feel doesn’t matter. But you, darling, you’re the one who's going to feel it. All of it. In every way.”

His voice shifts, the calm, calculated manner he’s been holding onto for the past few weeks begins to crack, as if something darker, something more primal, is clawing its way out of his mind. His eyes narrow with a sick kind of focus.

The Sphinx: “You want to know the truth? I feel like every single person I’ve ever crossed… they don’t deserve to breathe. The ones who doubt me. The ones who act like they know how this game works. The ones like Daron Smythe—clutching that Ultraviolence title like it’s some kind of validation. He’s just a shadow of me. You think you know what it feels like to be at the top? To hold power? To be that untouchable? You don’t. None of them do.”

The Sphinx's lips curl into something resembling a grin, but it’s sharp—hunger behind the teeth.

The Sphinx: “They want answers, don’t they? Everybody’s asking questions, constantly. ‘What’s next, Sphinx? What’s the game plan? How do you do it?’ You’re all waiting for something. A riddle. An answer. But I’m done with the questions. Done with the puzzles.”

He stands abruptly, knocking his chair back. The room feels colder now, the space between them charged with something unpredictable.

The Sphinx: “Do you know what it feels like, Doc? To have a plan—a purpose—and have every little detail, every moment of doubt eaten away by the overwhelming desire to destroy? It feels better than anything. Better than any gold. Better than any title. Power? That’s all temporary. But destruction… that’s permanent.”

His voice turns to a low growl. There’s no longer any calmness in it—only rage.

The Sphinx: “You want me to be ‘normal,’ don’t you? To feel something. To be ‘human.’ How cute. But let me ask you this: What’s so special about humanity? All these people—Daron, the fans, the others—what do they all have in common? They’re fragile. And they’ll never understand that I don’t need anyone to care about me. I don’t need love. I don’t need their approval. All I need is the one thing they all fear the most…”

He steps closer to the therapist's desk, leaning in, eyes glinting with a wild, untamed madness.

The Sphinx whispering: “Oblivion.”

The therapist says nothing. The room feels suffocating now, as though the walls themselves are closing in. The Sphinx watches him with a predator’s stare.

The Sphinx: “When Daron Smythe and I step into that ring, it won’t be about skill. It won’t be about who’s tougher. It’ll be about something far greater than any of that. It’ll be about destruction. And I’ll break him. Not just physically, Doc. I’ll break him mentally. I'll unravel everything he’s ever believed in. He'll realize too late that I’m not just some ‘nobody’ he can beat.”

He takes a step back, his expression shifting in an instant from fury to amusement.

The Sphinx: “You see, in my world, there’s only one thing that matters. And that’s control. The rest of you… you're nothing but pawns. You can try to play the game, but you’ll never win. And that’s what makes it so beautiful.”

The therapist finally speaks, his voice shaking slightly.

Therapist: “Drake, do you understand the consequences of this mindset? The destruction you’re so eager to bring? You’ve been consumed by hate. This isn’t just about wrestling. This is something deeper. Something darker.”

The Sphinx’s grin returns, wider, more menacing.

The Sphinx: “Oh, I understand, Doc. I understand everything. The only question left is whether you’re ready for me to show you… or if I’ll just keep it all to myself. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure everyone gets the message. You’ll all feel it, in ways you never thought possible.”

He steps toward the door, his hand resting on the handle, and turns back one last time.

The Sphinx: “Because when the dust settles… and the body count rises… the only thing that’ll be left will be my legacy. And trust me, Doc, it won’t be one you’ll forget.”

He leaves, the door slamming behind him with finality. The room is still, the air thick with an unspoken tension.

Session Eleven: The Sphinx – "War on All"

The session room is eerily quiet, the only sound being the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. The Sphinx, or perhaps it’s Drake Nygma now, is sitting still in the chair, but there’s something wrong with the stillness. His eyes are fixed, unblinking, his hands resting at his sides. It’s like a calm before a storm that everyone can feel—no one can look away from the impending madness.

“Drake… How are you feeling today?”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his lips curl up into something resembling a grin, but it’s jagged, like cracked porcelain. His hands flex, fingers curling into tight fists, before letting them relax again. The air in the room seems to press in on itself.

“Feel? Feel what? Feel what, Doc? You think I still care about how I feel? You think I care about any of that petty, human nonsense? Feelings? Weakness. Nothing more. It’s not about feelings anymore. Not for me.”

He suddenly stands, his movements swift, his body a tense coil of energy. His gaze hardens, his focus shifting into something darker, something rawer.

“Do you see it yet? Can you feel it, Doc? The world is crumbling. Every moment, every breath I take—it’s all building to something more. You think I care about my career? You think I care about titles, championships, the ‘respect’ of the locker room? No. No. I care about chaos. I care about burning everything down.”

The Sphinx paces the room, his movements erratic now. There’s a madness in his eyes, an intensity that’s impossible to ignore.

“You’ve all been living in this little bubble, haven’t you? Thinking you can play this game. Thinking you can keep things neat, controlled, safe. Well, I’m done with your rules. Done with your structure. Done with your sense of order. The time for order is over. This is war, Doc.”

His voice rises, growing with each sentence, his presence overwhelming.

“War on everyone. Every single one of you. Men, women, old, young, management, fans, keyboard warriors—no one gets a free pass. I’m done picking and choosing my targets. I’m done with restraint. If you’re breathing, you’re fair game. This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about sending a message. It’s about making sure that when I step into the ring, the world knows that I control it all. No one—NO ONE—escapes my madness.”

He leans forward, his eyes locked onto the therapist’s with unnerving intensity.

“You think you can hide behind titles? Behind walls of security? Behind your little desks and your little screens? You think you’re untouchable? You’re not. No one is. This world? It’s MY carnival. My playground. And I’m going to make sure you all see the chaos I create in its full, brutal glory.”

The Sphinx’s grin turns darker, teeth flashing like a predator.

“The ring isn’t the only place where I’m going to make my mark. You think the locker rooms are the only battlegrounds? That the matches are where the true war is fought? No. The real war? It’s on the streets. It’s in your homes. It’s in your hearts, your minds, and your souls. I’ll make sure none of you can sleep at night. I’ll get in your head, your deepest, darkest thoughts, and I’ll make you see what I see. That nothing matters. Nothing but the destruction I bring.”

He lets out a twisted laugh, more like the cackle of a man who’s been driven mad rather than any kind of joy. It echoes throughout the room.

“And Daron? You think you’ve won, huh? You think you’ve earned that Ultraviolence title? That you’re some untouchable king? You’re a fool. I’ve let you have your little taste of glory, but it’s all coming crashing down, old man. You won’t even see it coming. You’ll be lost, trying to grasp at something that’s already slipping through your fingers. I’m going to tear everything you’ve built apart.”

He takes a step back, his expression shifting once more, from rage to something colder, something more calculating.

“And the rest of you? Don’t think for a second that I won’t come for you too. I’ll break you. Piece by piece. Not just in the ring, but in your life. I’ll invade your thoughts. Your dreams. I’ll make you fear me.”

His eyes gleam with dark satisfaction.

“I’ll show you what happens when a man loses his soul. What happens when everything you believe in burns away to ash. You’ll see what happens when you’ve crossed the point of no return. You’ll understand what it means to be truly untouchable... and how unbearable that really is.”

He paces again, but this time, there’s a new sense of resolve in his steps, a chilling finality to his words.

“This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about proving to all of you that your little system, your precious order... it’s fragile. And when it breaks, you’ll understand why chaos is inevitable. Why this world, this twisted, broken world... needs to be torn apart. And I? I’ll be the one holding the matches.”

His smile widens, but there’s nothing playful about it. It’s the smile of a man who’s already seen the world burn and is eager to watch it happen again.

“So, let the war begin. Let the madness take hold. And as the smoke rises, remember one thing… You brought this upon yourselves.”

He stands still for a moment, his eyes gleaming as if savoring the silence that follows his words. Then, with a final glance at the therapist, he turns and walks toward the door.

“I’ll be seeing you. All of you.”

The door slams shut, and the room falls back into silence, the weight of his declaration lingering like a storm on the horizon.

Session Twelve: "The Butcher, the Ashes, and the Laughing God"

Counseling Log: Drake Nygma / The Sphinx

Date: Classified

Subject exhibits increasing dissociative phenomena. Room under surveillance.

Recording begins. The chair creaks before anything is said. The Sphinx is seated—but it feels more like a throne today. He doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe, not that you’d notice. Eyes black and gold like molten tar. He stares ahead, jaw slack for just a moment—then curls into a grin so wide it splits the silence.

“Do you know what happens to the butcher who stops sharpening the blade?”

He leans forward. The lights flicker once.

“He gets slaughtered. He gets eaten. Just another sack of meat. But not me. No, no... not me. I am the one sharpening the knife on the bones of this industry. I have seen what lies beyond the ropes, beyond the belts and back-pats. I’ve seen the hollow eyes of the fans, begging for something real. And I? I am their answer.”

He giggles. It's light. Then, it twists.

“Not their savior. Oh no. Never their savior. I’m their consequence.”

He shifts suddenly—snaps his fingers beside his temple.

“Daron Smythe, still gripping that Ultraviolence title like a crucifix while pretending he’s not bleeding out inside. Management trying to stuff the blood back into the curtain. The new hires, bright-eyed, all asking the same stupid question—‘What’s my gimmick?’”

He leans in, eyes gleaming with glee.

“I’ll give you a gimmick. You’re all corpses. Dancing meat in sparkly tights. And I’m the laughing god of your funeral.”

He howls. Full-bellied, hands thrown back. It echoes through the chamber like a church bell collapsing.

“You still think this is about wins? About belts? You still think I'm here to ‘climb the ranks’? No. No. I'm the one burning the ladder. Every rung. Every name. Every division. You, Daron. You, Mya. Summer. Orphius..... none of you are spared. You exist in my world now. And in my world?”

His smile disappears like a guillotine falling.

“There are no gods. Just fire.”

Therapist: “You... believe you're bringing something necessary?”

“I know I am. They cheer blood, but call me insane when I give them a flood. Hypocrisy dressed in faux concern. ‘Don’t go too far, Sphinx.’ ‘Don’t target them all, Sphinx.’ Oh, but I will. I must.”

He slowly rises from the chair, arms stretched like a preacher before the pulpit.

“This place—the locker rooms, the federations, the online forums—it's all a circus. And the clowns? They're scared of the real joker walking into their ring. I’m not some punchline. I’m the final act. No spotlight. No curtain call. Just collapse.”

His voice shifts again, dropping into that low rasp—inhuman and vengeful.

“What they fail to understand is... I’m not here for them to understand. I'm here to make them scream. Not just in pain—but in recognition. In horror. In that moment when the camera cuts and there’s no more kayfabe to protect them. Just me. The mirror. The blood. The truth.”

He walks a slow circle around the room now. Fingers trailing across the walls like they’re made of skin.

“You wanna know the truth, Doc? I don’t hate Daron Smythe because he’s better. I don’t hate him because he beat me. I hate him because he believes in lies. He thinks legacy means anything. He thinks his little reign will be remembered.”

He snaps his fingers again.

“Like that—it’ll be gone. And all that will remain is the laugh. My laugh. My message. Etched into your screens, your arenas, your nightmares.”

Therapist: “And what is the message?”

A pause. Everything is still. Then—he looks directly into the camera. Right into the eyes of whoever will eventually watch this tape.

“That nothing lasts. That the heroes will die screaming. That the villains will laugh last. That sanity... is a chain. And I broke it.

He slowly walks to the exit. Before leaving, he turns and delivers one last whisper—words not meant to be spoken so gently.

“The Carnival never ends. And neither do I.”

He exits. The door doesn’t close—it simply shuts itself, like the room is exhaling. A single note of laughter remains, echoing longer than it should.

End Session.

WARNING: SUBJECT DEEMED UNCONTAINABLE.

DO NOT APPROACH WITHOUT SECURITY CLEARANCE.

Internal AWS Memo

FROM: Charles Feigel, AWS Executive Director

TO: All Talent and Security

SUBJECT: Containment Protocol: Drake Nygma / “The Sphinx”

CLASSIFIED – EYES ONLY

“We have a problem. Not a character issue. Not a backstage politics issue. Not even a kayfabe issue.We have a detonation in progress. The Sphinx is no longer playing a part.  He’s rewriting the script with blood. And I don’t know whose yet.”

In the Shadows: The Executioner’s Blade

Beneath the warehouse where he once trained, where echoing punches met rusted lockers and his own laughter drowned out the groans of lesser men, The Sphinx builds.

He builds not with metal—but with memories.

With grudges sharpened into steel.

With the broken promises of every promoter who said “maybe next show.”

With the whispers of fans who chanted his name once—and forgot it in the next breath.

The Executioner’s Blade isn’t real... until it is.

Not until you see it in his hand, blackened like burnt bone, shaped like a straight razor the size of a coffin lid, etched with the names of every man and woman he’s bled. Some names are carved. Others are still being engraved.

Daron Smythe.

Mya Lee.

Feigel.

And then:

YOU.

The Sphinx recorded footage, later posted to AWS socials without authorization:

A flickering lightbulb. One eye is visible. The rest of his face was wrapped in shadow. The faint grind of steel on concrete behind him.

“Feigel... poor, plump, prancing Charles Feigel. You made the mistake of trying to manage the unmanageable. You thought I’d cut a promo like the rest of your livestock. You thought I’d sell t-shirts like a good little worker. But this?”

The camera shifts. You see a gloved hand running along the blade. It’s massive. Gleaming black like obsidian. It hums, though no sound should exist.

“This is the Executioner’s Blade. Made from the bones of hope. Tempered in the fires of every lie this industry ever told me. And now?”

“Now I swing.”

Charles Feigel’s Official Response (Press Conference):

“The Sphinx is suspended—indefinitely. AWS does not condone this level of chaos, and I assure fans and staff we are taking necessary action.”

A reporter asks if The Sphinx has been seen near Daron Smythe. Feigel pauses. Rubs his eyes.

“We’ve... increased security. But if he wants in, he’ll get in. He’s not climbing over walls—he’s crawling under the skin.”

🎭 “TALK IS TORMENT with THE SPHINX”

Broadcast illegally via AWS servers. Aired at 3:33 AM.

The set is a mangled parody of a talk show. The desk is crooked, stained with something sticky and red. The “studio audience” is cardboard cutouts of terrified fans, each with duct-taped mouths and googly eyes. A laugh track malfunctions in the background, cycling between cackling and screaming.

The Sphinx enters in a shredded tuxedo with blood-red lapels. His hair is slicked back with what looks like oil… or something worse. His grin is painted wider than nature ever intended, and he bows to the silence as if it’s thunderous applause.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and beautifully broken abominations in between... WELCOME to the show no one survives—Talk is Torment!”

(He points finger guns at the camera. Bang. Bang.)

Cue erratic jazz. A trumpet squeals like a dying animal. A puppet with googly eyes wearing a name tag that says “ERIC HERRERA” is dragged onto the guest couch. He flops lifelessly, one arm already torn off.

“My first guest tonight is none other than Mr. Eric ‘Can’t Win a Match Without Crying About It’ Herrera! Say hi, Eric!”

He bashes the puppet’s face on the desk. Once. Twice. The audience laugh track triggers a baby crying.

“Oh nooo, Sphinx! You’re being mean to me again! Why can’t you be more like Daron? He wears boots and has a MAN’S haircut!”

He puts a paper crown on the puppet and sets it on fire.

“Oops. Must’ve been too much heat. Happens with trash.”

Cut to: Puppet #2 – labeled “#1 DARON SMYTHE” – wheeled in on a throne of broken chairs. This puppet is bigger, bulkier. Its head is a painted pumpkin with a scowl and cheap sunglasses. The Sphinx caresses it lovingly.

“Ahh… Daron. My favorite failure. How’s the Ultraviolet title feeling, big guy? Heavy? Like guilt? Or regret?”

(He pokes the puppet’s chest. A small puff of ash escapes.)

“See, Daron, they all call you #1. But I’ve seen your script. I’ve read the ending. You’re not the hero—you’re the sacrifice.”

The lights flicker. The camera goes crooked. For a second, we swear The Sphinx’s face glitches—becomes something else. More skeletal. More wrong.

“They all pretend you’re untouchable. But in my show? Everyone bleeds. There are no safe bets. No legends. Just ashes. Just screams.”

(Leans into the Daron puppet’s ear, whispering:)

“You’re not the wall I climb… you’re the altar I split open.”

The puppet crumbles. Literally. It disintegrates in his hand like dust, revealing a small shard of mirror inside. The Sphinx stares into it. His face warps again.

“Do you get it now? This isn’t wrestling. This is a revelation. And I am your twisted little god. So tell management—tell Feigel, tell Daron, tell every shrieking, tweeting, crying fan in the cheap seats…”

“The Executioner’s Blade has tasted wood and stuffing. Next—it wants bone.”

The music rises into shrieking strings as the “audience” cutouts catch fire behind him. The show ends not with applause… but with sobbing. Real or imagined, we’ll never know.

Location: A snow-lashed mountainside. A blizzard howls in the background. The screen is dim, flickering with each gust of wind. Smoke rises from a shattered war horn buried in the ice. Tyr Dagrsson steps into view, bare-chested despite the cold, his body etched with runes and scars. His long, frostbitten hair is matted with blood. His eyes? Empty. Violent. Eternal.

TYR DAGRSSON (growling low, as if the wind itself speaks through him):

“The gods are dead. The banners? Burned. And the ring you stand in? It's just a funeral pyre waiting to be lit.”

He takes a slow step forward, steam rising from his breath like smoke from a battlefield. His fist clenches—rings of bone and iron cutting into his palm.

“AWS calls it a Rumble. I call it a sacrifice.”

“You hear that? That’s the sound of your pulse racing, your heartbeat elevating. Your nervous system knows a conqueror approaches.”

He kneels. Slams his fists into the snow. The ground quakes—a symbolic tremor of what’s to come.

“I don’t come to play. I don't climb ladders. I have come to break knees. I come to drag screaming souls over that top rope and spit curses into their eyes.”

His voice rises now—no longer cold, but a fire stoked by madness and war.

“Don’t pray for mercy. There is none. Don’t wait for help. They’ll run. And don’t look to the skies for salvation— because the storm IS ME.” 

He turns, blood splattered across his back forming a twisted, unknowable rune.

“I am the void made flesh. The blade behind your spine. When the final bell rings, and you lie gasping on the outside floor? Know this—” 

“You weren’t eliminated. You were chosen.”

“Tyr Dagrsson enters the Carnival. The axe swings now.”

📱@TyrDagrssonOfficial

🔁 Account activity log shows suspicious login

🧊🗡️🔥

SIG VINTER HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.

hi. tyr is busy brooding in the woods somewhere. sharpening axes. eating bark. being tall. so I, SIG VINTER (daughter of chaos, patron saint of glitter carnage), have hijacked his account.

this is now my page. welcome to @GoatSlayer666.

🧠 Charlie Feigel? still shaped like a tax return.

💀 Daron Smythe? you peaked in 2004, grandpa.

🌪️ Orphius? your name sounds like a Greek salad.

☀️ Summer Rayne? i bite. that’s not a threat. it’s a hobby.

🧛‍♂️ Eric Herrera? i know what you did in 1997.

and to ALL of AWS?

the VINTERS are coming. 🩸

and we don’t come in peace. we come with goats, god complexes, and absolutely no adult supervision.

#TeamVinter #SisterOfSlaughter #TyrDidntApproveThis

🧵POST: SIG VINTER HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.

📍@GoatSlayer666

@ChairshotMami69

wait this isn’t tyr…

who tf is “sig vinter” and why do i love her??? 😳

#GoatSlayer666 #QueenOfChaos

@DaronSmytheFanClub

how dare this glitter goblin disrespect DARON SMYTHE, ULTRAVIOLENCE KING.

he's been wrestling longer than she’s been ALIVE.

@EricHerreraSimp

“i know what you did in 1997”

💀💀💀 what did he do though???

girl don’t tease like that.

@AWSManagementTea

Charlie Feigel on suicide watch after reading this.

man was just trying to eat his cereal 😭😭

#PoorCharlie

@WrestlingWitchxx

Orphius Marius sounding like a Greek salad took me OUT.

Sig Vinter is chaos in boots and I stan.

🔥🔥🔥 #VinterTakeover

@RealSummerRayne

reposts with eye roll emoji and snake gif

“some of us don’t need goats to be relevant.”

@TyrDagrssonOfficial (Later That Night)

[Post Deleted]

🗡️ NO.

— Tyr Dagrsson

@SigAgain

🧍‍♂️<— tyr seeing his account turned into a glitter cult

✨🐐✨ #MakeAWSWeirder

🎥 [Live Stream: @GoatSlayer666]

🎤 SIG VINTER PRESENTS: GOD COMPLEX

“Tonight’s Guests: Odin, Thor, and Loki (in my brain)”

[static. camera flickers. glitter overlay. goat bleating in distance.]

SIG VINTER (wearing a neon faux-fur coat and sunglasses indoors):

"HELLO, MORTALS AND MANAGEMENT.I’m Sig Vinter—daughter of chaos, mischief, and a woman with legally no filter.Tonight, we’re interviewing the pantheon inside my skull while my brother Tyr watches scowling.”

[Camera pans to Tyr sitting off to the side, arms crossed, unimpressed. His eye twitches.]

SIG (swivels dramatically to empty chair #1):

"First up—ODIN, my big dead grandpapa!

Odin, how does it feel knowing your favorite granddaughter turned AWS into a glitter-fueled fever dream?"

(pause)

SIG (as ODIN, deep gruff voice):

"Well Siggy, you’ve always been a blazing disappointment wrapped in charm. I’m proud and terrified."

SIG (laughs maniacally, flings goat-shaped confetti):

"Aw, thanks! Let’s bring out THOR, God of Thunder and questionable dating decisions!"

(adjusts posture, speaks like a frat boy):

"Yo, Sig, you’re literally insane, but like… in a hot way. Respectfully, I would not smite."

[Cut to Tyr facepalming]

TYR (muttering):

"This is why I don’t let her near hammers. Or microphones."

SIG (leans in, whispering):

"And now… the moment you’ve all been waiting for…the man, the myth, the prison warden of my neurons… LOKI."

SIG (as Loki, silky and smug):

"Oh darling, let’s be honest. You didn’t inherit my madness. You surpassed it. Make management beg for order. Then burn it."

[Sig drops mic. Glitter explodes. Goat bleats again.]

SIG (smiling sweetly):

"And that concludes God Complex. Next week I interview a haunted turnbuckle and the concept of shame."

TYR (standing up): "This stream is over. I’m burning the router."

SIG (chasing him with a sparkle baton): "You can’t silence theology, Tyr!"

💬 Fan Reactions Flood In:

@AsgardianSimp420:

not me thirsting for thor voiced by sig vinter 😭😭

@CharlieFeigelAWS:

this is a workplace violation in progress.

@OrphiusCult69:

i want Loki-Sig to call me a problem. just once.

🎥 [Sig Vinter Presents: God Complex — “Corporate Puppetry” Edition]

🧵 Live from @GoatSlayer666: The only stream brave enough to confront management using fabric and mental illness.

[Scene opens in what appears to be a throne made of folding chairs, caution tape, and a half-eaten fruit basket.]

SIG VINTER (wearing a dollar-store crown, eyes wide with manic glee):

"Welcome back, mortals, heretics, and emotionally unstable vice chairmen. Tonight I am not Sig Vinter. Tonight I am LOKI. And I have questions… for the threadbare tyrant himself…"

[She holds up a crudely made sock puppet with wire-rim glasses, a frown drawn in sharpie, and a tiny name tag: “Charles Feigel, AWS”]

LOKI-SIG (voice silky, sinister): "Well, well, Charlie. Big man with the big desk. How does it feel to run a kingdom teetering on collapse, built on sweat, blood, and the desperate screams of people far more interesting than you?"

CHARLES SOCK-PUPPET (nasally voice, full of disdain): "Sig, this is a gross misuse of company bandwidth. We are a legitimate—"

LOKI-SIG: "Shh-shhh, sweet puppet. You don’t speak, you answer. Why haven’t you booked my brother Tyr to win everything? Hmm? Is it because he has the personality of a brick wall in a snowstorm, or because I stabbed your real-life inbox with a goat emoji swarm?"

CHARLES SOCK-PUPPET: "That was cyber harassment, actually."

LOKI-SIG: "That was performance art, Charles."

[Sig leans in close to the puppet, voice dropping to a whisper]

LOKI-SIG: "You think you’re in control. But deep down, we both know… every kingdom burns eventually. Especially the ones run by cowards in khakis."

[She throws the Charles puppet into a flaming trash can off-camera, which may or may not be CGI.]

SIG (breaking character, cackling): "Whoopsie! Guess HR’s gonna puppet together a new mouthpiece, huh?"

💬 Fan Comments Roll In:

@TurnbuckleTheatre:

SHE THREW CHARLES IN THE TRASH. LOKI STYLE. I’M ASCENDING.

@WheelingForDaron:

Sig Vinter is the reason AWS is in constant chaos and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

@FeigelInFear:

Charlie Feigel’s sock puppet had more emotional range than his real-life emails.

@Orphius_Has_Suffered_Enough:

Wait until she interviews Orphius using a sad balloon with googly eyes.

A sharp dressed man walked out of the Incheon International Airport in Seoul, South Korea. But this man's suite was very distinct. It was all silver. This could only mean one thing. This man, was none other than Vega Knight, AKA the Silver Baron. A long time friend of the Devil's Titan, Leon Roberts, and a popular pimp over in Las Vegas.

He was using his phone to contact somebody. After a few clicks, he heard the dial tone. It took a minute, but the other end would answer. Silver Baron switched to video call, and it now showed the face of who he was calling. It was indeed Leon Roberts.

Leon: Yo Vega. What's happening dude?

Silver Baron: Oh Not a whole lot brother. Unless you count the news I have to share with you, then it's big.

Leon: Is it about whether you're signing on or not?

Silver Baron: Well, why don't you take a look around?

The Silver Baron turned around in a slow circle, showing the airport in Seoul. Leon almost gasped as he saw this.

Leon: You're in Seoul Now? Does this mean what I think it means?

Silver Baron: Indeed it does. Say hello to the newest member of the AWS roster. Because the Sin City Knight, the Silver Baron, is rollin' into town.

Leon: FINALLY!

Silver Baron: Yeah. Things are being taken care of. Of course, we know that It isn't just me that's signed on.

Leon: Good. This roster needs to meet the Death Baron as well. Wonder how long that will take though.

Silver Baron: Well it could take a while. Definitely not in the rumble. He'll have plenty of time to hunt. Speaking of, thank you man. I didn't expect you to give me your spot.

Leon: Yeah the rumble had gotten full. A small sacrifice, though you're only of the very few people I would accommodate in such a way. Just promise me this Vega. Regardless if you win it or not, you make a statement. You show them just how strong your pimp hand game is, and why you roll with devils.

Silver Baron: Heh. You didn't need to ask. But since you did, it will be done. Anyways Leon, I should go get settled in. It's close to the event, and I still need to take care of some business.

Leon: Understood. But man, this is going to be so much fun.

Silver Baron: We can finally rule our profession together. I'll see you later dude.

Leon: Later bro.

Silver Baron smirked, before ending the call. He then hailed a taxi, so he could head to his hotel and check in.

~~~~~Two hours later...~~~~~

The Silver Baron had checked himself in, and was settled. He had his ring gear out and sorted. He hung up his Silver fur collared Trench-coat, before taking his phone back out. He began to record a video in selfie mode.

Silver Baron: Ladies and gentlemen. It's been a few years since you've last seen the face of your favorite lust and entertainment dealer, the Silver Baron. But the Sin City Knight is back, and I'm rollin' into town for the AWS Champion's Carnival. More specifically, the rumble match itself.

That's right. There's going to be plenty of bodies flying around. All for a shot at glory. All for a shot at some top tier opportunity, to win the top titles, and cementing legacies.

The Silver Baron smiled, as he prepared himself a couple shots of whisky for himself.

Silver Baron: Make no mistake. I am not so foolish to believe I can simply just walk in and automatically win. Not in this match. But don't get me wrong. There is more than just winning I can achieve in this match. I'm looking at this opportunity to make a statement.

That statement, is that nobody will be safe from the pimp hand of the Silver Baron, and I'm itching to smack some ugly ass faces around while you all witness the spectacularly violent and glamorous journey I will undertake while rising to the top.

Unfortunately for those who are in my way, quick work will have to be made. See in this kind of match, it's hard to keep up with all of those names who are in. But funny enough, they all fall under different cliches, cliques, or categories. Whatever you want to call it. Matters not to me.

The Silver Baron paused his train of thought, so that he could take one of the shots he prepared for himself, before resuming.

Silver Baron: Now what do I mean by that. Well an example is the other new signees who are in this rumble. Debuts much like myself. They are all here trying to do the same thing as I am. But trust me when I say this, they won't outshine me. No, they will have to wait their turn to make a name for themselves here, because there's no way I'm letting you take my spotlight in this match.

We also got some rednecks, bimbos, posers and spitfires. Those who claim they are evil, but are really just attention seeking losers. All that and alot more. Hell we got a couple of real posers that I'm looking forward to meeting. Ones that have somehow, in some fucken stupid ass way, managed to convince you, the fans, that they are malevolent gods. Then again, considering who the general public in the states elected to lead them, can't say I'm to surprised. To which I say, it's been a while since I've smacked the faces of a couple of overblown cultist leaders, such as the ones in this match.

Point I'm making, is that all of them have but one thing in common. They aren't safe from taking a pimp hand to the face.

The Silver Baron put the phone down for a moment. He positioned it in a way so that it showed him putting on and adjusting his silver gloves. Once done, he picked the phone back up, and continued from where he left off.

Silver Baron: But as I said. I'm not a fool. I know that my odds are unfortunately the same as everyone else. But that's what makes this match so exciting though, isn't it? You never know what's going to happen. I can only promise that in the rumble, you'll see just what the Silver Baron can and will do. Why he is one of the few people who can proudly roll with the devil, and not get burned. You''ll see bodies flying around, at the hands on this ambitious pimp. Regardless on how I do, whether I win this match or not, you're being given one hundred percent reason to remember the name.

The Silver Baron paused for a second to grab his remaining shot. He quickly consumed it, before he chuckled for a brief moment.

Silver Baron: After the pay per view, stick around. We're going to celebrate the success here in Seoul South Korea, and the arrival of the sexiest greatness you'll ever see. The wine will flow free, and so will the juice. But until then, get your phones ready to take some unforgettable snapshots at the Champions Carnival. I'm a busy man, and I got some business to attend to for the Carnival. Silver Baron OUT!

The Silver Baron smirked one last time, as he ended his video right there. He adjusted his suit, before leaving to prepare for the Champions Carnival pay per view.