President Evil has never been a wrestler who handled a loss well. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, simultaneously kicking a folding chair across the room, sending wrestlers scattering. They had been previously sort of milling about the backstage area, in the absence of a functional locker room, which was due to the venue’s ongoing plumbing issues, the less said about which, the better. Assessing the situation, most of the other wrestlers quickly decided it was no longer a good idea to hang out here, and the room cleared quickly. Evil continued to vent his frustrations.

“It was bullshit! A sneak attack!” he fumed, taking a seat in an unkicked chair, flanked my his two chief henchmen, Agent Fang and Agent Bulldog, with a lone, nameless Secret Evil Service agent standing nearby. “Two on one!” he continued, sounding as outraged as he could manage while ignoring how he had just finished stabbing someone with a fork during the match in question.

Agent Bulldog, ever the loyal soldier, was eager to support her captain. “Sir, absolutely, sir. The Think Tanks are the lowest scum, sir.” This wasn’t an entirely inaccurate assessment, but was perhaps an exaggeration, considering that Evil had literally stabbed one of them with a fork. “Say the word, and we will enact tire-slashing protocols, sir.”

“Wait, but didn’t he kick you right in the face, though?” Agent Fang suddenly blurted out. It was not that he was disloyal, but sometimes, he had a problem telling which situations were not conducive to total honesty. Evil and Bulldog, stunned, froze in place, both with as much of a “what the hell, dude” look on their faces as could be mustered while wearing masks. “Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty sure you were kind of going back and forth, and then it was just like WHAM, right in the eye.”

“SILENCE” Evil shouted. It was a phrase he rarely directed toward his own henchmen, but it was effective. Usually. There was a brief moment of shared silence, that lasted seconds, but felt like minutes.

“…But he kicked you in the face though.”

President Evil stared at him for a moment with a pained expression that was somehow obvious from behind his hood, then spoke. “Fuck’s sake, Fang. It’s a coping mechanism. I am coping. Just… Just let this happen.”

“Yeah, read the room, dipshit,” the faceless Evil Agent added.

“Wait, what are you even still doing here? This is between me and the Agents who actually have names.”

“You never gave me my thirty-five dollars.”

The President kind of blinked, then patted his pockets and eyed Fang and Bulldog. “Shit, I left my wallet in the car. Den of fuckin’ thieves around here. Hey, can either of you take care of that guy?” Fang and Bulldog both sort of shrugged. They too had left their valuables in the car, and adhering to an aesthetic of more traditional wrestling attire, neither even had pockets. “Ah, shit. Just, uhh, it’s gonna be a minute, okay?”

The Agent exhaled sharply and folded his arms. He really needed that thirty-five dollars. To complicate matters, the victorious team of the Think Tank, led by the diminutive-yet-diabolical mad scientist known by the unwieldy moniker of Brain God, The Calculation Master (obviously not his government name) finally strode through the curtain, and the few unaffiliated wrestlers and crew members remaining backstage went on high alert, as a confrontation was a near-certainty.

For his part, Think Tank X, one of the original two Think Tanks and the man who had nearly kicked President Evil’s head off, kept it subtle, merely shot a smugly-satisfied smirk in the President’s direction as he walked past. It said enough, as he had chosen a route that took him unnecessarily close to the forces of Evil. It was just enough to piss him off, but not enough to raise his ire to the point of additional violence.

“You’ll keep walking, if you know what’s good for you.”

“I shall, and I shall do so as a lion, lord of my surroundings and unconcerned with the petty grievances of mere jackals.”

His counterpart, Think Tank Y, was less eloquent. “BRAAAAAIN BUSTERRR” he shouted, pantomiming the wrestling move. While allegedly gifted in the disciplines of math, science, and professional wrestling, the power of speech seemed to elude him, to the endless confusion of pretty much everyone.

“Fuckin’ weirdos,” Evil muttered to no one in particular as the Tanks made their way into a different section of the surprisingly large backstage area of the building. It was then that Brain God, high on the fumes of victory, decided to approach and get his own shots in. While he was a certified super-genius and almost supernaturally gifted in the fields of biology, chemistry, and robotics, he was impulsive, and confident to a fault, and in his hubris, he approached all three and a half members of the Evil Administration, specifically to demean and insult them. While his I.Q. has never accurately been measured, due to testers assuming he was cheating, getting angry, and subsequently throwing out the results, he manages to somehow be both among the world’s foremost geniuses and still kind of a dumbass.

“Welllll. Welly welly well, what do we have here?”

“Someone who wonders what the hell made you think ‘welly welly well’ was a thing people actually say.” Evil growled dismissively, as was the traditional manner for him to growl things. Fang snickered, while Bulldog stood fast, like she was in the freaking Queen’s Guard.

“Fine, have your fun. But just remember that you do so as losers. As a winner, I simply came here to observe how the other half lives. Not too well, apparently.” To illustrate his point, he reached into his scientific speed-suit and produced exactly thirty-five dollars, which he tossed dismissively at the feet of Evil’s heretofore unpaid third henchman. “Maybe if you stopped hanging out with losers, you’d get paid on time.”

Evil’s eyes narrowed, and a sort of visible tension came over him. He really had left his wallet in the car, and the suggestion that he couldn’t scrape together thirty-five bucks pissed him smooth the hell off. As the Evil Agent shrugged and started to bend down for the bills, a huge black-gloved hand stopped him. “You take that man’s money, and you’re gonna eat it.”

“Well, at least that way, he’ll get to eat.”

This wasn’t the final straw, but was close. Evil stood up, and while he was a man who towered over half the locker room, Brain God was a man already prone to be towered over by just anyone in general. The resulting visual was that of of grown-ass man looking like he was about to punt a small child. B.G. (which is what everyone calls him, on account of his chosen name being both weird and kind of a mouthful) stood his ground, and it soon became apparent why.

Before Evil could say a word, the massive wrestler known as Humungulus suddenly appeared, way more stealthily than someone with a name like that should’ve been able to appear. “Mungo” was absolutely massive, over seven feet tall and four hundred pounds, and suddenly Evil found himself as the one having to stare up at someone. “Evil man bad. Mungo doesn’t like you!”

Evil paused for a second, and a change suddenly came over him. Faced with an gigantic man-monster, he did something strange. He laughed. And not a nervous laugh either, but one of genuine amusement. “Oh, of course. B.G.’s got him a new goddamn Frankenstein! And he’s a biiiig one, too! Just like all the others!” He paced back and forth, eyeing Mungo up and down. “He did tell you about your predecessors, right?” He shot a look at B.G., who suddenly had the look of terror on his face that was missing earlier, because he knew exactly where the President was going.

“Ah, Mungo, we should go, uhh, if you’re going to smash these losers, you should do it in the ring.” But it was too late.

“Boy he’s just as tall as Monster Alpha! Remember him? He was Think Tank A, wasn’t he? Impressive fellow, actually scored a pinfall or two over a young Prez back when I wore a different mask. Say, where is he now? Boy, I woulda thought a guy like that would have had a great future! Oh, wait, that’s right. He stroked-out in the ring when he was twenty-three. Them P.E.D.s’ll do that. Lives with his mom now, and has nothing left from wrestling but memories. Fuzzy ones, obviously.”

Humungulus got sort of a puzzled look, and B.G. started to try and coax him into leaving again, but the President was on a roll now,, and nothing could stop him. “And man, who was that other guy? The really big one? Gigantikron! Yeah, Think Tank G! Weird name, but it worked for him, I guess. Boy, he was even bigger than Monster Rozimoff! What ever happened to that guy? Oh right, someone gave him an experimental growth hormone, and his fucking nose and his fucking ears came off! Slid right off! How wild is that, Mungo?”

Humungulus gasped and grabbed his own nose with both hands, as B.G. desperately tried to formulate an exit strategy. “Okay, fine! You’ve made your point! I’m a failure! Are you happy now!?”

He was happy now, but to be honest, he was just getting warmed up. “Oh, I am happy now, but to be honest, I’m just gettin’ warmed up!” B.G. tried to cut him off, but he was already onto the next thing before he could make a sound. “LEST WE FORGET! The Mighty think Tank Z.” His cadence was like that of a southern Baptist preacher, shifting effortlessly from a full holler to nearly a whisper, in what was either the finest accidental Samuel L. Jackson impression ever performed by a presumably Caucasian man, or at least a fair-to-middling Steven A. Smith. “Remember him? Remember that whackjob? That fucking nutcase? We all do!” He gesticulated wildy as he continued, “THE MONSTER! THE ABOMINATION! THE UNBEATABLE! THINK! TANK! Z! Sooo. What was the deal there, B.G.? Remember when they had the world heavyweight title – my title – all wrapped up for that big bastard with a little pink bow on it? And instead of squashing Ace’s drunk ass, like we all knew he would, he just -POOF – disappeared! So what was it? Are the rumors true? Did he lose his mind and run off into the woods or some shit? Or are the other rumors true?”

“I don’t want to discuss this, Evil. Not here, not now.”

“Well TOO BAD, because this shit is happening! So did he just lose his shit and peace out?” He leaned in extremely close, “…or did you you shoot so much bullshit into his veins that he finally dropped dead?”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” B.G. shouted, not caring one bit that he was yelling at a man who was almost literally twice his size or that his monster was still too busy trying to hold his nose onto his face to protect him. “I do not have to stand here and listen to this from the likes of you! ” He pounded finger directly into Evil’s chest, startling him enough to make him take a step back. “You act like you’re better than everyone else here, ‘my world title’, and all that, but if you were, you wouldn’t be here! And do you know why I’m here, in this pissant pawnshop of a regional promotion? A sense of ownership! Pride! Responsibility! Things you’d know nothing about! I was here when this company was founded, and I helped it grow into a national phenomenon, and when the ship started sinking, I stayed onboard to try and bail it out! Where were you, Evil? Where were you when we needed you? You tucked tail and fucked off to Japan the second you missed a paycheck! And why aren’t you still over there? Why aren’t you in a ‘real’ promotion, if you’re such a legend, huh? Why aren’t you in View Japan? Or Olive Japan? Why aren’t you in the SWA? Oh, that’s right! Because you were there, and you got blacklisted for being an asshole! You’ve burned every bridge you’ve ever crossed and poisoned every river behind you! When this company got relaunched, you jumped at the chance to come back, because you were in Belarus, fighting in deathmatches for a pedophile! ‘The President of Wrestling.’ My ass! You’re a parasite, Evil. You’re a worm who infects its host until it either dies or builds up the antibodies to shit you out. And as far as I’m concerned, you can kiss my ass in hell, you prick!”

At this outburst, Think Tank member Cyberta – the one with the robot arms – approached to try and diffuse the situation before something physical happened. But it didn’t seem that would be necessary, as Evil looked truly affected by B.G.’s tirade. He took another step back and stared straight ahead, silent for several seconds, as though deep in contemplation. Then, he spoke, in a much more vulnerable tone than before, “I just… I’m sorry, you have to understand… I had a really rough childhood, and we moved around a lot, and it’s been really hard for me to form lasting relationships and connections with people…. And sometimes, I just dunno…” his voice actually quavered, “I think that… I think sometimes, I just push people away, and I don’t mean to, and…” He paused for a long time, and for a second, it actually looked like he was about to literally cry. “And I think about what you just told me, and… It’s interesting… Because your wife left you.”

There it was. The killshot. You never see it coming. B.G. was utterly destroyed, reduced to a quivering pile of facial tics, trying to form some sort of retort, but even with his genius intellect, all he could manage was a series of coughs and grunts. Cyberta kind of sucked some air through her teeth let out one of those “sssssss, ooohhh” sounds, like she had just watched a man be hit in the nuts by the ricochet of a golf shot. Even the stoic Agent Bulldog cringed a little. Agent Fang was less stoic.

“OOOHHHHHHH DAAAAAAAAAAAHA-HA-HAAMN!” He was unable to finish the word before he started laughing.

Meanwhile, even in a world without thirty-five dollars, the Evil Agent did him one better, leaping up and down, pointing in B.G.’s general direction. “AWWW SHIT! YA BURNT! YA BURNT, SON! WORLDSTAR! WORLDSTAR!”

Unwilling to further witness the destruction of a man, Cyberta tried to intervene. “Okay, now that was going to far!” It was a mistake.

President Evil mockingly extended his hand. “OH? You must be new here, honey. My name is President Evil, and taking things too far is kinda like my personal lifestyle brand.” He reached out and thumped one of her metal shoulders with an audible plink. “…And here’s another fine example. They ripped the arms off a Terminator and glued ’em to your stumps, and you still can’t win a stupid match on your own! Dollar store Jax from Mortal Kombat lookin’-ass.”

She gasped, and was yet another one left with no possible response. It was true, she hadn’t actually won a singles match yet, even with robot arms. President Evil was many things, and while not necessarily an honest person, he really wasn’t a liar, either. This was because telling the truth to people tends to hurt them more. Finally Brain God regained enough of his composure to gather the troops and get them pointed in the general direction of a different room, but before he left, he managed to blurt out, “EVIL! YOU HAVE MADE A VERY POWERFUL ENEMY ON THIS DAY!”

President Evil calmly craned his neck as if to look past the three, then shielded his eyes as if scanning the horizon. “I have? Well, if you see the sonovabitch before I do, you tell him to get in line behind your sorry asses.” Having somehow snatched verbal defeat from the jaws of martial victory, the three Think Tank members stormed off, as Evil beamed, gazing upon his works like a proud father after a successful second attempt at building a treehouse. He then turned to his henchmen. “Wow, that was just what I needed! I feel great now! So, uhh, are you guys hungry? I figure we could check out that new sushi place. Or I dunno, I haven’t had barbecue in a while. What sounds good?”

“What sounds good to me? Thirty-five dollars sounds good to me.”

“Ah shit, right.”