MATCH PROMO A Wild Snorlax Appears!

Visual Prophet

“He’s a fucking wizard” - Your Mother
I see @Serena Bennett I beep twice and I wave...The rest of y’all boys I blow keysh right in your face.
Pistol by the bed, I’m asleep but I’m awake for that one night one of these elitists reach at my waist.

Ye. Ye. Ye.

Last time took an L but tonight I bounce back. We have to carry that with us. So be it. Shea Butter Babies run in the 2020 Grand Prix tournament ends unceremoniously. Many would liken our defeat as “going out with a bang” as The Liquid Swordz turned the arms on the clock back several years and issued a statement win against The Visual Prophet and Serena Bennett. No bitter taste in my mouth, no angered breaths, sour faces, or disgust to be had. You got us, fellas. you took the win and I can’t fault you for it. You earned it. You snatched a historic achievement right from our clutches and burdened The Universal Women’s Champion and YOUR WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMP-YUNNNNNNNNAAAAAAHHHH with this fate. We can’t change the outcome. I wouldn’t even if I could. For all the magic I possessed , all the alchemy I’ve displayed, all the spells I’ve cast, the minds I’ve bent, and the voodoo I could is what it is. It’s going to be what it may have always supposed to be. The Blicky Boyz and The Liquid Swordz in a battle of “Which corny team based off of New York Rap influence with an unnecessary Z at the end of their name will win?” This Grand Prix shall end with an epic war. Four former World Champions going tit for tat as the blood lust eyes of Bhris Elite couples with the magnificent goatee sporting face of Malcolm Jones stand opposite the legendary tandem of Impact and Mr. DEDEDE. This on any other night could main event a marquee event. This on any other day would be a top drawing affair. Four of the greatest professional wrestlers that have ever lived in one ring. Four of the most talented Elitists in EAW history in one match. It’s hard to imagine anyone topping this Grand Prix finale. Wait...hold up. Let me think for a second. IS it hard to imagine someone topping this match? Maybe it isn’t. I mean, The Blicky Boyz vs the Liquid Swords surely could go on after the Specialist Chamber. Shit, maybe even both Showdown and Voltage’s offered main events. We all see SOSA and Jamie leaving unscathed and retaining their titles. No disrespect to my friend Serena but her and Ms. Extreme isn’t a guarantee to headline over Mr. DEDEDE, Impact, MJ, and Elite. Nobody would dare pay money to see Dray Fontana or Jake Smith regardless of what old bitch is standing across from them. No. Grand Prix and the rest of the Road to Redemption card has no choice but to play second fiddle to me.




It’s me versus a bunch of oddly shaped bodies that stand not a fucking chance and the eyes will be on Viewy P exclusively at RTR. MITSUBACHI is not drawing shit. LC couldn’t attract flies to a dumpster let alone fans to this event. The two mystery folks who I’ve already spoiled for the fans who it will be can’t and will not be a fucking factor at all when that bell rings. I stand alone in supremely bright lights as I prepare to rain down flames of pain on all of these sons of bitches. Is my back against the wall? Quite possibly even though the wall is no longer made of Glass and is substituted for chain links. I hear the echoing of my failures being spewed by the peanut gallery. I embrace it like a long lost love and accept any faults any fucker can find. I never circumvent the truth and I always expect the same from my opponents even though the rarity is a given. The nerve of a man who is too scared to wrestle without a shirt to use my masterpiece as a blueprint to project his internal faith. Prophetic Visions should be nominated for a Grammy right now just because it was more important for the culture and the zeitgeist than any other piece of art that was crafted this past 12 months and Xander Payne’s greatest achievement professional wrestling is to merely be mentioned in it. Like Ryan Wilson before him. Like Victor Jackson as well. The scale of potential is meaningless if you never get to see the day come. Payne for Pride 9 is a concept that may never come to fruition if you don’t make it happen. 5 time World Champion so many years from now yet you still chasing the first one. All the hyper inflated ego stroking is all word play to a guy who doesn’t fucking play around. The things you find pride in are painful to me, Xander. Imagine me celebrating barely beating DEDEDE like you. Imagine me living off that high when I know I could damn near kill the son of a bitch and proved such at House of Glass. Imagine me having to watch Drake King flourish and not rise to my own platform and surpass him in every metric like you have failed to do with Myles. Only Myles i’ve ever been jealous of are Darius Miles when I was a kid because that head tap celebration was so fucking cool and Miles Morales. Meanwhile, you have an Australian Mexican one named Madonna with bigger breasts eating Minerva’s ass while you are stuck being fat wearing sleeveless t-shirts because you never could compare to him. That guy took time off, came back, and lapped you again and you still screaming to the ether that you are A genius. You are still bitching about being a god. Who worships a god with no commandmentas? Who fears a god who only can fly via a helicopter? Lord knows your heavyset ass nearly Kobe Bryant’d yourself when you dropped that bitch in the stands at Grand Rampage.

when scouts say Xander Payne is well rounded, they aren’t talking about his in ring ability. It’s cause he’s literally well rounded. Like if a Snorlax was dressed like a Hot Topic part time employee.

Lord, I’d gladly trade Xander Payne for every single person inside that helicopter that carried Kobe and Gigi. The weight between all those innocent people and Xander’s blubbering behind almost evens out. You claiming to weigh any pound less than 325 pounds is the most disgusting gimmick in professional wrestling and I have witnessed Mr. DEDEDE openly tout himself as The Sheriff of the Gay Meat community. I’ve watched SKA tow a line many Anglo Saxon descendants wouldn’t dare tow. I’ve heard the literal slurping sounds outside StarrStan’s office and witnessed Felix Hartley and Jenny Cien exit seconds upon Starr’s howling moans ending and watched them quickly be gifted New Breed Championship accolades they were never capable to handle and that was less offensive than your kayfabe weight.You even trying to say you don’t weigh 400 pounds with a straight face is unequivocally some of the most fantastic god damn acting I’ve seen since Denzel in Training Day. More compellingly cerebral than any role Meryl Streep could prepare for and it’s almost commendable to see Xander. You trifling tub of lard. You try and discount ANYTHING The Visual Prophet has done this year alone and you look as stupid as your family looks when you voluntarily announce any relations to them. Your wrestling family are mere footnotes to the history of professional wrestling. Your wrestling lineage holds about as much significance to me as Vic Venom’s family. Your family is about as relevant as whatever trash ass Grandson song this company is forced to use on these insanely large events. Speaking of sucking dick, who’s dick is Grandson sucking to be included at a show as important as Road to Redemption? Who is producing these promotional beats? A fucking suburban middle schooler? No soul. No voice of importance. Just a cheap grab as you wave your hands at an already subservient audience that will lick and accept whatever you put forth. Lethal Consequences could open ass fart into a microphone for 15 minutes and then say something esoteric and people will clap like sea otters. MITSUBACHI can get milked by Yoshi Poshi or whatever his best friend’s name is and we will just drop him a feature he doesn’t deserve like a little Asian token because the market might see a 2% bump. Xander Payne is absolutely abhorred by Canada but we allow him to champion the entire country like he’s a draw there. It’s terrible how terrible some of this business is but THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS BAEMELO BALL IS HERE TO SAVE YOUR COMPANY! Seriously, no joke...imagine having to stomach Xander Payne’s stomach being behind the World Heavyweight Championship for any duration. Shit, imagine if Xander Payne took my spot at Pain for Pride and miraculously beat Drake King. Imagine the last few months of this never ending pandemic with that glutton and his gut stretching the finely crafted leather straps on this impeccable belt to it’s limits. Imagine shows where the hall of fame talents of Chris Elite and Andrea Valentine end with them somehow losing to Xander Payne as he unbelievably defends the most important belt in this company. Imagine the all time classic, the incredibly spectacular rematch between Mr. DEDEDE and The Visual Prophet ended up being Mr. DEDEDE at his peak somehow drowning under that hippopotamus fupa above Payne’s minuscule penis and we have to listen to the most undeserving, phony, big word tossing idiot himself as he claims to be HALF as good as I have been in this impossible scenario.

I could never sweat a loser vet who sweats gravy.

Imagine watching what I did at Pain for Pride, watching the pathway of persecution and pain I’ve laid out for every single World Championship contender sent my way, and saying to yourself “HEY, this match where Impact is revealed to be in the KKK, Sarah Price is actually a massive black man, and Ryan Wilson’s piss is durable enough and bountiful enough to swim in...I’m allegedly a five time champion in!” Xander Payne, I’m a fucking wizard. I do shit nobody else fathoms or has been able to do and I’ve been that type of nigga for a while. As I closed my eyes, sit crisis cross apple sauce, and begin twisting my head as a green aura circles my beautiful black body, I have witnessed 14 million six hundred and five potential outcomes for your career and that was the ONLY one where you become World Champion. I’ve seen thousands of scenarios where you get COVID and die from complications after disavowing and violating restrictions just to stuff your Canadian face with salty meat balls at Old Country Buffet. I’ve seen hundreds of situations where you get close to the peak you seek only to lose to variations of Myles, Jake Smith, and even one where a returning and rejuvenated tandem of Eric Havoc and Solomon Hill take turns swapping World title runs while you play the Karl Malone ringless spectator who eventually kills himself out of despair of not having what many more skilled elitists have had. The likelihood of this timeline being favorable to you in the long run is rare. Supremely rare and the possibility of this being one of the millions of existences where you die in your twin size bed whilst shoveling one last spoonful of blended up Popeyes Chicken sandwiches your obese ass has been to lazy to have chewed up with your teeth is very much in play. The only other scenario I’ve seen where you don’t end up being a bigger failure as you are meant to be is one where you reunite with Myles and become a big time tag team wrestler who retires never wining another single’s championship and eventually at his EAW Hall of Fame speech removes that sleeveless shirt and does a jersey swap with “Precious” famed Gabby Sidibe.

Shout out to Gabby, I heard she got engaged by the way.

And shout out to you Xander. You woke up like this and still thought it was wise to try and rile up Michael Bae like I can’t make a horror movie out of your life for 15 minutes on a random Friday Night Dynasty. Like I can’t flip a switch and flip your muffin top right out of those ill fitted Jorts and have your next of kin making shrines of my victory to worship behind your back. You slovenly son of a bitch. You look like if a pile of wet clothes put on a human skin suit and swallowed a dictionary and decided to try it’s hand at professional wrestling. I don’t see how any one can look at you and look at me and believe we play the same sport. I don’t envision a single child that can watch you be that sloppy and think to themselves that being anyway like you is feasible or healthy. The one reason why this insanely hardcore and extreme wrestling company has yet to lean all the way in and do a straight up Amputation match is because everyone is secretly waiting to see when your type two diabetes forces the doctors to amputate your left leg first. Legend has it if you look in the mirror at 3:25AM on Friday the 13th, say “Xander Payne” three times backwards and snap your fingers across the world McDonald’s Ice Cream Machines will instantly turn on and a sack of White Castle Burgers will appear at your door. Fat fuck. You weren’t even seeing Visual back when Visual had a mask on. You weren’t even eye level to me when I was first fortifying and boosting Empire ratings when I was gyrating these hips and delaying their eventual discontinuation. You for damn sure aren’t built to stop this never ending World Heavyweight Championship reign yet you act like me whooping the soft serve out of you a few weeks prior to repeating the same action at Road to Redemption is a privilege for me? Really?

The nerve of another white boy trying to tell me about privilege.

A privilege is you being able to say you stepped in the ring with me. A privilege is you having an Uber’s eat app that has seen more usage by you alone than the entire state of New Jersey. A privilege is the woman you love most sticking by your side yet harboring lust for Viewy P and having to accept settling for you as a downgrade. Your bitch looks at me and wishes she could occupy my bed. Your mere existence is only continued because I haven’t made up my mind on whether to kill you or farm you like a pig with endless baby back ribs that I could peddle to Chili’s franchises across the country. You aren’t even top five as far as fat wrestlers go and the old Terry Chambers could eat you under a table if we sat pies in front of you. Thank god my Detroit* brethren took my advice, studied my soon to be released EAW Workout Plan, and changed his life. Unlike you. Your knees probably are jealous of other slimmer people’s knees. They say if you put your ear up against Xander’s belly button you can hear the sound of hundreds of Cheesecake Factories during rush hour. Fat fucker. With that said, I hope you have yourself a gay ol’ time you Fred Flintstone built bitch. I’m going to treat you like you treated all those defenseless chicken tenders you’ve slaughtered and leave you dripping and devoured this Friday night. Difference is those tenders were smothered in barbecue sauce and you Xander Payne will be suffocating and drowning in your own crimson blood. Sausage finger ass elitists can’t catch a break let alone The Visual Prophet slacking. Tie your shoes before you try to tongue tango with V’jango, darling. Sincerely yours. 💋



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