The Man That Heaven Has Forsaken

"I spoke to god today, and she said that she's ashamed.
What have I become, what have I done?
I spoke to the devil today, and he swears he's not to blame.
And I understood, cuz I feel the same."

I hate everything, including myself.

Misanthropy is my natural reaction to this deplorable society.

If I was an honest man, perhaps I would have walked a much different path.

But I am not, and therefore, misanthropy was not a choice. It was a destiny. My entire life I've known nothing but narcissism, egotism, megalomania, duplicity and hatred.

People are corrupt, and “good natured” people seem to be purely fiction. I’m not an angel. I’m anything but. At my core, I know I have principles. I value truth, and honesty. I have zero tolerance for frauds, and disingenuous people who pretend to be something they’re not. Human beings are wicked by nature. We're violent, and envious. To say otherwise, would be a lie.

I know who I am. I’ve been called evil. And I don’t use that in the religious, or Hollywood sense of the word, it’s just an accurate descriptor of the malice which resides in my soul.

e·vil
1. Morally bad or wrong; wicked

Morality is a luxury I no longer have. All that I have is a blood-lust. All that I have is anger, and rage. I walk the path of violence, and all that I want is to make the world feel just as miserable as I am.

And when I come to Pro Wrestling Frontier, I will succeed.



Flashback: Portraits of Psychopathy

As an adolescent, I always felt somewhat ashamed and dejected about my glorious plan. The plan about getting good grades throughout high school, becoming valedictorian and going to some Ivy League college. I was selfish in that regard, thinking I should be entitled to some form of happiness. My parents, they loved me - well in some twisted way their hatred was their way of showing affection. They didn't hug me or touch me, or tell me how wonderful I was, nothing like that. I wasn't that kind of son anyway. The family dynamic was pretty much complicated, we were all trying to deal. I tried to ignore them when I had the chance because that’s how I dealt with pain. I ignored it. Maybe that’s not dealing. Maybe that’s just cowardice.

My parents had a lot of their own issues, and they were doing the best they could in light of all the drama. My mom was not well. She was seriously depressed - she was superficial, and found it difficult to cope with the reality that as a middle aged woman she was no longer the beautiful, vivacious girl she was in her youth, and because of this my father didn't find her attractive anymore. And speaking of my dad, when he wasn't cheating on my mother with hookers at the strip club, his hobbies included gambling, drinking, and consequently beating on me to release his inebriated frustrations. His life had not gone the way he though it would, and thus, he needed a scapegoat. He needed a punching bag - unfortunately, that was me.

High school, aside from the struggles of trying to maintain top grades, I had to deal with cliques. I wasn't the coolest or the most handsome, and I was often picked on for my intelligence and quirkiness. I remember this one time, I got jumped by Taj Moore and his gang of jocks who came together because they were in need of familiarity and a home due to the fact that their father figures were anything BUT ideal. I remember being pummeled, kicked, and punched until my insides turned. I went home and started swinging down my father’s bourbon. It always made me feel better to drink when I was in pain, the way that Jack Daniels burned my esophagus and went off in my stomach like fireworks on the Fourth of July was invigorating.

When I finished the bottle, I’d dwell around the house. I had a less than desirable living situation. As I said, mom was battling depression, and not in the cliche, laissez faire sense either where you hear people say “I’m so depressed” , or “this is the worst day of my life” because their boss called them in on their day off to open the department store. My mother was clinically depressed, and she seemed to always be hanging by a thread at the most, where any little “episode” might be the knife that cut the rope and sent her into death’s embrace. She was always on some type of medication with a name that I couldn't pronounce, and when she was on them things seemed peaceful for a while. I cherished that tentative tranquility, enjoyed seeing her act normal and okay. She cooked warm meals, did household chores, read books - but then she’d be deluded into thinking that THAT illusion of peace was permanent, and that she was “all better now”. She’d stop taking her pills, and then she’d fly off the proverbial handle. And that's when she'd verbally abuse me, blaming me for being born because her teenage pregnancy robbed her of her better years, and now my father can't stand to look at her. Now I"m the reason he won't touch her. I'm the reason she buys boatloads of makeup to try and make herself look pretty. It's sad when people don't love themselves. Self-hatred is a powerful disease, and no over the counter mascara was going to cure her sickness.

I always knew when she was taking her meds because she’d try and pretend that we were a loving family, and would hug me and tell me she was alright and that everything would be “fine now.”

“I love you, Magnus.” I hated when she said that. When my father came home that night, he looked at my cuts and bruises. He smelled like the beer he had been drinking at the casino, where he loved to gamble away away the rent. He owed a lot of people money. He laughed. “Got your ass kicked again I see,” he said, and then marched into the kitchen - to get himself some more booze. I asked my mom why he was so cold and distant, and she’d just respond that “he had a rough day.” She loved making excuses for him too. But what did she know about anything? A “rough day” was the story of my life. But all she cared about was him, not about taking care of her only son. No, that would’ve meant she had to put someone else’s needs ahead of her own. But whatever, I managed. I mean, I know she had her reasons. She was dealing with a lot of stuff, a lot of mental affliction. Her inner-self. Her sanity. She had inner-demons and she wasn't strong enough to battle them, AND nurture me at the same time.

When she was off her meds she stayed in her room. No lights. Sometimes the tv ran, and HBO was on when my father stole the cable channels. Otherwise, she confined herself to it like it was her personal prison, as if she suffered from sociophobia. When she was on her medication, she’d come out and try to have conversations with me. She’d try to act like a mother - and do the things she thought a mother would do.

She’d ask me, if I was “alright,” and “how are things going. She’d interview me, as if she had never met me before. And then when she went off the deep end again, I was back to being a ghost - back to being a nobody, back to being the reason her life had gone south. And then there she was again, on her meds, speaking to me with nostalgia in her voice. Like she “missed me,” like we actually had a healthy mother-son relationship.

“You look like your father, when he was young.”

She looked at me, and caressed my arm, then kissed me on the lips.

“You’re so handsome.”

My heart sunk in my chest. My hands got all clammy. My throat galloped up and down like a horse, swelling up like I was having an allergic reaction. I wanted to put a gun to my head.

“I-I- I have homework.”

I gently pushed her aside. Almost tripped over my feet because I was so nervous, so scared. Felt like God was punishing me, like he HATED me. I had to get away. Quickly drove down to Kolt’s house. He was throwing another shindig because his equally incoherent parents were out of town. From outside I could hear it all - the screams and cries for help, for someone to give them direction, for someone to tell these wayward kids that everything was going to be alright and that they could count on them. But there was nobody there to answer their calls, no hand to pull them from the abyss, no guardian angel to prevent them from self-destructing. Kolt's house was ground zero for bad decisions - it was the physical embodiment of the spirit of the disenfranchised youth.

“Bro,” he said, putting an arm around me. “You look like hell man. Let’s get you a beer.”

“Look… what else you got. I’m - I’m dealing with some shit right now. I just need-”

“Dude, you know I got you. I know exactly what you need.”

I smoked ecstasy that night. It was a first for many things for me. The first time I had tried that drug. The first time my mother “touched me’. The first time I released my inhibitions, and ignored my principles and rationale to indulge myself.

The first time I succumbed to the pain and started down the path to eternal, everlasting misery.

"Arms wide open, I stand alone.
I'm no hero, and I'm not made of stone.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell.
I'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell.
I'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side, righteous side of hell."

December, 31, 2013

“And how did that situation make you feel, Mr. Allen.” Dr. Andrews asked, his pen hovering above his paper and pad.

I pulled my legs underneath me, while my brain tried to both assimilate the question and contemplate what he was writing on his notepad. The booklet of small sheets held a lot of secrets, and a lot of questions. On one page, the lines conveyed screams and cries for someone who wanted to be liberated from their madness. On another, someone else’s hopes and dreams of having a better life. Nevertheless, in her hand she held nothing but delusions of grandeur.

I never really thought about the questions she asked me. I always wondered about the secrets she was hiding. She was wealthy. Her paycheck definitely came with a number of zeroes at the end of it, and at the end of each session she’d go home to an equally successful husband, and to the children in the portraits she kept on her desk. Her life looked so much like the ones you read about in fairy tales as a child - one that looked too good to be true, one you know you're not worthy of living because that would take lucky, and you've never been lucky in your entire life.

I always wondered what was going on inside her head. I was always fascinated by how she managed it all. She dedicated herself to listening to other people’s troubles. One could assume she came across a lot of damaged individuals. Day in and day out, Dr. Andrews sat in her leather lounge chair, and just listened to people’s problems. Every day she played God, holding the weight of people’s world’s on her shoulders, passing judgments left and right. She ordered her decrees, and forced people to accept her point of view. Every day she’d unravel someone else’s mental scars. Every day she’d try to uncover someone else’s secrets and determine what made them go crazy.

I always wondered, how she could listen to so many terrible things and not go crazy herself. How she could entertain all this madness, and not indulge her own psychosis.

How did she do it? The very air I breathed felt toxic, and I couldn’t even listen to my own thoughts because there was too much pandemonium going on up there. The noise was so vociferous that I constantly felt like bashing my head in with a blunt object to quiet things down. That's partially the reason I became a professional wrestler - so I could get my brains bashed in, hoping that enough chairshots and DDTs would clear my mind.

“How does that make you feel?” I poised, scratching the back of my head as I folded my leg over the other and did my best impersonation of her. I assessed her with scrutinizing eyes, just as she had done to me countless times, along with the plethora of people that were unlucky enough to sit across from her. Just as she had picked through skulls and cobwebs, I was attempting to do the same. The role-reversal was breathtaking.

Dr. Andrews shook her head, and scribbled something down on her notepad. What the hell was she writing? What could she have determined about me from such a simple question? Was I wrong for being curious?

“Why do you have a constant need to remove the microscope from yourself? Why do you feel the need to talk about other people’s issues, and not your own? I know why, but I’d like you to tell me. Mr. Allen, what are you running from?”

That’s simple. I’m tired of hearing people tell me there’s something wrong with me, like they’re perfect. Dr. Andrews, yeah, she pretended like she was better than everybody. She had her fancy degree, drove a nice car that costed her six figures, and lived in a lavish home, but deep down, she was wearing a mask too. She was hiding something, just like all of her patients. She made a career out of peeling away people’s disguises, yet it was increasingly clear to me that she had constructed a palatable but false self to divert people from who she was beneath the facade.

I just shrugged. “I thought it was common courtesy, to ask, you know, since we’ve been talking about me for over an hour now.” I tried to hide my disingenuous, and looked away while she scribbled something else on her book of secrets.

“How can I get to the root of your issue, if you don’t open up about it.” Dr. Andrews believes that she knows everything. And her predacious disposition seems to allow her to get whatever she wants out of her victims. People confide in her, revealing their deepest, darkest secrets and innermost thoughts without a second thought or so much the batting of an eyelash. There are just some things I’m not at liberty to speak about, and she would not pry open my pandoras box because she had finally met her match. She had finally met someone who lied just as much as she did.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

She looked like she was getting tired of my vague answers. If she was going to unlock my hidden secrets she was going to have to be more tenacious, patient and crafty than that.

“You’re not sure about much of anything, are you Mr. Allen?”

“It would appear not.” I was getting tired of speaking to her. I already knew that I had won our little cat and mouse game, and quickly grew bored of our mundane verbal exchange.

She just looked at me and nodded. I knew what she had on her mind. “I want you to do something for me.”

I just spaced out. “Whatever.”

She smiled, and jotted something down on the pad. “I want you to be honest with me about your feelings for once.”

“Sure.”

She smiled, finding something interesting with the way I said sure.

“I know that you’re upset Mr. Allen. That’s fine. We’ve been pushing deeper into your mind these last few seconds, and I know that it’s been frustrating, so it’s okay if you’re mad at me.” She said, in a tone that was supposed to be comforting, but was anything but.

“I’m not mad at you.” I lied. I lied to myself thinking I had outsmarted her, but all she had done was give me a false sense of security and superiority. I was losing the battle of wits.

“Well, you sound a little upset, and a little uptight.”

“I’m just exhausted. I just wrestled yesterday night, I’m tired and a little banged up.”

“Who are you mad at, Mr. Allen?” She kept pressuring me, clawing at the surface of my mind and the mental blocks I had built to keep people out.

“I’m not angry at anyone.” I shrugged my shoulders. I was very tense, and uncomfortable, and found it difficult to suppress or hide my anger. She was winning, and I was not happy about it. It was exasperating.

“Can I say something?”

“You’re the one in charge. Do what you want.”

“I think you’re lying. I think you’re angry at someone. Really upset about something.”

I wanted to say something, offer a rebuttal that began with “fuck” and ended with “you”, but I didn't. I bit my tongue, which was a foreign action to me, considering I had spent most of my life spewing my opinions, and more importantly, made a professional career out of running my choppers.

When I got back to my apartment that night I went right to the cupboards. I grabbed me a bottle of Jim Bean, put it in the pocket of my leather jacket and left. I wandered the streets of San Diego, drinking, and drinking until everything became blurry - I was desperately trying to stifle my emotions with alcohol - but I failed.

I hated Dr. Andrews because she was right.

I was angry at someone - Zack Lifer.

You can’t save someone who doesn't want to be saved - can’t save them from themselves. He created a perpetual muddle of his life, and didn't appreciate all that I did to interfere with the drama he created. He was selfish. He turned his back on all the progress we had made together.

And why? Because a few people didn't cheer for him. Because Jonathan Collins said aligning with me made him a bad person. Because his mind is weak. Because he believes there’s such a thing as happiness. Happiness is only an illusion, an impossibility, because we as humans are never truly satisfied.

And that’s why he wants Jonathan’s approval so much - because he’s a politician, and politicians sell false hope. And what is false hope, but something easier to stomach than reality. Collins lies to those who follow him. Zack doesn't want to change, he wants people to cater to his ego, for people to give him an out. Jonathan Collins has made a career out of justifying his sadism, and that’s what Lifer wants - to be able to make an excuse for his inner demons, so that he can feel like he’s a “good guy”, even though his barbaric actions say otherwise.

He desires a counterfeit truth, which is only the truth perverted into a lie, which is NO truth at all.

And that is something I cannot and WILL not give him. I don’t do what I do for social acceptance. I do what I do because I’m a monster, because I’m violent, because I’m wicked and evil by nature.

And I accept who I am. Lifer doesn't. And that angers me. It angers me because I put myself out there, and handed him nuggets of knowledge only for him to bite my hand. It angers me because I welcomed him into my life, and called him my friend, only for him to betray.

It angered me, because I was once again, alone.

" I heard from god today, and she sounded just like me.
What have I done, and who have I become.
I saw the devil today, and he looked a lot like me.
I looked away, I turned away!"

Frontier, it all began a long time ago.

My father was insane. And not that glorified movie villain bullshit you see time and time again, I’m talking about a genuine psychopath, a real life psychotic, heartless son of a bitch. You see, my father was a heavy drinker, and he would get these headaches. When he knocked back a few, he got violent. He would beat the shit out of my mother… beat the shit out of me too. Of course, I was much too young to remember that all now. Too young to remember being chased down the hallway and into the attic where I would hide in horror because it was my fault he worked dead end jobs and needed someone to take his frustration out on. Too young to remember him smashing beer bottles across my head because I didn’t join the football team at school. Too young to remember crying out for my mother, waiting for her to come to my rescue, reaching out for a hand that was never there.

That’s because my mother was no fucking saint. She had Stockholm Syndrome. When my father wasn't beating the shit out of her, or cheating on her, he spoiled her. He’d buy her jewelry, take her out, parading her like some trophy wife and she liked it. No matter how bad he got, she still loved him. She was superficial, and self-absorbed with her looks, so she neglected me. Mothering her only son was not at the top of her hierarchy, and I would call her out on it during my youth - and when she wasn't on her medication she’d call me a disappointment, and a disgrace, and we’d get into shouting matches and competitions to see who could make the other feel more inadequate. One day, we were having one of those matches, and when we were finished, and I had won, she waited for me to leave the room before taking a knife to her wrists and ending all the pain because misery is a sickness for which death is the only vaccine.

I was sixteen when my mother took her life. And, I didn't know it back the then - I knew depression ran in the family, but now I know that I had driven her to that point, that I was responsible. And it didn't help that my father blamed it all on me. Then and there, was the day I discovered hate.

So a few years after I flunked out of the University of Michigan, I met the one. THE one. The woman that I knew from the first moment that I laid eyes on her, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I discovered passion, the ability to put someone else’s needs and desires ahead of my own. I was wrestling around that time, in Tennessee, trying to make a name for myself in Knoxville for Jay Jefferson’s UWL. There, I joined up with four other guys with similar ambitions, and we started a group called Five Star, hoping to shoot up the card and find fame and fortune. It was there in mid-2012, where I came across Jonathan Collins. He tore me down at every step of the way, and made it his personal goal to see me self-destruct. And I did, so much that I became obsessed with him. He made me feel low, and I wanted to return the favor. So I assaulted Fiona Rourke, broke Jimmy Riley’s fucking arm because it made me feel good. And nothing could stop me, not even my sweet Haven Silver. And one fateful night, when she tried to talk me out of it, tried to pull me back from the Rabbit’s Hole, I killed her, drove her away to the point where she no longer loved me… and it was there I discovered rage.

I've spent every day since in a personal Asylum. But here I stand, still alive and kicking. My sovereign is gone but my spirit is NOT broken. I've endured calamity and tragedy in my life, but I've never let it keep me down. I've only used that as fuel for the fire. The hatred, the rage, it’s only wood to the flame.

And as this fire continues to burn, your lives will ALL go up in flames. Frontier, I’m coming to watch your world burn, to tarnish your ambitions, and to reduce your dreams to ashes. I’m not going to throw my accolades in your face. I could talk about being a UWL Heritage Champion. I could talk about putting EXODUS Pro on the map as their top superstar, the JUDAS to their kingdom, but I’m not. I could mention how I’ve beaten veterans like Jackson, destroyed world renowned stars like Chris Strike, Fiona Rourke, and Angelo Valour - even figured out and solved the riddle of the mysterious V, and have vanquished Heather Halliwell, Dom Harter and countless others, but I’m not. I’m not even going to guarantee victory, or talk about how unstoppable, and incredible I am like I know some of you will. I just want you to know that I killed my best friend Kliff Ulysses last year because he had lost himself. He had forgotten who he was and adopted the misguided, self-righteous rhetoric of one Jonathan Collins. And for that, I had to liberate him, by shattering his dreams and plunging him into oblivion. I ended Omar Wise's career, shattering his ankle into pieces with a steel chair because it made me feel good - torturing him made me feel alive. I want you to know that I’ve wrestled in Chairshot Survivals, I Quit Matches, No Holds Barred Matches and in TLCs because I specialize in sadism, barbarism, and savagery. I want you to know that I’m out to feast on your misery, because your anguish will breathe life into me, because it keeps me going. I want you to know that my friend Zack Lifer's defection has made me angry, and I'm in need of expressing my frustration. I intend to use nine people as my canvas, and these fists of mine will be the brushstrokes that convey your agony and fear. You will be my Mona Lisa, and I your Da Vinci.

Frontier what awaits you, you nine unlucky souls that will share the ring with CHRISTUM FUROR in that Open House Battle Royal, is something you haven’t been prepared for. I'm no heel, no wrestling villain. I'm not coming to help you sell tickets, and project some stereotype. I'm coming because I'm on a path of destruction, and I want the entire world to bow down to me. Frontier, your time has come. I've come to pillage your women and children, and take your trophies. I've come for an opportunity to fight for the prestigious GFC Commonwealth Championship, just so I can beat Summer Collins and toss that belt into a fucking river.

CHRISTUM FUROR, translates into “Christ Madness”. If you’re familiar with EXODUS, you know I've adopted that name because I am the GOD of MADNESS! The Master of Insanity. I’m an agent of chaos, and when I step into THAT arena, we’ll be in MY playground. There I am UNDEFEATED. There, you must be unpredictable, chaotic, and volatile. There, you’ll be playing a deadly game, where pain and misery is the price of notoriety.

There, nobody leaves the same. There none of your training, none of those hours you've spent in the gym working on your bodies will mean anything. There, you'll be in the Madhouse! There you will be faced with pandemonium, bedlam and insanity where the only rule is that there are NO rules. There I will test your will, and your mental fortitude. When I'm breaking your bones, and stretching you to your breaking point, you'll have to decide if it's worth it - is it worth it to continue this fight against a man that was born into darkness, a man that was raised by hatred, a man that has lived off of rage and misery.

There, only the mind will grant you power, salvation, and victory.

January, 5, 2014. We've got a play-date. Try to enjoy yourselves, because I know I will.