Active
Madd Morales
TypeSingles
AlignmentHeel
HometownNorfolk VA
Height5’9
Weight200 lbs
Will edit later
Profile
Character Info
Height5’9
Weight200 lbs
HometownNorfolk VA
Theme Song TitleEvilJordan
Theme Song ArtistPlayboy Carti
EntranceMorales has 3 entrance variants: Normal, Big PLE Match, Devil Form.
Normal: The arena plunges into darkness. A low rumble kicks in under the silence then- "Beggin on her knees to be popular!"
The distorted, otherworldly beat of "EvilJordan" by Playboi Carti slithers through the speakers like venom in a vein. Red strobes flash in erratic pulses as static crackles across the tron. Then, from the back, through a curtain of smoke that glows hellish crimson, he emerges, draped in a black designer trench that sways with each step, hood shadowing his face. He moves like someone who owns the ground beneath him. Its slow, cocky, like the devil on his day off. Every bounce in his step carries swagger, but in his silence, there’s something simmering. Something cruel. Something just waiting for someone to pull the pin. As the beat hits harder. He lifts his head.
His eyes shine under the flickering lights as he takes a deep breath, almost as if he is getting high on his own myth. A slow smirk curls across his lips. He drags a single finger across his throat and then points to the ring like he’s blessing it for sacrifice. At ringside, he sheds the trench coat slow and deliberate, revealing taped fists ripped punk rock jeans that have various anarchism themed patches that change every night, save for the ones on his left and right legs that read "Air" and "Devil".
He climbs the steps and turns his back to the ring for a moment, soaking in the judgment from every soul watching. Then he spins and steps through the ropes like he’s entering church. He doesn’t posture. He just waits, eyes locked forward, body still, the music fading into a final eerie pulse.
PPV Entrance: The lights slam to black. A wall of static overtakes the titantron, scratched-up footage, old matches, street fights, riots, Morales’s face spliced between shots like a cursed broadcast. Then-
"BEGGIN' ON HER KNEES TO BE POPULAR!"
The opening howl of "EvilJordan" tears through the arena, and the crowd erupts in a chaos of hate and hunger. Crimson searchlights slice through the dark like sirens, strobing in violent rhythm as a thick red fog floods the stage. The speakers boom with sub-bass so deep you feel it in your spine. Then he appears No hood. No mask. Just scars and swagger. His trench is blood-black leather, open to reveal a bare chest inked with fresh scripture. His ripped punk jeans are patched with new scraps of pain and protest, but like always two remain. “AIR” on one thigh, “DEVIL” on the other, marking him the same old war-worn prophet of violence. He doesn’t strut. He floats. Like sin in motion. Swagger and venom drip off him with every step. The camera gets close as he stares straight through it, eyes burning like coals under a cool exterior. The crowd roars, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. They’re not why he’s here.
At ringside, he stops, letting the music score the ritual. He sheds the coat like a serpent shedding skin. Flexes his taped fists. Cracks his neck. Then bends slowly… and kisses the mat before nodding like it’s an altar he’s about to bleed on. The beat stutters. The arena screams. He climbs the steps, pauses. Turns his back to the ring. Arms wide. Soaking in judgment. Mocking their gods. Becoming one. Then he turns, steps through the ropes like a man walking into confession. The music fades. The lights settle. And Morales stands center-ring…The Devil’s favorite speaker. Back in his cathedral. And someone’s about to be turned into scripture.
Devil Form: The arena dies. Not silence, just absence. No lights. No hum of the crowd. Just a cold vacuum like the breath of God had been sucked from the building. Then-
A hiss. A snarl of distortion. A demonic laugh, buried deep in the bass as the first crawling notes of “EvilJordan” twist out of the void like a serpent tasting the air. But the verse doesn’t drop. It lingers. Mutates. The beat warps into a ritual pulse—slowed, stretched, reverberating like a summoning drum.
The camera finds the stage .The ground trembles. A circle of scorched runes glows red-hot underfoot as smoke rises thick and hellish from the center. Then-a metallic screech as the metal stage is ripped open, leaving a hole in the ground. Then finally-
"BEGGIN ON HER KNEES TO BE POPULAR..."
An ancient, blackened elevator platform rises from beneath the ring. Upon it, Him.Morales…masked.Not the man.Not the prophet.Not the punk. The Devil. Cloaked in ritual black, leather writhing like shadows across his form, the mask a grotesque crown of horns and bone, his head bowed like he’s climbing from the Underworld itself. Arms spread like a fallen angel crucified in reverse. He maintains the pose as he walks towards the ring. The moment he reaches the ringside, fire ignites in each corner of the arena,uncontrolled, uninvited, like hell itself had slipped through the seams of the world.
At ringside, he does not pause. He does not gloat. He climbs onto the apron, raises his hands to his face and slowly peels his mask just enough to let only his eyes be seen. Eyes that do not blink. Do not emote. They burn. Not with ambition, but with hunger. The lights dim to blood-red. The music crashes into its distorted hook as he steps into the ring like a beast entering its cage. The Devil has come home. There is no Morales tonight. There is only retribution.
Normal: The arena plunges into darkness. A low rumble kicks in under the silence then- "Beggin on her knees to be popular!"
The distorted, otherworldly beat of "EvilJordan" by Playboi Carti slithers through the speakers like venom in a vein. Red strobes flash in erratic pulses as static crackles across the tron. Then, from the back, through a curtain of smoke that glows hellish crimson, he emerges, draped in a black designer trench that sways with each step, hood shadowing his face. He moves like someone who owns the ground beneath him. Its slow, cocky, like the devil on his day off. Every bounce in his step carries swagger, but in his silence, there’s something simmering. Something cruel. Something just waiting for someone to pull the pin. As the beat hits harder. He lifts his head.
His eyes shine under the flickering lights as he takes a deep breath, almost as if he is getting high on his own myth. A slow smirk curls across his lips. He drags a single finger across his throat and then points to the ring like he’s blessing it for sacrifice. At ringside, he sheds the trench coat slow and deliberate, revealing taped fists ripped punk rock jeans that have various anarchism themed patches that change every night, save for the ones on his left and right legs that read "Air" and "Devil".
He climbs the steps and turns his back to the ring for a moment, soaking in the judgment from every soul watching. Then he spins and steps through the ropes like he’s entering church. He doesn’t posture. He just waits, eyes locked forward, body still, the music fading into a final eerie pulse.
PPV Entrance: The lights slam to black. A wall of static overtakes the titantron, scratched-up footage, old matches, street fights, riots, Morales’s face spliced between shots like a cursed broadcast. Then-
"BEGGIN' ON HER KNEES TO BE POPULAR!"
The opening howl of "EvilJordan" tears through the arena, and the crowd erupts in a chaos of hate and hunger. Crimson searchlights slice through the dark like sirens, strobing in violent rhythm as a thick red fog floods the stage. The speakers boom with sub-bass so deep you feel it in your spine. Then he appears No hood. No mask. Just scars and swagger. His trench is blood-black leather, open to reveal a bare chest inked with fresh scripture. His ripped punk jeans are patched with new scraps of pain and protest, but like always two remain. “AIR” on one thigh, “DEVIL” on the other, marking him the same old war-worn prophet of violence. He doesn’t strut. He floats. Like sin in motion. Swagger and venom drip off him with every step. The camera gets close as he stares straight through it, eyes burning like coals under a cool exterior. The crowd roars, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. They’re not why he’s here.
At ringside, he stops, letting the music score the ritual. He sheds the coat like a serpent shedding skin. Flexes his taped fists. Cracks his neck. Then bends slowly… and kisses the mat before nodding like it’s an altar he’s about to bleed on. The beat stutters. The arena screams. He climbs the steps, pauses. Turns his back to the ring. Arms wide. Soaking in judgment. Mocking their gods. Becoming one. Then he turns, steps through the ropes like a man walking into confession. The music fades. The lights settle. And Morales stands center-ring…The Devil’s favorite speaker. Back in his cathedral. And someone’s about to be turned into scripture.
Devil Form: The arena dies. Not silence, just absence. No lights. No hum of the crowd. Just a cold vacuum like the breath of God had been sucked from the building. Then-
A hiss. A snarl of distortion. A demonic laugh, buried deep in the bass as the first crawling notes of “EvilJordan” twist out of the void like a serpent tasting the air. But the verse doesn’t drop. It lingers. Mutates. The beat warps into a ritual pulse—slowed, stretched, reverberating like a summoning drum.
The camera finds the stage .The ground trembles. A circle of scorched runes glows red-hot underfoot as smoke rises thick and hellish from the center. Then-a metallic screech as the metal stage is ripped open, leaving a hole in the ground. Then finally-
"BEGGIN ON HER KNEES TO BE POPULAR..."
An ancient, blackened elevator platform rises from beneath the ring. Upon it, Him.Morales…masked.Not the man.Not the prophet.Not the punk. The Devil. Cloaked in ritual black, leather writhing like shadows across his form, the mask a grotesque crown of horns and bone, his head bowed like he’s climbing from the Underworld itself. Arms spread like a fallen angel crucified in reverse. He maintains the pose as he walks towards the ring. The moment he reaches the ringside, fire ignites in each corner of the arena,uncontrolled, uninvited, like hell itself had slipped through the seams of the world.
At ringside, he does not pause. He does not gloat. He climbs onto the apron, raises his hands to his face and slowly peels his mask just enough to let only his eyes be seen. Eyes that do not blink. Do not emote. They burn. Not with ambition, but with hunger. The lights dim to blood-red. The music crashes into its distorted hook as he steps into the ring like a beast entering its cage. The Devil has come home. There is no Morales tonight. There is only retribution.
AppearanceWill add later
Moveset
In Ring Data
Basic Moves (List)
1. Rolling Leg Sweep that the opponent jumps up to dodge that he then pops up for a low angle enziguri(Like Angelico does)
2. Slingshot Spanish Fly from opponent sitting on the turnbuckle
3. Spingboard Moonsault(To standing or prone opponent)
4. Grunge-shot Combo(Alternating Knee Lifts into a back elbow into a jumping high knee)(also known as Black out combo)
5. Asai Moonsault
6. Calf Slicer
7. Navarro Death Roll
8. Navarro Especial
9. Running and Diving Meteora
10. Rolling Armbar
11. Cruxic Driver
12. Bicycle Knee Strike
Signature Moves (List)
Apollyon Kick-A basement Dropkick that he then spins back up, hits the ropes and then hits a punt kick.
2. Red Rum-Z360, or a Belly to Back GTS
3. Morales' Inferno- Springboard Moonsault Tornado DDT
4. Cain’s Dagger- Hidden Blade
5. Name - Description
Special Move 4
—
Special Move 5
—
Finisher #1
Devilslayer
Finisher #1 Description
Description: A Dragon Slayer Submission
Finisher #2
Eighth Deadly Sin
Finisher #2 Description
Corkscrew Moonsault
Submission Finisher
Devilslayer
Submission Finisher Description
—
In-Ring Personality
Arrogant bastard
In-Ring Tactics
Quick strikes, submission chains, high flying to pump the crowd when he can
Always Do
—
Never Do
—
Appearances
Event History
| Event | Appearance | Date | Result |
|---|---|---|---|
| Vanguard: Civil Unrest | Rayven Reinhardt vs Trelisa Perrault vs Madd Morales for the Valor Title | Sep 4, 2026 | Loss |
Championships
Title History
| Title | Won | Lost | Reign |
|---|---|---|---|
| Valor Championship | Aug 21, 2026 | Sep 4, 2026 | 3 |
Written Work