“You’re offering me a contract?:”

“Kind of. Scott Oasis said I can allow whoever I want and you’re the first to come to mind.”

Serenity Scorpio nodded several times as she watched her mentor Stephanie Matsuda’s tired face on her phone screen. She was in Japan at the moment and Serenity could tell something was going, on, something that Cloud was quiet about. The reason for their conversation this evening was Cloud's offer to her. An offer for Serenity to resign from Omega Wrestling Alliance. The contract would be a part-time one, which would revolve around her already busy life. Between teaching full-time at the War Room Dojo, modeling, and planning the wedding with Jacob, she had no intention of working a full-time wrestling schedule any time soon. Stephanie had a tag match that would pit her and Nobi against Ryo Sakazaki and Tatsuo Sakaguchi. As a graduate of Cloud’s first class and close friend to Ryo, she knew Jacob was bothered by their feud. Cloud tried to reassure him that everything was going to be okay, but Jacob feared that Ryo’s descent into darkness was deeper than anyone had anticipated. Serenity had her brush with darkness not too long ago but with the help of Chris Sabertooth of all people, she was able to expel it from her heart. 

Cloud’s soon-to-be tag partner Samantha Hamilton was added to a Tag Team Turmoil Match and needed someone to fill in since Stephanie had her match so Serenity was being recruited as her replacement. There would be an option to wrestle as often as she wished in the contract just in case if she wanted to stick around. Stephanie watched Serenity carefully as she thought about her answer. Looking into Cloud’s eyes she saw a woman who was in over her head but hadn’t realized it yet. What Cloud didn’t know was that she spoke with Monica recently. They discussed the marital problems they were having, with Monica offering some advice for Serenity’s upcoming marriage. Serenity was aware of Monica’s recent actions and disapproved of them, but she knew that the woman loved Cloud. She was preparing to travel to Japan for “one final talk” to decide the fate of their relationship and judging by Stephanie’s face, it didn’t go so well. There was more than the broken marriage though. Monica was being cryptic but she hinted that Stephanie might be involved in something that would be hard to get out of and Serenity should be ready to be there for her if the heat became too much for her to handle alone. Recalling this conversation would be the deciding factor in Serenity’s answer.

Serenity Scorpio: Yes, I’ll fight with Sam.

Stephanie Matsuda: Excellent, she’ll be happy to hear about it. She’s here with me in Japan but will be journeying back to the States. You guys can meet up and get familiar with each other. As for yours truly…I have two matches to prepare for—the tag match at Game Over and my IIW World title defense.

Serenity nodded. Stephanie was doing it again, burying her feelings with work. She wasn’t one to argue with how people handle their trauma, but she felt it wasn’t healthy in the least. 

Serenity Scorpio: I take it I’ll be notified about my opponents and other details?

Stephanie Matsuda: Yep. Thanks for doing this, sweets. I know life is busy for you these days.

Serenity Scorpio: Cloud, stop. You’re family, and family has each other’s back, always.

Cloud nodded, some life coming back to her eyes.

Stephanie Matsuda: Thanks, Serenity. I needed to hear that. I’d like to talk more, but I have to take care of a few things. Talk more later, alright? Say hi to Lauryn and your mom for me.

Serenity Scorpio: Gotcha.

Serenity hung up and leaned back in her office chair. Her last attempt in OWA was through the short-lived BOBW. She developed a rivalry against the arrogant Bea Havertz, a rivalry she ended with her own hands in their Valkyrie Pro rematch. After that, she decided to focus on things outside of wrestling, while making appearances at various shows on the indie circuit.

With a yawn, Serenity walked out of the office and took a look around the gym. This once belonged to Stephanie, from the workout equipment to the wrestling ring in the center of the facility. When Stephanie retired the first time, she signed everything over to Serenity as it was originally her birthright. Serenity almost didn’t accept, as she felt she wasn’t deserving of something Cloud built with her own hands. But, she got it - Stephanie always felt it was her duty to “hold things down” until Serenity was of age to decide what she wanted to do with the school. Cloud said she didn’t mind what Serenity did, even if she sold it or turned it into something else. But something in Serenity wanted to continue her father’s legacy of training future stars and legends. There was this integrity she felt as if training was an art all its own. Stephanie once talked about this and admitted that sometimes she preferred teaching over wrestling.

Scratching the back of her head, Serenity’s thoughts drifted to Samantha. They’d crossed paths backstage back in EWC, but she didn’t know much about her other than being Cloud’s hall pass several years ago. She was surprised to hear that they were involved again. The timing of it looked bad, but Serenity knew Monica and Stephanie well enough that their issues went beyond whatever open relationship deal they had. 

Stephanie was too much like her father and Cloud’s mentor, Michael “Black Scorpio” Hunter. And Monica? She shared that Latina fire with her mother. The only difference is that Monica is not going to stick around for Cloud to kill herself in the ring.

Serenity didn’t think that would happen, but she couldn’t help but feel concerned about her mentor’s recent choices. Maybe Samantha would have more insight into Cloud’s mindset.

All of that would have to wait, though. She needed to address the audience and get her head into the game. Serenity turned on her computer and sighed, before starting her livestream.

-----

“I’ve spent a significant amount of time away from pro wrestling for my benefit. It wasn’t that I grew tired or disillusioned with the business; it was just I found a new way to enjoy it while being able to shape its future from the outside. I found love, expanded my brand, and honestly I’m in a happy place. Not being as successful as my mentor’s other students is not a bother to me I’m just here to help. Stephanie needed someone to fight alongside Samantha Hamilton and if Cloud thinks of her as family, then so do I. Things have changed since the last time I was in an OWA ring, though it was an offshoot rany by Nate Cage. But nobody can take away my status as an “OWA Day One”. I’ve always believed in this company’s growth, and it's great to see how its reach expanded in such a short amount of time. Jacob loves being here - he always speaks openly about how good the competition is. I’m sure Cloud has told Sam the same thing. Though this match is going to be a clusterfuck, not going to lie. A bunch of random teams going against each other, though some have their built-in lore. Noah and Chad’s hate for each other is well documented. I don’t know how well Bea and Revy know each other, but I feel like their personalities are too different from one another. April and Christie I’m more familiar with. They seem like they can stay on the same page long enough to make something happen in their favor. JD Damon and Kenny Drake seem like the only team with actual experience with each other. I did some research and found out the unique history between Stark and Devi Krysis - who is teaming with Cloud over at Shine. Then there’s Ayla Rodriguez and Aaliyah Landerson, two young upstarts.”

“I won’t lie- Sam and I got our hands full. Has a former world champion while JD has his success across multiple promotions. Revy has tag experience, as does Bea. Stark, like Kenny, has held the world title, and Devi is as scrappy as they come. Christie has a resume of championships from her past, while April is almost as accomplished as her greatest rival…Stephanie. But here’s the thing. Not everyone can successfully train a class of people in the art of wrestling. Then throw in my promise to Cloud, that I will do everything in my power to help Sam secure the W in this match. I will have my head in the game and prove that no matter how long you’ve been out the business, wrestling is like riding a bike. It’s always going to come back to you somehow. I like the idea of being thrown into the big kids’ pool straight out of the gate. This would be quite welcome and if Sam and I make it out on the other side as champions, it would be great for Sam and I as if we’re planting our flag onto the competition. So it doesn’t matter if its a Wolvesden reunion or Odd couple shit with Chad and Noah or Bea and Revy. Sam and I are going to catch everyone off guard for the W.”

----

Serenity smiled to herself as she turned off the livestream. It was time for her to work out in the ring. 

As she prepared herself, she recalled a recent interview with The OWA Network. Serenity spoke about her return to wrestling in 2023 and how ‘insane’ her year was overall. She also hinted at more to come next year.

In the interview, Serenity felt that this year she started to get the wrestling itch. She did not expect to resign so quickly and with OWA. She wants to do more than just return to work a little mini-program but is willing to stay longer if Cloud needs her. Then again, she may stay longer of her own accord. Serenity added that she expects this match to be much fun and has a lot of things that are percolating and will let everyone know when she’s ready to reveal more once she returns. Serenity remembers barely being able to retain her excitement during the interview. She felt that if she and Sam won this match, they could be on a roll. Good things are happening, new opportunities, and stuff that she didn’t even think of is happening in her life, including her wedding to Jacob Striker. For Serenity life has been fun. She remember saying that she couldn’t wait to get in this match. She was surprised that her fanbase from her more active days was still intact and ready to support her. She stated in the interview that fans are what makes wrestlers into stars. If it’s not for them, then none of them have a reason to go out there and compete.. She added that she hope that her father is watching her from above and that she’ll do whatever it takes to make him proud.

For Serenity, this was as real as it gets. It might have felt like a randomly put-together match, but it meant the world to her. She gets another shot in this business and she’d be sure to make everyone take notice. After putting in a couple more workout reps, she decided to take a break on her phone, seeing what was going on in the world. She’s been off her Twitter for quite some time; maybe it was time to get it active again. She smiled at a few exchanges between Cloud and Sam. She could see the chemistry between them, but she raised an eyebrow observing a couple of exchanges with Cloud and Devi. 

‘Here we go again’ Serenity thought to herself. She’d get on Cloud about her love life later. For now, she’d make preparations for Sam’s arrival.

“No fuckin’ way!” said Brody, barely able to contain his laughter. He took off his sweaty gym top and threw it into an open bag.
 
“For real, dude,” Stu replied.
 
“Bro’s a fuckin’ nerd, bro. Been saying this all along, dude.”
 
“You see why he changed it now, huh? You can’t be a 50-year-old dude called Josh. That’s fuckin’ messed up, bro.”
 
“What about his fat fuck brother, though?”
 
“I know, dude. Imagine having to tell, like, a mechanic or some shit that you’re a grown-ass man named Jake.”
 
“Isn’t he a pedo?”
 
“Dude, what the fuck?!”
 
“They’re the dudes from that TV show, right? Josh was the fat fuck always getting rejected, and Jake tried to fuck a child.”
 
“I think they’re different dudes, bro. Dude, I saw the one who was a morbidly obese child recently, and he’s fuckin’ shredded now. I think he was in Turner & Hooch.”
 
“That’s the one with that dude from Escape from LA, right? The one with the son who looks like some sort of retarded retard.”
 
“Nah, bro, that’s Tango & Cash. Turner & Hooch is the one with the dog who was a cop, bro.”
 
“Ohhhh yeah, an’ the dude from Saving Private Ryan, dude!”
 
“I dunno… maybe? What happens in that one again?”
 
“They save Private Ryan from like Hitler and junk.”
 
“Hell yeah, brother!”
 
Chants of “USA! USA! USA!” echoed throughout the locker room, intensifying Wyatt’s already significant migraine. He’d been listening to this type of moronic exchange all day long. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose while reminding himself how much money he was making. He loved Brody but also considered him the only thing he’d never been able to understand, much less master. It was a complicated relationship fraught with conflicting emotions. His frustration occasionally got the better of him, and it was particularly inflamed whenever Stu was around. Most of the time, Wyatt eventually regretted whatever words he’d said in anger, even though he never actually apologized for anything.
 
“Dad?”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“USA! USA! USA!”
 
Wyatt looked tired. His eyes were glazed over, and he had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt during the course of the evening. His loosened tie gave him an overall weary look.
 
“You’re not USA’ing, Mr. B. What gives? You some sort of goddamn commie?”
 
“Stu, with all due respect – and that is none, by the way – get the fuck out of this locker room before I beat you to death with a big piece of metal.”
 
“Right on, dude,” Stu chuckled, unaware of how close to being serious Wyatt’s threat was. He jumped to his feet, however, when Wyatt shifted his weight ever so slightly in his direction and hustled out the door.
 
Brody walked past Wyatt and into the shower. Physically, he felt as good as he had since he joined OWA, but comfort had bred complacency. He no longer trained with the intensity of those first few months, and Stu was now a ubiquitous presence in the gym. It bothered Wyatt, but he knew that any boundaries he set with his youngest son would be futile. Right now, his priority concern was making sure Brody just turned up to the show on time. And preferably sober.
 
“I’d have thought you’d be more focused on Game Over than fucking around with that absolute cretin,” Wyatt’s voice boomed off the tiled walls of the shower area.
 
“I’m plenty focused, bro,” Brody shouted back. “Get off my fuckin’ dick.”
 
“Focused, eh? Just like you were focused before Tatsuo?”
 
“Gimme a break, dude. I snapped my losing streak; what more do you want?”
 
“So, you’re happy with how that ended?”
 
“Wouldn’t say happy, but it is what it is, bro. Can’t do nothing about it now.”
 
“But you can do something about the next match, yet you choose to fuck around with that deadbeat. Three title shots, three losses—"
 
“Two losses.”
 
“No, let’s be real, it’s three losses. That Icarus Championship isn’t on your shoulder, nor are the American Dream or Prestige Championships around your waist. How many more opportunities are you going to get before you’re resigned to the lower card with the likes of El Landerson?”
 
“You mean current Interim Icarus Champion El Landerson? Put some fuckin’ respect on his name, dude. You saw how he played Cletus, bro. We’re all just prawns in his game of chess.”
 
“Well, he's in this Ascension to the Heavens Ladder Match, so if you think that much of him, why are you half-assing in the gym again? Do you think he’s half-assing? Or Mark Michaels, for that matter? Not a fucking chance.”
 
“What’s with all the fuckin’ old dudes in OWA, bro? Mark Michaels has gotta be close to retirement, dude. I mean, he’s cool an’ all, but I’ve never known a gyppo to turn down drugs, dude. He looks at me like I’m some sort of criminal when I bust out the crack, bro. El Landerson’s always game, though. Dude gets wild.”
 
“What a fucking idiot.”
 
“Like I said, that’s our Interim Icarus Champion, so show some respect.”
 
“I was talking about you.”
 
“Me?! Why?”
 
“You smoke crack in the locker room?”
 
“Of course not, dude. I smoke it in the gym while we train. Just a lil bit, bro. Shit makes you invincible, but it only lasts like 10 minutes, so you gotta smoke more. Guess that’s the only downside to an otherwise harmless narcotic.”
 
“I… have no response to that.”
 
“Listen, dude, I’m gonna need all the help I can get. You seen this Gunner dude? He’s a fuckin’ psycho, bro. What can you expect from someone who calls themselves The Violence Man? All I know is that my boy Baker had to damn near kill him in that street fight.”
 
“Well, I’m glad that you seem to understand what you’re up against.”
 
“It’s hard not to, dude. This place is full of weirdos. Like, for real. If it’s not a fuckin’ hobo possessed by stone killing someone, it’s the dude he fuckin’ killed coming back to life and stabbing him. I mean, is anybody fucking seeing this, bro? We got dudes who need to fight people just so someone will be forced to listen to their shitty poetry, dudes who set themselves on fire, and dudes who smoke crack.”
 
“That last one is you.”
 
“I know my methods are unconventional, bro. But I get results.”
 
“Like a draw?”
 
“Exactly, dude. I’m a huge draw. Now you’re getting it. Without me, this match would just be a bunch of old dudes dosed up on cod liver oil and hitting each other with their walking sticks. No one wants to see that, bro. I’m in this because I’m exciting. I get people off their seats. I’m the future of this company, and all I gotta do is sit back, relax, and let it come to me.”
 
“Jesus Christ,” Wyatt rolled his eyes. “That’s the exact fucking opposite of what you have to do. You’ve got to go out there and seize the opportunity. You know, you’ve been blessed with all this natural athletic ability; you’ve got a swagger that reminds me of a young me. But your mindset is the chink in your armor. It’s what sets us apart. I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve got. I earned it all. Nothing in this life comes easy, Brody.”
 
“Who the fuck is Yung-mi? And when did you see this dude messing around with my armor?”
 
“What in the hell are you talking about? I swear, you get more retarded by the day.”
 
“Retarded like a fox, bro. Just wait and see. They’ll all tire themselves out, or they’ll have to leave to go watch Jeopardy or some shit. By the end, I’ll be climbing that ladder with one nut tied behind my back. No one ever got anywhere by doing stuff, y’know? It’s all about who you know, dude. Why work hard when you can coast on natural talent?”
 
Wyatt couldn’t take any more. He turned his back and walked out the door, all while shaking his head in bemusement. He wanted desperately to find some way of getting through to Brody. To make him understand the importance of this opportunity. But he knew that wouldn’t be happening tonight, so he settled for a couple of painkillers and the warmth of his bed.
 
 
Whenever I think about my life – where I’ve come from, where I’m going - the weight of my dad’s expectations is with me every step of the way. It feels like nothing I do is ever good enough for him. Dude, he got so pissed at me for turning up to my niece’s birthday party with all those strippers, even though he told me to bring the cake. Like, what more do you want from me, bro? Eight big-booty bitches – one for each year - shaking their titty meat in his face, and all bro could do was stare daggers at me.
 
Fuckin’ gay or what, dude?
 
Like, I know he just wants me to be the best I can be… but is that for his sake or for mine? Like, when I came third in my first Big Wave event, all he talked about was how I didn’t win and how I’d never make any money even if I did. I was pretty happy, dude. I thought I did pretty well for a 14-year-old competing against grown-ass men, but whatever.
 
It’s like he cares more about success than happiness. Well, his idea of success, anyway. An’ that’s a bit different than mine, y’know? A lot of people treat them as the same thing, but they’re not. Like, I could be bumming around Hawaii right now, living out of a car, competing in surfing competitions an’ shit, an’ I’d be happy. That’s success to me. But no, I gotta do something more, apparently. Gotta make a name for myself. Gotta make money.
 
Our destination might be the same, but our paths there and the motivation to walk them are totally different. He’s just like every other fucker in this company, talking about respect an’ legacy an’ shit.
 
Whatever, bro. All that’s a side quest for me. Lots of people chase titles and acclaim. I just wanna beat whoever’s in front of me. I mean, do any of you fucks realize that when you’re constantly chatting shit about respect, what you’re really saying is that you care what other people think? Personally, I couldn’t give a fuck, bro. I do what I want, you either respect it or you don’t.
 
Like, do you think Mark Michaels cares that everybody thinks his best days are behind him and that he should be put to pasture in his trailer park, free to fuck an endless line of monobrowed cousins? Fuck no, bro. I know he’ll get back up and go again after fumbling the bag, and that’s why the fans love him. But when he casually dismisses me by saying that I’m young and unproven, I dunno what he thinks he’s trying to say, but what I hear is that he’s underestimating me. Dude, you’re a veteran around here; I’ll take whatever advice you wanna give me, bro. Here’s some for you: underestimating me would be a mistake but one I’m more than happy for you to make.
 
Recently, the more I’ve thought about making my dad proud, the more I wonder whether that would actually make me happy. Like, maybe in order for me to be happy, he’ll have to be unhappy? I dunno, dude. It’s like an extraterrestrial crisis or some shit. What I do know is that one of the worst things you can do is let other people turn you into someone you’re not. And that’s why I kinda feel sorry for you, Gunner. I mean, if what I’ve been told about you is true, then maybe we’re not so different. Well, not the child abuse stuff. Nah, my mom loves me and would never put me in danger like yours did. Sounds like she was a whore, bro. She, uh, still alive? Does she still like to party? Sorry, got sidetracked. We’ll talk later. But no, what I meant was that constant struggle for validation is something I know all too well, dude. Except, I didn’t turn into a weird little freak because I kept getting my ass handed to me. Maybe that’s because I’ve fucking buried every gross old man who tried to touch my dick. Skill issue, I guess.
 
It's not gonna be easy to win. Not for any of us. But it’ll be even harder for that fat fuck Keeton. Bro’s gonna have to climb up a ladder, and he looks out of breath just sitting in that strip club getting hammered on Coors fucking Lite. I’d be surprised if the ladder doesn’t buckle under him if he even manages to make it that far. I thought Poet – sorry, Josh - was rotund until I saw your fat ass. Normally, in a situation such as this, I’d say I’m gonna get some revenge for your brother beating me at Final Destination, but, like, would it even matter to him? From what I can tell, you’re an embarrassment to him. And to be an embarrassment to that greasy, curly-haired fuck, you gotta be the lowest of the low.
 
I dunno what’s gonna happen in Dallas. No one does. Here’s another thing people don’t know…
 


Who the fuck is Rambeaux?

 
(Alone in a room, with nothing but himself in a recliner, the OWA World Championship in a display case on the table, and the television showing Mariah Carey singing “All I Want For Christmas Is You”)



It’s that time of the year, isn’t it? The Holiday Season has reached near its apex! Yuletide Cheer! Mistletoe! Reindeer and snow! The children hoping not to receive a lump of coal and the whores wearing their typical sexy Mrs. Claus get-up! Especially Mariah, GODDAMN WOMAN! Hannukah-Christmas-Kwanzaa time!!! Best time of the year, right?

...

If you’ve paid attention to your Master and Ruler since he returned to this business, you’d understand: I only acknowledge this Holiday Season because others around me do. Whether those others include my employees or even the Government, I must take note of the Holidays as they come. Money-making does not stop but can be interrupted because of these occasions. However, it still is a joyous time for myself for a few reasons! For example, former Mayor of New York City, occasional “Lawyer”- according to Wikipedia at least- and veteran Republican kiss-ass Rudy Giuliani recently got caught up in a defamation case with Wandrea "Shaye" Moss and Ruby Freeman, claiming Election Fraud in Georgia was because of them, which resulted in the Orange Mayonnaise Mutant we know as Donald Trump losing the 2020 Presidential Election. Trump could not have lost because he was considered the worst of two elderly demons presented to the public, no! Not at all! He lost because two Black Women rigged the damn thing against him in Georgia! 148 Million US dollars was too far beyond his power so White America’s Mayor filed for Bankruptcy, and now his assets are going to be seized... supposedly. And when it comes to fighting against well-known stooges for The System, I am all for my people gaining even moral victories, especially during the Holidays.

And that further explains one reason why I wanted Mr. Raivo to be included in the upcoming contest: my people connected to For The Minorities should be able to get their chance to thrive and prosper. They should get their chance to arise if things align for them, and The System shouldn’t take that chance away from them for any reason. With the way so many others have bought, begged, or let themselves get pegged to be in Championship matches they don’t deserve, at least for as man who has contended well against most and won most matches that mattered, he should be included.

And especially after noting a few of the degenerates in the coming Championship match, why not include him? THEY CHEATED to ensure the Bestie Triumvirate had all its members in the Promethean Chamber match from a while back, so why not throw Dat Ass full circle? Why not ensure all my people also get their chance as well. I have the resources. I have the status. It can be done, so why not? After all, the people I consider my greatest competition within the OWA walls are indeed the people in my own group: For The Minorities.

And as World Champion, a fighting champion, an observant and fair champion, I give opportunity to any and everyone. I don’t skip around challengers. I don’t run from adversity. I look it in the eye and don’t blink once when tested. And as the type of champion that is to be respected, I have to face any and every challenge head-on. What type of World Champion would I be if I tiptoed and avoided any specific person or people? Or even match scenario?

And I hate this one with all my being.



Everyone should honestly. Any space that further restricts your movement and freedom should be despised. It should be spat upon and protested. No matter how you twist it, remix it, flip it and reverse it, cage matches are a bane on my Wrestling career, and cages in general are something that should be rid of. I look at these scenarios and think back to the day I was arrested as a teenager and forced to serve time in a prison, where I was left to survive or become fodder for the worst types of lesser-known degenerates society could lock away from the normal, functional members of society. I looked at my ability to survive and even thrive amongst those savages as a time I would never want to go back to, a time where I had to sleep with my eyes open and my brain never off, where if you didn’t take basic items and make weaponry for yourself, you’d be victim to whatever racist gang could catch you alone or whatever booty warrior and his sex-deprived followers were fantasizing to commit to any poor bastard they could get to. If you didn’t learn which individuals would look out for your best interest or who would help you with essentials, you were left to live off whatever gumbo-esque combination was cooked up in that “kitchen,” and that was only if you were swift enough to beat out most of the others to it. Minding your own business did not ensure you’d make it, either, as you had no choice but to make the best connections you could, or else be no different than the main characters of Oz.

And I fought against that in one of the many cages of the Prison Industrial Complex, dominated, and then escaped it all. I vowed then to advance myself beyond that way of living, to move beyond being another degenerate that knew only how to live in the penitentiary. No matter how Tupac Shakur and the LOX made being locked up look throughout their careers, I refused to believe in the fairy tale that prison strengthened anyone. And I worked to strengthen myself to never be in that predicament again.

But alas...

In this Professional Wrestling world, this world I’ve been associated with for many years, there’s always the off-chance of being locked up again to a lesser degree, and I despise the thought. It’s already bad enough many of the Caucasian barbarians of the Power Elite would prefer Black People be in cages and let out only to sing, cut a jig, and play the sidekick in some forgettable Superhero movie, but to be in a situation like this I do not like. But in the end, this isn’t about what I like and what I don’t. There any many things to like and dislike about this very contest coming, but as THE World Champion of OWA, complaining about match stipulations is for the weak.

I think back to situations in CWF, where the two most brutal losses I ever experienced in my career were in Cage Matches, against both Boogie Woogie Pretty Boy- who then became Nailz- and Carlos Rosso himself, a cage match that ended my reign in CWF as its World Champion. And ever since then, I never liked the idea of being in a cage once I laced up my boots. But if there’s one thing I learned over the years, it’s that while History has noticeable patterns, steps can be taken so that it doesn’t repeat itself. And with the way my reign has gone so far, those steps became easier to take. I have no reason to believe that I cannot win the Promethean Chamber match coming up for my championship, nor do I have a reason to believe any one person is an overwhelming threat by themselves. I’ve made it this far as champion through brains and brawn, not luck and fortune, and I’m going continue moving that path that I paved as the holder of this very title.

I look at my competition, namely those outside of For The Minorities, and I wonder why any of them would believe their chances are suddenly favorable. Why would any of them believe that they can take me on, nonetheless Diantha and Raivo? As I’ve mentioned in other instances to other people, as well as before, the past does not always determine the future, especially when there’s no pattern to hang onto.

But to start, I’d like to send a message to one Angelina Magnum, and Angelina, you especially I wanted to speak to because you are at least self-aware enough to acknowledge your physically disadvantages in this contest. But imagine now with full perspective that you have nothing going for you in this sea of sharks, and it is in your best interest to recognize such, because several Christmas Miracles worthy of a TNT movie marathon are your actual chances of escaping with my title in hand. When I told Diantha and Raivo that you’re are a minnow in this OWA Ocean, I meant that, and it’s not because your past interactions with Becky Filth left you smelling fishier. It’s because amongst the field of this contest, you are obviously more bark than bite. Myself taking you on and ultimately putting you down won’t be because of physical advantages I’ve worked on or strength I have just by being male, Ms. Magnum. It’s because when it comes down to it, The Ruler is head and shoulders above you in every facet of Wrestling you could muster up. But trust: I will not underestimate you to the point that you get to find opportunity against Yours Truly. I am not that foolish, or else I would not be champion.

But you’re not the only one riding on luck, Ms. Magnum.

Mr. Tribunal himself, Mr. Jason Long, is also riding on luck. He, however, is more on the coattails of a schemer’s type of luck, on the level of Lupin the Third and Keyzer Soze. Just when you think you’ve figured him out and what bullshit he may be capable of executing, he surprises... someone. And even still, I find Mr. Jason Long more capable than yourself. And Jason Long is a very peculiar case because even when you feel like he belongs in the fray of Championship contention the least, he finds himself in the vicinity, almost as if White Privilege is the only thing keeping him relevant. But I’ll give a Devil his due. And Jason Long, for finding a way to slither into this contest, I must give you props. I will also take that half-assed “compliment” you gave to Yours Truly after I beat your stablemate to near unconsciousness. But that’s where I stop being cordial, Mr. Jason Long. I expect you at the end of the day to go for self and try to become champion again to redeem yourself. I expect you to pull out all the stops necessary to be the person who wins this match coming. But none of that will guarantee a damn thing. As accomplished as you are, you are nowhere near unstoppable nor are you immovable.

And neither is Becky.

Much like Diantha, much like Jason Long, Ms. Rebecca Filth has her accolades, her accomplishments, and her bragging rights. She has done her dirt as well, and I emphasize that when it comes to people like her who may look down on For The Minorities when it comes our approach to guaranteeing equal treatment and opportunities. But for Rebecca, she sees this opportunity to possibly knock down someone who has dominated as much as she believes she did on Odyssey.

Key phrase here.... On Odyssey.

Becky Filth, Rebecca, Gutterwhore God, Backdoor Barbie, whatever you go by... I want to make a few things clear as I speak as you verbalize your arrogance confidently. First off, I need you to understand that despite many men of melanin ruining their livelihoods over white vagina, you are best off not entering this Chamber contest on false pretenses. You’re not Dubya, and this coming match with us included is not Iraq.  As much as I believe you are more akin to Lena the Plug than a threat to my reign, understand The OWA World Champion is no Jason Luv. For if I were like him, I would’ve fallen to one of you Odyssey Island hos a long time ago. Matter fact, when it came to our declaration of War, I would’ve switched sides if I were that feeble. But the other important thing I need you to understand, Ms. Filth, is that when it comes to matches this unpredictable, hanging too tightly to the past will leave you disappointed in the present. Odyssey may have “dominated” last year’s Promethean Chamber, but I’d like to also remind you that... Odyssey was the only brand represented. As a matter of fact, I’d like to remind you in your gloating that once Odyssey people like yourself were force to contend with those from other brands, your standards of superiority, of greatness stopped being applicable! Hardcore Havoc was pointed out by you, but two things: one, that was ONE PPV of MANY that passed, and: I didn’t wrestle that night.

You’ve done... OK... to represent Odyssey, but keep in mind: that was just Odyssey, and since this season started, Mr. Oasis himself has made brands matter less with these mixed matches occurring more, so bragging about dominating one brand loses weight, doesn’t it? Let me also remind you that in my first two title defenses, AND The Clash contest I won my World Title in, all included former World Champions. And let me continue to remind you that when your ass got invaded on Odyssey by myself and Mr. Raivo, you, your ex-girlfriends, and your Friends With Benefits started crumbling, to the point that you thought it best to bring guns to a fistfight. I understand it’s in your best interest to be selective with events, but even when being selective: you don’t have much on The Ruler. Hell, you with your allies barely have much on me and my associates as a collective. So in your best interest, Becks, if you believe coming with the same tired game-plan you brought to those frail Asians and your exes over there is going to work on me, you’re going to get laid out again, flat on your back... as per usual. Don’t let the moments of the past you hold onto let you believe you have any better a chance than your former home girl.

Speaking of holding onto past instances...

As I continue to speak, let me continue to make something clear: I understand the importance of the past. I’m not oblivious to that at all. I know actions and accomplishments from yesterday and before matter to making the person or persons of the current-day, but it is important to remember that not every past instance determines the future.

And when it comes to that, Ms. Diantha Rosso, I hope you have some awareness to think properly on that. You see, Rebecca Filth I understand holds onto any straw from yesteryear to prop herself up and make us believe she knows more Wrestling Moves than the Mating Press, but I expect you to stand a lot taller than her. The last time we were in a match against each other, you got the better of the rewards, being the briefcase that ruined the beginning of this year for Ms. Felix Hartley. Not only did you do that, but you helped to initiate our War against our adversaries on a serious level, and you stayed by our side to this day. And I support you to this day. But understand, in this very contest coming, I will not just let you do one of the things your brother always did and that is hang onto the past. You won the Promethean Chamber match before... but that had different people in it. You managed to get the briefcase over myself at Final Destination 4... but you did dominate any single entity. If anything, the instances you can hold onto don’t really apply to myself, and I suggest you be smarter and not do what Ms. Filth is doing. The past does not fully determine the present when there is no pattern, and if there is a pattern you or Becky may follow, it’s that over the past year when the lights have been the brightest, when things have looked dire, I have stood my ground and done everyone I said I would.

Raivo should know as well.

And I look at you, Raivo, as the person who needs this match the most. And unlike a lot of our White contemporaries, I won’t hold you back on getting another chance to do what many others have done just by going on sabbatical and then returning: taking a title opportunity. Your last few showings haven’t been great, but I can also say the same for Diantha. And I’m not saying this to put either of you down, as the whores are already attempting to do the same. But understand Raivo: if I am to lose this championship, I prefer it be my own kind. But don’t take me thinking such as me planning to take this title to the ring and hand it to you. I know you’re not foolish to believe such will happen, so just like with Final Destination, I expect you to come at me full force. I expect you to try your darndest to not go out sad like Zion Williamson and spin the narrative being created about not just you but US ALL IN FTM. They see a chink in the armor, and they want to make it seem like a black hole- or in the whores’ case, a glory hole.

But I assure everyone in this contest, that all that talking will be done with when I come to the ring and show everyone who is The Master and Ruler in OWA, and that is ME, THE OWA World Champion.


 

A black screen. An orchestral score, slowly rising in volume and intensity. A voice. Hollywood Narration Guy speaks, and the world listens.


The darkness is replaced with a vision of war, as Chad Ecclestone charges into battle, clad in shining armor like something out of a Medieval Epic. He’s cutting his way through hordes of monstrous Samurai, headed towards their leader: the dreaded Yellow Queen, Hana Nakajima (played by Awkwafina). Despite her best efforts, he totally dunks on the bitch, chopping her head off with one massive swing as she howls and rants about fried rice and anime. Her body blinks out of existence like a low level mob from a JRPG, replaced by the very relic that Chad seeks: the Ascension to the Heavens Briefcase. He reaches out to grab it, smiling. Some distance away, Noah Krieger (once again portrayed by Keanu Reeves) watches his friend slay the beast. Over the soundtrack, he narrates.


The scene cuts to the inside of a cavernous place, echoing and vast, a thin precipice of rock suspended above a pit of molten lava. Noah Krieger beckons Chad forward, the actor-turned-wrestler still staring at the briefcase, barely hearing his friend as he shuffles after him.

“Chad, hurry! Follow me!” he shouts.


The pair are now standing near the edge that leads into that cursed place where they might finally lay the Ascension to the Heavens Briefcase – the cause of so much pain and suffering in the OWAverse – to rest, once and for all. But Chad seems in no hurry to part with his new treasure…

“CAST IT INTO THE FIRE!” screams Krieger, his voice barely rising above the bubbling and hissing breeze that comes from below.

There’s no response from Chad.

“DESTROY IT!”


He walks away, clutching his prize tightly to his chest as he leaves Krieger shouting in his wake.

“CHADWICK! THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE ANY SENSE! CHADWICK? CHADWIIIIIICK!”



The scene changes. A nondescript hotel room somewhere in the United States. Standing at the window, facing out towards the darkened metropolis, is Chad Ecclestone.


Chad hangs up the phone and moves towards the door, pausing to grab his racing jacket – complete with the lame golden scorpion embroidered on the back – and sling it over his shoulders before he makes his exit. He travels into the elevator, down to the parking garage, into his car, and then towards his destination. As he drives through the streets to the rendezvous point, a title card in bright, neon pink is superimposed over the screen.


Parked now, waiting for the man who hired him for this job. The door behind him opens, and someone plops into the backseat. It’s Noah Krieger, looking sweaty and nervous, clearly on edge. Chad adjusts the rearview mirror slightly to take a glance at the man’s face.


“Look, idiot,” snaps Krieger, “you don’t like me, and I don’t like you…”


“...but you’re the best man for the job,” he says, ignoring Chad’s protests, “and we can’t let the loot slip by us again. It’s too important.”


“Oh, so one thing makes up for all the bullshit you pulled before that?”


“Don’t you dare blame this on Mitch! He didn’t hurt nobody… except when he tossed me over the ropes during the Clash. Shit.”


“...you’re retarded. Watch the road.”


“CHAD, WATCH THE FUCKING ROAD!”


“No, I don’t. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to trust you, Chad? After all you’ve said and done?”


“You son of a…” hisses Krieger through clenched teeth.


“Fine, I’ll tell you. We’re going to be hitting an OWA Storage Facility. The loot? Five hundred thousand in cash, and the Apollo and Artemis Tag Cup.”


“SHUT THE FUCK UP, CHADWICK!” snaps Krieger, loud enough to achieve its intended effect. Chad falls silent, and Krieger seethes for the remainder of the trip, which is mercifully short. Chad parks outside the sparsely guarded OWA storage facility, and Krieger steps out of the car, leaving him alone in the vehicle. He looks at the camera and speaks directly to the audience.


Suddenly, Krieger opens the rear door and leaps back into the car. Chad cuts himself short, hitting the gas and speeding away. The next morning, somewhere in South Central LA, the two men stand on the front lawn of Noah's house as they celebrate their successful heist. The money is packed up in the trunk of the car, along with Chad's briefcase, their clothes, and other belongings packed away in luggage. The Apollo and Artemis Cup is held by Chad as the pair high-five each other, their differences finally forgotten.


“Really real?” asks Krieger.


“Word.”


Before they can finish, they’re interrupted by a familiar face: Finnegan Wakefield (Jonathon Majors), the founder of the prestigious Catch Sports Academy. He’s gasping, out of breath, like he just ran here.

“Y’all really think you won, huh? Well, let me tell you crackers something, you ain’t home free yet. Not by a damn sight, boys. It ain’t even about them bricks of cash, that’s chump change to these OWA cats. it’s the Apollo and Artemis Tag Cup that they're ready to kill for. You want my advice, you two ought to…” he trails off, squinting at an approaching shape in the distance. “Oh no… is that… there's no way she followed me…”

Slowly, they can make out some of the physical features on the approaching figure. Red hair. Gothic apparel. A bottle of whiskey in one hand. It’s Alyssa Grace (Amber Heard), and the sight of her is enough to throw Finnegan into a panic.

“Aw hell no, is that Alyssa? That crazy bitch found me again! I’ve got to go, boys! Remember what I said!” shouts Finn, taking off running in the opposite direction.

The scary Irish woman pursuing him keeps gaining, Chad and Krieger stare dumbfoundedly as Alyssa chases Finn down the block and around a corner. Once they’ve finally disappeared out of sight, the two men turn to look at each other, mouths agape. Krieger is the first one to speak.

“Uh, Chad… Was Finn always… you know… black?”


“What? No, you…” stutters Krieger, before finally sighing and giving it, “Never mind. Look, I’ve got a few more things to grab, then we can head out of town until this heat dies down… why don’t you go toss that cup in the car and start the engine?”

Chad nods and heads off towards the waiting vehicle as Krieger disappears back inside the house. A car skids around the corner and begins to speed down the block towards Chad. He’s mentally preoccupied as he fumbles for the keys, only noticing the danger when he hears the shouts, two female voices with heavy Latin accents.

“YO, WHAT’S UP NOW, PARDNAH?”

“ODELAY, PENDEJO! 619 REPRESENT!”

It brings Chad crashing back to reality, too late: by the time he looks up to see them, the gunfire has already started. Leaning out of the open windows of the Chevrolet are two gangbangers in Latin Kings colors: the feared(???) duo of Ayla Rodriguez and Aalyah Landerson (both played by nameless extras to save money). The wrestler has no chance against such a cowardly attack, as he’s peppered by bullets. Krieger hears the commotion and comes running out of the house, but it’s too late. The killers escape, and he’s left kneeling over the bleeding, dying form of his beloved friend, weeping openly like a little bitch who skinned his knee.

“Not my Chadwick,” he cries, looking up to shout at a bystander, “get some fucking help, shit! Get the fuck out of here!” As they run off to phone 911, Krieger continues to comfort Chad as the man bleeds out on the asphalt. “Come on, come on… you’re alright, you’re alright…”

The camera pulls away slowly as Chad's voice narrates his own demise.


The scene cuts to black, the last noise heard Chad’s heartbeat, slowing, growing weaker by the second, until it finally stops. There’s a pause with nothing but darkness and silence, before white text appears.

The camera opens up within a large fairgrounds, surrounded by a tall-barred fence adorned with barbwire. A large big-top circus tent sits in the center, its haunting silhouette set against the Texas night sky. Smaller circus tents are littered around, with various signs lit up in neon colors describing the entertainment that awaits the guests who are brave enough to venture forwards, with selections like “Freak Show” and “Dribbles the Clown” standing out against the darkened carnival backdrop. As the camera slowly zooms in, faint music starts playing out the horn-shaped speakers adorning the tops of the fences.
 

 
A small “clown car” zooms out the main tent, both car doors swinging wide open… as a line of circus clowns begin filing out. The clowns all look very typical, their make-up and outfits appearing very generic and comical, with oversized accessories, polka-dot patterns, and no naturally-colored hair. The camera zooms in closer, as the driver of the clown car emerges… revealing it as The Banshee, who is wearing a green curly-haired clown wig, a large red rubber ball as a nose, and very large and flat purple clown shoes. The clowns all stop and look at The Banshee, who pulls out a kazoo as she leaps up in the air, the abundance of silliness choking out the air of seriousness. The camera pulls out a bit to center The Banshee in frame, while also showing many of the other clowns all doing random activities befitting a traditional circus clown, from carpet clowns juggling bowling pins, blowing up animal balloons, and even some clowns walking from inside a Tardis-like suitcase.
 
The Banshee: Let me guess, Aria… you were probably expecting me to appear on camera, act all angry and menacing, while boasting about how I’m going to exact vengeance upon you and the Tribunal, while trying to massage my wounded ego… how close am I?
 
You see Aria, you made some good points… now don’t get excited by that, because the law of averages eventually awards good points to everybody… especially when you claim that there really isn’t much that I can do to you that would give me a mental edge or a sound strategy against the legendary “Hera Incarnate.”
 
Furthermore, since you still see me as a fucking clown… I decided to become the ringmaster of this non-denominational carnival of comedy… fuck the macabre, murder, and mayhem my brand normally represents…
 
When you stated that you’re “nobody’s dream match,” I couldn’t disagree more… Yes, your spotlight has “dulled” ever since you originally took time away for your journey into motherhood, but that doesn’t make a victory over you any less attractive. And I’ve been a world champion myself, so how would defeating you… AGAIN… “spring-board” me into the main event?
 
Bitch, I ALREADY AM THE MAIN EVENT! Remember, while you were off popping your coochie and getting knocked up like a high school slut, I was demolishing the top names on Odyssey… Some of which have YET to return to regular in-ring action…
 
You may no longer think that you’re anybody’s dream match, but that’s not remotely true at all… I’ve dreamed of this fucking moment for years, ever since you and Viola took turns in trying to keep me out of the spotlight, because you both knew it as soon as “I” awoke…
 
The Banshee pulls out a bicycle horn, honking it twice, before tossing it over her shoulder. The horn smacks an unfortunate clown right in the dome, causing the middle-aged jester to stumble backwards into a cotton candy machine, falling right in… Moments later, the cotton candy goes from a bright pink to a dark red hue. The Banshee snickers a bit, then grabs the left frame of the camera, pulling the lens close to her face.
 
The Banshee: That The Banshee was a future superstar! I had the potential to become the new face of Odyssey… but your Sisterhood of the Traveling Tricks mainly awarded mediocrity over talent, because the only “face” of Odyssey that Aria Jaxon ever wanted…



 
Or at least someone that could land a Maybelline commercial… Fuck the spooky painted bitch, right?
 
Despite the obstacles placed before me, I STILL became a fucking ICON on Odyssey, eventually becoming one of the top names… and merchandise sellers… in the entire OWA organization… much to the chagrin of you and your little Fellowship of Has-Beens…
 
It’s rather refreshing to see you exhibit so much enthusiasm for this match… but I wonder, will your enthusiasm cloud your judgement in… or outside… the ring? Will you become a victim of your own hubris, like so many others before you? Perhaps you should have asked Jonetta about the PTSD she suffered at my hands, instead of learning a manipulation spell for a simple party trick…
 
After everything the Hex Girls put you and that annoying hobgoblin Tyler Who-Cares-About-His-Last-Name through at Hardcore Havoc, I certainly didn’t expect to continue our little waltz together, Aria… But I also can’t say I’m surprised either, because you live and die by your reputation…
 
 
That’s admirable of you, Ms. Jaxon… stupid, but admirable… You might be a “prideful bitch,” but remember that pride won’t give you superpowers… yeah, you may not “need to be superhuman” to defeat me…
 
 
It’s very true that you don’t need to be a superhuman in order to steal a win away from the Queen of the Monsters… just like the Hex Girls demonstrated how superior we are to the yesteryear mummies that make up your silly little Tribunal…
 
Pride unchecked can lead to Trump-levels of arrogance… often proving fatal when challenged, and right now, your ego is overdosing on arrogance like a Portland junkie on Fentanyl…
 
You seem so intent on trying to make an example out of this “spooky bitch,” especially since you took the Hex Girls’ refusal to join your failed Tribunal so damn personally… Unlike the members of your cupcake Tribunal, you’re goddamn right that my name is too “marquee” to be drug down into some truckstop toilet, filled with all the crap the Tribunal has been saying and doing ever since it pathetically came into existence…
 
And you have the audacity to actually think that you “lowered” yourself to my “hocus pocus ass level?” Fighting you and that sentient used-tampon Kulina was more disgusting and demeaning than swimming through a river of redneck shit with a wide open mouth.
 
As The Banshee steps backwards from gripping the camera, a clown resembling Ronald McDonald pops out of a nearby barrel, shoving a custard pie into The Banshee’s face. The Banshee wipes the whipped topping from her face, a look of annoyance on her face. She then grabs the Ronald-lookalike by the throat, tightly squeezing with one hand, the imposter’s eyes bulging out his skull as every last breath is squeezed from his throat. The Banshee then tosses the clown aside, her hand gripping the trachea she ripped from the clown’s larynx.
 
The Banshee: Sorry to get you revved up there, Aria… I know you’re quite the fan and connoisseur of cream pies, though you prefer them freshly-piped from random dicks… anyways, here’s some sage advice for you, Aria…
 
 
Another random clown in the background pulls out a mini-drum set, tapping out a quick comedic “rim-shot.”
 
The Banshee: How much does it really get to you, Aria? Knowing that The Banshee made YOU, the Queen Bitch herself, bleed more than stuffing a hemophiliac L.A. hood-rat into a wood-chipper…
 
Your ranting makes it clear that your vanity took a worse beating than you… don’t worry though, I’ll balance the scales at Game Over…
 
It’ll make the 700+ executions you agonizingly experienced at Hardcore Havoc seem trivial in comparison… but hey, you clearly don’t fear the reaper, because you’re made of sterner stuff than Optimus Prime, right bitch?
 
Allow me to brake-check your runaway ego, because you obviously enjoy the taste of your own muff-juices… it’s no mystery why your breath smells like canned tuna mixed with cocoa butter…
 
The Banshee kicks a foot up in the air, the big red shoe she was previously wearing flopping down on the ground. She picks it up as the camera zooms in a bit on it, before zooming back out, centering The Banshee in the shot.
 
The Banshee: It’s no secret that you have some massive shoes to fill, Aria… It certainly would be “no small FEET” for most of the active roster to have his or her name uttered in the same breath as the Million Dollar Monarch… I won’t ever pretend that your past accomplishments aren’t impressive, because they still ring out as mythical today…
 
In fact, I don’t think all of your fellow Tribunal members COMBINED accomplishments even comes close to equating out what has been a beyond-legendary career… not to mention how you find success quickly, no matter where the next fight was…
 
Too bad for you that your next fight might finally be your last one… it most certainly will be your final match as the current Outlaw Champion…
 
Another washed-up legend I looked forward to snapping apart like a candy cane was your hobo-buddy Nate Cage… how liberating it was to hear his cries of pain! It assuredly was a mixture of business and pleasure for me… until you decided to insert your fat-ass into my business, costing me a victory against someone that I hate almost as much as you…
 
 
While it pisses me off to no end that dirty homeless lumberjack-off stole a win away from me, I’ve never had the fragile ego that causes my world to shatter whenever someone gets one over on the Queen of the Monsters… Everyone can get lucky on occasion, but Nate Cage won’t have any such luck when my sister Marie rips out Cage’s maggot-ridden intestines, using them to strangle what pathetic life still exists within, making the fucker choke on his own fucking asshole!
 
 
You sounded so proud when you stated that my failure to “scope out my surroundings” proved that I’m no monster, but simply a flesh-and-blood female so incredibly dumb that she was fooled by “the oldest trick in the book.” It’s easy to see why someone like you would have that mindset…
 
For all your success and accomplishments throughout your long and storied career… you’ve never once been viewed yourself as a MONSTER… therefore, you don’t appreciate the actual truth around why I wasn’t able to keep you in check…
 
Whenever that bell rings, there’s only one constant thought that echoes loudly in my mind, never once quieting until the match… or my opponent’s breathing… suddenly ends:
 
 
I don’t know about you, but I can’t recall even one Godzilla film where the King of the Monsters stops his campaign of annihilation… just to glance over his shoulder in order to check out his surroundings… Just like me, he doesn’t give a single fuck about anyone or anything, other than a singular destructive goal…
 
So maybe tone the boasting back a bit, because all you really did was verify my words… you can blame my mistakes on low intelligence or whatever, but losing to Nate was the only embarrassment I felt after the match…
 
And yeah, although I got some measure of revenge later that night… the only thing that left me feeling hallow and unsatisfied afterwards was knowing that I wouldn’t be able to properly dig my claws into you until Game Over… So enjoy the moral victory you’re so proud of by costing me victory on Kingdom… because I’ll be enjoying an ACTUAL win once I triumph over The Originator of the Outlaw Championship…
 
 
I’m no stranger in twisting a narrative to suit my needs, but you done raped the narrative and left it for dead… For starters, do you really think that I dragged you to HELL itself? Why spoil dessert... when the main course has yet to be served? 


For someone that isn’t fazed by my same-ole “smoke-and-mirrors” routine, you certainly have bought into the more fantastical and supernatural aspects that The Banshee embodies…
 
Moreover, do you think my goal at this point is to simply scare you? Being brave doesn’t make you immune to my powers… both natural and supernatural… so the false bravado is quite sad to see, especially coming from a storied superstar with your pedigree…
 
You might have snuck in a few good licks on me, but your arrogance has given you very selective memory… allow me to refresh you on that pesky little thing we know as the truth…
 
For starters, the only damage you did to me was superficial at best… You absolutely NEEDED Jonetta’s little Celtic curse just to gain an advantage that you will NOT HAVE at Game Over…
 
Because yes, Aria, you have made a “grave” mistake, which is why your night at Game Over will end with you in a grave of your very own… no need to thank me, after all, a nice “jester” is simply good manners… Get it, because I’m a fucking clown!?! HAHAHAHAHHA!!!
 
You did state something that does ring an element of truth to it… I will acquaint you with terror and agony, but not in the physical sense you’re implying… Granted, maiming your bloated booty like a starving hyena is a given at this point… But the pain I inflict that night won’t simply be a physical beat-down, because you deserve a lot more retribution for your actions…
 
 
There’s no denying that you definitely elevated the prestige of the Outlaw Championship belt, but even you can’t be so cocky to think that ONLY YOU could accomplish such a feat… After all, I seem to recently remember Rebecca Filth elevating the Openweight Championship… Furthermore, you haven’t had much real competition for that title in some time… nothing against those who already failed against you, but there’s a clear difference between them and me…
 
 
Just don’t turn around and blame the universe, monkey paws, or rabbit feet once you regain consciousness, only to realize that you’re no longer the Outlaw Champion… remember, by your own admission… 


 
Speaking of questions, you asked “Morrighan” if she even wants to be Outlaw Champion… I know you’re not too bright, but even a brain-dead cunt like you should remember that “Morrighan” hasn’t said much since I took full control of this vessel years ago… however, allow me to answer that same question, which you likely posed for me…
 
 
I don’t consider you a weak woman, Aria… as much as I fucking hate every strand of your Smurf-cock colored hair, I do tremendously respect you as an opponent…
 
By the way... I’ve already endured the actual pits of Hell itself… not even the powers of Hell prevented my in-ring return… so again, your threats just ring out as being both hollow and desperate...
 
But of course you’re desperate… you’re desperate to keep the Outlaw title… it would feel like absolute HELL to you to drop it to me, wouldn’t it?
 
 
The screen dissolves into darkness for a moment, as a new image fades into clarity. The camera is sitting fixed at an angle, inside what appears to be a nursery. The camera’s angle shows an infant girl, swaddled in a “Tribunal” blanket, sleeping soundly. The nursery is shrouded in a light darkness, aside from the glowing of two night lights and the red light from the baby monitor camera. A voice than emanates from the obscured side of the crib.
 
The Banshee: So this little bundle of joy… this is the reason you took a time off, so you could be a good mother, right…. How precious is she?
 
The Banshee then stands up, hovering over the crib. She slowly caresses Aria’s daughter’s cheek with the back of her hand, looking right up at the camera with a sinister grin from ear to ear.
 
The Banshee: You cackled with glee that you strung me up like a goddamn puppet for shits and giggles, just to “remind me of just what kind of an enemy” I’ve made… Perhaps you should choose your words… and your battles… more carefully in the fucking future, bitch…
 
 
 
The Banshee picks up Aria’s daughter, gently rocking her in one arm, as she looks right into the camera.
 
The Banshee: Perhaps you should instead have considered… just how far The Banshee is willing to go… Can you truly hope to match darkness with darkness?
 
 
 
The lights in the nursery flicker off and on… The Banshee vanished into thin air. Aria’s daughter is safely back in her crib, sound asleep. As the camera fades to black, a sinister laugh echoes from under the crib…

Man...
Honestly, I’m surprised that we’re crossing paths so early. The sudden dissolution of a group that once seemed immovable isn’t something to take lightly. I don’t blame Ryo for deciding to fight you both as soon as possible. For the sake of his soul, it's better to get over this sooner than later. 

First thing, Tinkerbell isn’t my name. 
If you need a reminder, my name is Tatsuo Sakaguchi. If that name manages to twist your tongue into knots, you can simply call me the Honored One but that is the only deviation you’re allowed from my name. 

In the past, I would’ve been kinder but my kindness begins and ends here with this warning. Call me anything different one more time and I’ll gladly split your tongue in two so you never speak improperly again. 

I won’t deny that I’m an outlier to this entire conflict. From an outsider’s perspective, I have no reason to jump into this conflict. I have nothing against either of you—Matsuda-san, Nobi—and from the looks of things, neither of you have anything against me. Your focus is on Ryo, his childish tantrums as you describe it. 

There’s nothing I gain from sticking my nose into business like this...or well, that’s the outsider’s outlook on it. I see things differently. I have my own reasons for tagging along with Ryo. 

You two have given up on Ryo. I haven’t. 

The Ryo that stands before you is the direct result of your inability to be an ally to him. You notice a darkness in his heart Matsuda-san...but where were you to stop it? That gunshot he took wasn’t the beginning of his hatred, it was merely the final nail in the coffin. Though, maybe...you wanted him to die instead? 

After silently watching the roster have their way with him and his psyche like rabid dogs to a corpse, your precious student dying to a gun fired by the Tres Comas Club would’ve been perfect. You could absolve yourself of any wrongdoing and lionize him as a tragic sacrifice. All without him being able to open his mouth. 

I don’t hate you Matsuda-san but that messiah complex is the most problematic aspect about you. Your desire to save people gives way to narcissism. You don’t want to save people because you're a good person. You want to save people because it makes you look like a good person. 

Ryo was the unfortunate person who took the bullet but I’m sure you would’ve gladly let me or Brody take that bullet if it meant you could still tell yourself you’re still a good person. Nobi is your closest friend, he talks about how he’s known you for years, but even he’s not safe from that guillotine you’ve created! 

You’re selfish. You’re a warrior who cannot accept anything other than a warrior’s death. Living in peace isn’t how you want to spend your days. You would rather die on your sword—running and screaming until your last breath—because its the only way that you know how to live. Being belligerent isn’t your thing though—its dirty to you—so you rationalize your thirst for death and glory through costly wars, wars that are for a “good cause”. 

Who fired the first bullet, Matsuda-san? Was it really the Tres Comas Club or was it you who found the perfect villain—a villain so despised and up its own ass that everyone’s combined hatred could hide the truth of the matter? 

The World’s Finest wasn’t created so you could free Olympus from its clutches. A faction where members come and go through revolving doors but you, you, are at the center of everything. Hungrily chasing glory while ignoring the effects of everything around you. Because you’re so nice of a person. 

Yet, despite all my words, I don’t even hate you for that. That desire to run to your own death is something that cannot be hated. To immediately resolve your soul with the truth that every match is a brush with death and yet still continue to fight is amazing! I’ll never hate that when I feel the same way! 

Though...Though...you could stand to have a little more honor. 

It’s too late to back out now. 

You’ve dipped too deep in your hunt and now your faction lies before you fragmented. The least you could do now is be honest with yourself and stop hiding behind excuses. I despise people with a weak spirit almost as much as cheaters. 

This conflict is between you and Ryo. If being a warrior and dying as a warrior are the only things you know, I’ll let him do the honors of drowning you beneath the waves of Orochi. Though that isn’t to say you’re the only person who created this monster that stands here. 

What lesson do you plan to teach me, Nobi? I do not hate you. I was the one who stopped our friendly little Time Lizard from further interference in your match against RIP at Clash of Titans but as it stands now, you possess zero knowledge worth an audience at the Golden Pavilion. 

Like how I told the Seventh Ward, I will not listen to the belief that Ryo is a rock that sinks me. He is not my undoing. I am his catalyst. I’m not just teaming up with Ryo because he’s my friend. I’m teaming up with him because I will not let him waste away due to the darkness the world has implanted onto him. The reasons why you managed to outlast him were not because of skill but because of folly—Ryo’s folly. The hatred that he has, the hatred you caused him, is what allowed you to prosper and it's disappointing that you don’t realize that. Instead, it is a tool to gloat at him. 

...Nah. I still don’t hate you. 
I like this. I like this a lot. Shedding your masks and being a little truthful about your true selves is good. It’s easier to repent. It’s easier to swallow the bitter pill that is defeat. 

I have made my goal clear since I’ve been here. I want to bring about innovation. I want to take this slice of heaven called Olympus and rampage until there’s nothing left and all of the old decrepit values that continue to poison it are turned to dust. Unfortunately, the World’s Finest is one of them. 

Matsuda-san, Nobi, look around you! The enemy that you saw in the Tres Comas Club is crumbling! Even their former precious Ace card, RIP, is throwing them under the bus. It’s only a matter of time before they are nothing more than a memory, be it naturally or by force. Where will you two stand then? Will you find another peanut gallery of antagonists to face? 

I will do the one thing that neither of you could do for Ryo. I will be there for him. I will transform him. We will defeat you and with your defeat, he will be reborn into something truly terrifying. He will be reborn into a key of innovation! Through the blessing of the Honored One, the Flame Emperor will create a fire that is incomparable. Even the flames that charred Mount Hiei to the ground will be seen as miniscule. 

My words might sound harsh but I truly don’t hate either of you. The only major offense you’ve done to me is get in my way. I appreciate the short time I was associated with the World’s Finest but this is where our paths diverge. Your defeat is key to ascension. 

You can boast the amount of years you two have known each other but I don’t think you two actually know the true versions of each other. And for a team that hardly knows each other and the reality they’ve settled themselves in, there’s nothing worse than people fueled by a desire far greater than theirs. 

When the madmen run, any man not mad starts running. 
So start running, you two. Or become ash in the world’s finest urn. 


“So have you figured out a name yet?” 

Tatsuo stabbed his shovel into the dense pile of white fluff and glanced upwards at Hiyori. Despite the freezing weather, there was little reason for any denizen of Kyoto to expect sightings of snow; snow only fell a few times throughout the year and when it did, it was only thin layers that lasted for a couple of hours, nothing to write home about. The gods must have felt insulted by such a pitiful demonstration because the current snowstorm bearing down on the City of Flowers was the most it's seen in nearly a decade. Instead of a thin layer, the snow had piled up so much that it was nearly to his knees. Even whatever progress he did with clearing out his pathway to his home seemed to have been erased by a fresh layer of snow. 

“A name? For what?” 

Hiyori was bundled up to the extreme—to the point that he believed she was almost spherical from all the clothing layers—but even he could tell that behind her brightly colored scarf she was frowning at him. “Aren’t you teaming up with Sakazaki-san again? You should have a tag team name in order to legitimize your alliance. You can’t just keep teaming up without a tag name, what’s the point!” 

“I don’t know. Ryo seemed pretty okay with it.” Tatsuo said as he tried (and was failing) to pull himself from the snow. “Besides, our team name is the least of our concerns. We still have a match to win and multiple others after that one.” 

“If you two manage to win the tournament, you’ll challenge for the tag titles, right?” Hiyori said as she walked over, or more accurately waddled over, to Tatsuo. “If the Seventh Ward are still champions, they’ll just call you guys makeshift again. If you guys have a team name, then they’ll take you seriously!” 

“Since when were you my manager?” 

“I’m only keeping track of my friend.” Hiyori said as she grabbed onto his arm and pulled. 

His foot finally came undone one tugging session later. Tatsuo took one look at the growing pile of snow and exhaled a frustrated sigh. He merely grabbed the shovel from the pile and walked to the stairs leading up to his door. “By the time I come back all the snow will have melted. I’m not dealing with it.” 

“Just clear it out in an hour, that’s when they said the snow will stop falling.” Hiyori said before casting her gaze downward. Her gloved fingers twiddled with each other for a brief moment until she finally had enough. “Tatsuo!” 

Tatsuo was only a few steps up when he turned around. “What?”

“Uhm...” She then waddled over to the stairs herself. “Be safe during your match, okay? I know that you usually come out okay but ever since you were in the hospital after that match with the Tres Comas Club and then seeing one of your coworkers get uh..” Hiyori shuddered. “A shovel jammed in his mouth, I wanted to tell you to be safe before you go. I’m sure that the medical staff there are pretty top-notch but...” 

She opened her mouth to say something but she realized that telling her best friend that she really didn’t want to see him die on live television wasn’t the best sentence to say in freezing weather. 

“I’ll be fine.” Tatsuo said. His statement was direct but his tone was sympathetic. “You don’t need to worry about anything. Just watch as I win everything.” He then smirked at her. “What? Do you think I’m going to die in OWA’s ring or something?” 

“N-No!” Hiyori quickly said in her defense. Even if it was her exact thoughts, she didn’t want to cloud his mind with her safety concerns. “I just wanted you to be prepared for anything! Plus everyone in OWA is so ruthless! I’m just saying...keep your head on your neck, please.”

She meant it more physically than metaphorically and Tatsuo knew that, despite her half-assed attempt to act like it wasn’t her worries. “Sure. I’ll keep my head on my neck. Anyway, are you coming inside or what?” 

“You don’t have any good hot cocoa flavors.” Hiyori said as she waddled over to the stairs. “I bet you still have that cocoa powder inside of your cupboard, unopened and unused.”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s still good.”

“Tatsuo, its two-year old hot cocoa powder. You don’t even have any suitable toppings!” Hiyori complained, only for her scowl to melt away into a small smile. "...But sure. I'll come inside. Someone has to convince you to actually think of a team name. I bet you have haven't start packing up your bags! Have you even talked to Sakazaki since you left America? Don't tell me you two are doing a no-talk policy until the PPV starts. Another thing—" 

He didn't say anything else afterward as they walked up the stairs together, merely letting Hiyori ramble on and on. But one had to imagine that Tatsuo was happy.

Wilson Residence

12.20.22

12:00 AM

He couldn’t see anything. Everything around him was pitch-black, with no signs of light coming through in any direction. He felt absolutely helpless. His vision was shot. His movement was restricted. And still, nothing could change that, not in this instance. Again and again, he tried to squirm, even brushing his feet against the pavement for leverage, but nothing he tried helped, he was stuck, and he knew it.


The feeling of hopelessness continued to feed into his mind, until a power switch was flipped forward. The lights started to power on, and the visibility of the room started to finally be clear. As he adjusted his vision, he noticed this wasn’t just any ordinary room. He knew it quite well, as he sat in his childhood bedroom, but there wasn’t any freedom this time around. His arms were zip-tied, as tight as imaginable, with no room to move. And as he slowly looked up, he saw he wasn’t alone.

“What the hell is this? It smells like shit.” Gunner’s best friend shouts out into the abyss. Neither of them seem to know.

Both of them simultaneously look towards the corner of the room, and with that, they instantly go from unaware to frightened. In the aforementioned part of the room, two corpses sit next to one another. Both are a bloody mess, with their respective skulls smashed in, and their tongues ripped out, with it being clearly too late to save either of them. 

“Welcome to the game, you sorry shits. You see those two over there, the ones with the mangled faces, that’s some gross shit, right?” An unknown voice can be heard from outside of the room, but his tone isn’t of a serious nature, not at this moment. He’s calm and collected, but still seems aware that he’s the one in control, and his tone matches that.

“GUNNER. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” He speaks in an anxious tone, signifying that he’s in a state of terror. Stumbling over his words, with his body shaking uncontrollably.

“Just stop fucking talking.” Gunner’s eyes bulge out, a running stream of tears dropping from his left eye.

“He’s right y’know, it would be best if you just stopped talking. No amount of screaming will change the outcome, you must go through this test. Everyone has to. It’s just your turn.” The ominous voice outside of the room says this with a similar tone, as he mockingly laughs at the participants.

The two of them are now frozen, stuck in their own skin. Simply looking at each other with an icy look, forged on by their terror of the night. But their night was only going to get worse, much, much, worse…

***KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!***

The door slowly creeps open, with the camera only showing the man’s blood-stained boots. A maniacal laugh is heard loud-and-clear, as he starts to slowly move forward, passing by the friend, and instead heading directly towards Gunner. Choosing to kneel before him, their eyes meet, practically breathing on one another, before it zooms out.

“Dad?” Gunner says in absolute shock. 

His face starts to quickly transition from shock to a pissed-off one. However, that doesn’t last long, as his eyes start to roll into the back of his head, it’s uncontrolled. Unsteady. He sees his Stepfather smiling back at him, before passing out.



This is all so disappointing. I’ve never strayed from the truth, the mission has always remained the same, ever since day one. None of you deserve to hold this industry in the palm of your hands. Nobody on this brand can handle it, and even if they could, they wouldn’t be able to. In every direction that I look, this place is filled with those with no backbone, no guts, nothing to separate them from the pack. More often than not, there’s a certain belief that one can do the bare minimum, and provide nothing outside of the usual, but despite everything - still succeed. That’s not how this works, and I’ll be the one to tell you, this can’t slide. Not anymore. 


I’m not going to let it.

Very few people know what true survival looks like, and NONE of you are an example of such. Your respective journeys haven’t earned you that title… not yet. You might pretend to know better, but the reality is that you don’t know SHIT, none of you do. You’re all clear cowards, who are actively trying to play it safe, just because you saw me laid out on my back one time, failing to meet my promises one damn time. That doesn’t take away from the fact that I brought Graham Baker to his knees, and sent him to his absolute limit. It didn’t happen the first time, but if given another chance, it’s clear that this promotion is for the taking, and the weak ones aren’t going to do shit about it. That’s the truth, and it’s my job to tell this story.

It’s all about surviving now, and making it out alive. I’m still breathing, but I can’t promise the rest of you will be.

Sometimes there isn’t a choice, and adapting is the only option. You know this better than anyone, Mark. Spending the entirety of the last season attempting to adapt, to survive has to take a toll. However, it’s not because you had to, or that it was your destiny to make it to this point. Neither is true. It reached this point, because after numerous chances to prove your worth a damn, it was wasted. In order to remain in the fold, learning the hard way was the only option. You might have the rest of these people fooled, having them believe that you’re different from the rest, that Mark Micheals is on deck to be the face of Olympus, but I see right through that crap, and who you truly are. A hypocrite. Just because you’re afforded yet another opportunity, think just because you’re afforded yet another opportunity, you truly think  that eventually, it will end with a victory? Nothing is given in life, opportunities don’t last forever. But one thing is for certain, this is your last chance, and I’ll make certain of it.

Many look at you and see a future World Champion, but when I look into those eyes? I see a man practically on his deathbed, begging for this time to be the one where he finally realizes his potential. But that’s the difference between the two of us, you wait, you hesitate. Simply hoping that everything works out like initially planned, instead of fighting for it. I wish this wasn’t the truth, but you aren’t a fighter. You don’t know what it takes to survive, and if you haven’t figured that out already, then you’re never going to fuckin’ learn. I don’t see a man filled with fighting spirit, who will do whatever it takes to finally win the ‘big one.’ Once upon a time, you might’ve been able to, but that’s not you anymore, now is it? You’re just a man who’s on a constant journey of self-improvement, who somehow NEVER improves enough to get the job done.

Don’t insult me by pretending that this time will be different. It wasn’t that long ago that you had the world clamoring for you to push through the pain, and succeed for them. You’d like to think that these people will remember your efforts, but frankly that’s not enough. They’ll remember your failures far more, and that memory will always remain. And when it's time to come face-to-face with me, with a chance to redeem yourself, I promise you that your chances of success won’t be any greater. This isn’t about you, Mark. Enough with your story, this is about me redeeming myself, and it starts with the conclusion of this chapter. So coward or not. Failure or not. You’re not making it past me, you’re going to learn that this isn’t some fairytale.

I’m not some monster that wants to rip everything away from the people around me, but we all share a common goal. Nobody is going to step to the side, so neither am I. Here in this world, luck runs out, and it only gets you so far. Relying on it too long will break you. Wishing for it too much will destroy all you built. And it will only lead to your downfall. But luckily for me? I’ve never relied on anything. Fighting every step of the way to this moment is the correct path, but for now, it’s simply about proving this is the end of the line for the rest of you, even if I must go to war to ensure this.

Let’s be honest, Jake. The only thing you have going for you right now is your disrespectful nature, but that’s going to stop right now. If you truly believe that this is what the bottom of the barrel looks like, then you need to have a close look in the mirror. Glossing over the threats at hand isn’t going to improve your chances of survival, and it won’t help mask those insecurities, either. History has shown that years of failed ventures has led a path here, back to take another crack. With all hands-on deck, it’s solely up to you – either sink or swim under the pressure.
 
We may not know one another that well, but you seemed comfortable enough to imply that I’m not worth your time. So I’ll tell you what, I’m going to give you a history lesson, just so you don’t make this same mistake ever again. I was raised with the belief that you should try to save someone if you can, but if they don’t want it, then there’s no reason to keep them around, as they’re not worth it. That’s all you are. Your willingness to disrespect me when you don’t have a single clue of what I am, let alone what I’m capable of is very telling. So try to envision it, paint a picture for yourself, because there’s no way to truly understand it. And there’s no way to, because there’s no comparing the two of us. One of us is the embodiment of progression, and the other can’t help but to regress. 

It’s doubtful that this will change anytime soon. And I’ll take advantage of it. That’s who I am.

Unlike you, Brody has proven himself, on more than one occasion. We've met before, even if it wasn't that long ago. But still, I can't say that it's a pleasure. For over 150 days, you've watched the Prestige Championship be etched into history with a name next to it - that isn't yours. You had the chance to change this before, but that was met with failure. So now, you think that it's an even playing field? Give me a fuckin' break. At first, it was the Clash of Titans. Then it was the Immortal Heavyweight Championship. And now there's a desire to possess a briefcase that practically guarantees your ascension to the helm of Olympus. I've said it to you before, and I'll gladly say it again, you're incapable of change. This is a tale as old as time, it's not unusual for a man that has experienced such a magnitude of setbacks to desire more, but that doesn't mean I have to accept it. This is the second time that you've tried to take my future away, and again I ask, what's the need for it? And the answer is as clear as it was last time, it's not about needing it, but rather taking what secures your legacy. I can respect that to a degree, as the further one goes in this industry, the more one is going to desire, but it won't be at my expense. Last time, I made the mistake of not putting you down myself, but that's not a mistake that I'll make again. Feel free to be drowned in your delusions, but if you keep going down this path, it will be bite you in the ass.

That’s a promise. One I will keep.

The keys to a life-changing moment hangs 20 feet above, and it only takes one second to make that dream come true. And for me? I’m not letting anyone get in the way, and that includes you, Brody. When it comes down to it, no matter how it’s looked at, there’s certain people that will succeed when pushed past their limits, and those that will crumble. If it isn’t clear by now, I’m not one to surrender. That isn’t changing anytime soon. So try as you might, attempt to take everything for yourself once more, but that won’t change the fact that you’ll fall short again. I’ve tried to tell you since our first meeting, you can’t have it all for yourself, because there’s always going to be someone who wants it more than you. 

I’m that guy. I want it MORE.

Everything I’ve done to return to this industry can’t be in vain. It has to mean something. There’s too much work to do, too much to accomplish for me to fail this early on, which is what must be done. GameOver is the most important night in my career thus far, it’s the start of everything, and the conclusion of all that was. It’s no longer about Brody's meteroic to the top, that’s been tried and tested — and frankly, I’m over it. Nor is it about some surprising triumph from the dark horse. For once, all of you need to understand that unpredictability isn’t the name of the game, not on this night. 

I have a certain level of respect for you, El Landerson.

It’s become obvious over the years that all you want is to try. No matter the risk of it, nor the occasion, giving up is not in your vocabulary. And I commend you for that, but here’s the cruel truth of it all. You don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, not really. There’s always room for a test, to prove yourself, and if you can do so, then congratulations. The odds aren’t in your favor though, as has been said numerous times throughout your career. Trying only gets you so far nowadays, but centrally you need to back up your words, or you’re going to be marked as a fool. That’s not something I’m willing to be perceived as, which is why respect goes out the window. My feelings for you no longer matter, this is now only about one thing. Securing MY future. 

Everything around you screams that you’re simply not ready. Everyone has been trying to steer you in this direction, but you didn’t want to listen. This time there will be no choice in the matter, as this isn’t just any other encounter, this is one we’re laying it all on the line. So all or nothing, with everything left on the table, I don’t think anyone will bet on you over me. When the going gets rough, even if it’s minimal, you’re incapable of doing the hard thing, making the difficult choice. 

But I’m not.

No matter the direction this world takes me in, or who’s steering the ship, I’m not someone who runs away. Just like I told Baker, you’ve forced my hand, everything that comes after this, it’s not on my conscience. Out here, it’s either you survive. Or you adapt. Most of the time, you’d rather wait for shit to hit the fan, than to plan ahead and succeed because of it. So you can sit there and fail once again, but your weakness isn’t bringing you down with me. If I need to break you down over and over again to separate you from the pack, then so be it, it’s time for a rude awakening.

How we succeed isn’t my call, but I’ll make it mine.

Over the years, it’s become quite clear that inconsistency is the prime key to failure. So in order to become who I needed to be, I had to change my perspective on life. I’m the kind of man who never makes the same mistake more than once, there’s no room for error in this industry. But some people don’t share the same outlook, isn’t that right, Marce? Some choose to wait. To hesitate every move. There’s nothing holding you back from becoming better than you once were … except yourself. Time after time, this has been the story. A chance being given to adapt. To stop hesitating about the future. But you’re never truly good enough now, have you?

There’s rules to this shit, and you’ve broken every single one. For months, I silently watched as you were given the opportunity to change, but you never tried hard enough. Just like the rest of them, there’s some deep-gut feeling that everything will work out, but here’s the hard truth, shit doesn’t just fall in your lap, you’ve got to make it work. So my advice to you is to start understanding this, and if you don’t, I’ll make it plain and simple. Stop acting blind. Don’t be ignorant. Success only comes when you truly want it, and I can promise you one thing.

You don’t have the balls to earn it. You’ve already shown that.

So try your best, take your shot. But as far as I’m concerned, none of you have a chance. You’ve already failed your tests before they even began, and now just like the rest of your career, you’ll fail AGAIN. Creating the bed that you lay in is the first step, and soon enough, you’ll rest there for good. There, that’s the truth. It’s time to swallow that pill, to take it in, because whether any of you believe it or not, this story only ends one way. 

With your cold, lifeless bodies begging for forgiveness. But you better start searching for it somewhere else, because you ain’t getting it from me.

It’s not on me. It’s just what needs to be done.