“You’ve been back for what? A month? And I’ve already grown tired of you. Of your words. Of your presence. Of your face. Which is dumb, by the way. Your face is dumb. And I’ve grown tired of this newfound ‘outlook’ of yours. All of it. And you must be exhausted too, from trying to keep up with the web of lies that you have weaved. Itsy bitsy spider Senn. Only the rain from the waterspout won’t wash you out. But my fists. A storm of fists, just hailing down on you. One after another. After another. And after another. The last one is for good measure. Yeah, as you can see, I’m not handling the whole you being back thing. And that probably won’t ever change. To be honest — which is a cool thing, honesty that is, you should try it sometime, Jacob — honestly, I wouldn’t have much of a problem with you if you just showed up on Kingdom instead. Or Odyssey. You have the haircut for it. The fit would have been seamless. But no. You chose my turf instead. And you never even wiped off your shoes before entering. The disrespect. It’s embedded in you. Always has been. Always will be. No matter how many times you try to convince me otherwise. Guess we are just gonna have to agree to disagree there. Actually, that probably goes for most things when it comes to our ‘business’ and I’ve accepted that. While you just need to accept who you are. You talk about redemption. Retribution. Being reborn. All that cornball shit, right? When we both know that you are incapable of changing your stripes. I know what you’re trying to do, Jacob. The scheming. And it’s not even on the low either. It’s blatant. In my face. You’re trying to create this new image that your PR team is working overtime for because you were left with no other choice. Because the last time we saw you, you overstayed your welcome. You felt the walls closing in. And the door being slammed in your face by yours truly. During the process of your well-deserved and self-inflicted downfall, you burned one too many bridges. The empire you once built, only ashes remain. Before you won the Immortal Heavyweight Championship, the name Jacob Senn no longer held the value it once had. The days of you being this must-see, box office draw were long over. You’re no longer the guy a brand builds itself around. And you know this, right? This isn’t some well-kept secret. The cat’s been outta the bag for quite some time now. I mean, that’s the whole reason why you threw that hissy fit about a year ago. You were sick of people passing you by. Sick of being overlooked when it came to certain opportunities. Usually involving the world title. You were sick of people looking at Darkane as the true leader of The Dynasty and not yourself. Sick of the talks and attention that I was getting. Sick of Matt Miles — for existing. You were no longer the focal point. Something you were so accustomed to being in every company you worked for and every country you traveled to. Losing to opponents you had no business losing to unless it was Father Time standing before you, then yes. You made a snap decision that benefited only yourself because you physically felt every grain of sand hitting the bottom of the hourglass that is your career. While every word you spew today must be taken with a grain of salt.”

“You can spin this however you want, Jacob, but in the end, you’re just trying to use me as a means to an end. You want to clean up your act. You want a second chance to be welcomed and accepted by the loyal OWA fanbase. Tough. That’s gonna be tough. That’s an uphill battle you’re fighting there. And you can keep digging your heels into the muck and try to push forward, but you really aren’t going to make much progress on your own. Hence why you’ve glommed onto me, since I’m like Fred Rodgers compared to every other wrestler in the back, to speed up the process. Because you know if you get me to bite and I give you my seal of approval, others will follow suit, and one by one, they will put down their pitchforks. Because unlike you, they respect me. For everything I’ve gone through. For everything I’ve accomplished. They have seen with their own two eyes the sacrifices I’ve made. And they’ve heard with their own two ears my bones snapping and my ligaments popping inside that ring for their entertainment. They respect the fact that I’ve given almost every last fiber of my being for this company during my three years here. They respect the fact that I don’t duck any opponents. I’ll face any of them. Shit, I’ll face all of them. I’ve done it before anyway. I have a connection with them, as they’ve witnessed my highs and lows. All of it. They accept it. And they accept me. Because I haven’t broken their trust. I haven’t done them dirty. The same can’t be said about you, I’m afraid, as your hands remain as filthy as ever with the dirt and blood covering them.”

“Your ‘apologies’ mirror those you could ask Chat GPT to write. No sincerity whatsoever. Now that I think about it, I don’t even recall a simple ‘I’m sorry’ from you. Maybe you did, maybe I just blocked it from my memory, but it’s cool. Because we both know you wouldn’t have meant it anyway. That and it wouldn’t have made a difference. Accolades will always reign supreme when it comes to you. That and Jacob Senn. He eats first — not caring who starves. Even if it’s his own people. Now, I’m aware that there are some people out there that think I should just move on. And let it go. Live, laugh, love right? Life’s too short to hold grudges. To a certain degree, I agree. But it also depends on who the person is and the relationship you had with them, that crossed you. If it was a neighbor or a distant relative that you only see a couple of times a year, then yes, it’s not worth your energy. But if it’s an immediate family member or a close friend, it stings a little more. Jacob and Darkane fall under the latter category. During our Dynasty days, I had your back since the day I was brought in. I was a good soldier. I followed their orders. Because they knew what they were talking about. I wasn’t going to go in there and question them from the get-go and disrupt their already existing chemistry. That would have given the wrong impression. I shut my loud mouth, which is next to impossible, and listened closely. Taking it all in. Trusting the process. Since day one, they pushed me to be better and do better. More importantly, I pushed myself to be better. Because I knew if I didn’t, I would be the weak link and I didn’t want to drag them down. Worried about them first and foremost, rather than myself because they didn’t have the time for my growing pains. They pushed me into the fire straight away. And I responded. I carried my weight and than some. We went to war together. Battling it out in the trenches against our common enemies for our common goal. It got to the point that the entire roster was after us. Now it’s the entire roster after just me. That’s cool. I enjoy that a lot. Would recommend. Not frustrating at all. And here comes Senn, trying to give me a life jacket while my head struggles to stay above the deep waters. Trying to help get the 7th Ward off my back. Hasn’t really made much of a difference though. I’m still getting jumped every Olympus. I’m still leaving the arenas with fresh scars and old scars reopening for what seems the millionth time. It’s what always happens. Interfering with my matches is really the only time they can touch me. When my focus is shifted towards somebody else is when they usually strike. Because when it’s us in that ring, having ourselves a little match, that’s when shit gets real for them. That’s when I get my payback. Not by joining in on their petty little games, but by adding to my success. And by adding a tally to the win column.”

“We don’t see eye-to-eye on most things, that much is clear. The same eyes that once glowed red with hatred, is now just slightly red from them being bloodshot. You stressed, hmm? Weird. Thought you got plenty of rest these past eight months, oh well. One thing we can agree on though is the 7th Ward — they kinda need to cut it out. Trying to tattoo themselves into my life. Trying to make this into a rivalry. Trying to act as though they matter to me when it comes to the bigger picture. They are small potatoes in that sense. And I’ll be sure to slice and dice them again. Perhaps into wedge fries? No need, for they’ll drive a wedge between themselves at some point, just give it a little more time. Meanwhile, I be over here, trying to do my own thing. And they don’t like that because they know they are withering away in a dead as fuuuuck division. Facing makeshift tag teams. That’s what they do now, which is honestly a shame because even I’ll admit that their talent warrants more than that. But it’s nothing new to Darkane. Holding a championship that holds no value or weight, that is. It’s what he’s been up to this past year. Tag team title gold, the Apex World Championship, that’s who he is now. But I know he wants more. Just like Senn all those months ago wanted more. The jealousy is strong with the both of them. And that’s just another reason why I’ll never give a single thought to trusting Jacob again. It’s never gonna happen. His words, his actions, they can show immense growth every time he appears on screen for all I care and I would still get that same uneasy feeling with him breathing the same air as me. I shoulda changed that when I had the chance. But we all make mistakes. Some just make more than others, ain’t that right, Jacob? Just like teaming with you would be a mistake. It’s what you want. And it has always been about what you want. You admitted as much. Talking about how you ‘want’ to ‘stand beside me’ and square off against a common enemy like the good ol’ days. If only, Jacob — if only the feeling was mutual.”

The TV was immaculate, and a little ostentatious.  It sat flush with the wall and shone in the light of the room, almost as if it had never been used.  It was large – at least 75 inches in size – and was one of those brands that only people with ridiculous amounts of money might splash their cash on.  It certainly fit the aesthetic of the room.

Sitting down to the left, in a leather chair, was Poet.  He wasn’t dressed in his normal suit, but rather in a dark grey turtleneck and chino pants.  His hair was unbound and sitting lazily upon his shoulders.  Next to him, on a small table, sat a remote, his usual glass of whiskey and his notebook.

“Now, this is a part of the Poet house that I haven’t invited you in to… until now.  I wanted to share with everyone at home a variety of things on this rather expensive television here, and I can’t exactly do that from my desk.  I should look into rectifying that, but until then, this will have to do.  So, welcome to the lounge room of the Poet family.  There are other areas of the house for the family to enjoy – another living room, a rumpus room, a conservatory – but this is where we come together when we’re all home.  And it just so happens that you’ve caught me at an interesting moment.  As I’ve mentioned before, I like to go back through previous shows to not only look at my matches, but to look at future opponents as well.  And, as you’ll see here…”

Poet reaches down and picks up the remote.  He points it at the TV, and it switches on, revealing the final stages of the match between Alessandro and Brody.

“Now, if I just go to the slow mo. here, you’ll just see the moment that Brody’s heart breaks…”

Poet presses a button, and the image slows down, just as Brody’s head is spiked into the mat.  Poet chuckles to himself before pausing the image.

“Would you just look at that.  You can see the colour just drain from his face as the ref counts the pin.  His brain would turn to mush after that move if he had any, but all it’s done is make him a little dizzy.  Still, he couldn’t get the job done when it mattered most.  Me?  Well, we know how that match turned out.  But the research hasn’t stopped there, my friends.  Oh no.  I’ve had the opportunity to go back through a variety of matches – some I’ve wrestled in, others that I haven’t – and a real theme has opened up in relation to participating in an elimination match.”

“One show my family and I have enjoyed over the years is Survivor.  Now, that may seem strange to you, but when you look a little deeper, this show is incredible.  Here, you need to outwit, outlast and outplay your opponents to survive.  The smart ones will do what they need to do to win; they will stab people in the back, they will hide people’s belongings, and they will fight tooth and nail during challenges to come out on top.  There is nothing more exhilarating than watching someone dominate with their brains, rather than their brawn, to win.  This show is proof positive that nice guys, more often than not, do finish last.”

“And it got me thinking, that this tag team elimination match is just like a game of Survivor.  Two opposing tribes full of different types of people who all bring something different to the table.  They have a common goal, and they all want to find a different way of getting there.  When you look at the ‘World’s Finest’, you’ll find that each of them represents a different type of Survivor competitor.  When the show does their casting, you can tell that they like to mix things up.  I mean, having 10 of the same type of person on a team doesn’t make for good viewing.  So, let’s take a look at the ‘World’s Finest’ tribe and see how they stack up for the big match on Olympus.”

Poet leans over and, first, takes a sip from the glass of whiskey.  He then reaches for the notebook, opens it to the page he is looking for, and lets it rest on his lap.

“Now, the first survivor has to be Emmanuelle.  She is given the go ahead because of her big, brash personality.  She might have a few big tatts, wear a bikini that’s a little too tight, and likes to try and hang with the boys.  She goes hard at the challenges and tries to prove herself in that way as she isn’t all that bright.  The problem for Emmaunelle is that she isn’t fooling the viewers or the other survivors on her tribe.  She is too loud, too in your face and, frankly, too annoying.  She also likes to mimic other people as she can’t come up with anything original herself.  A case in her point is her predictable attempt at poetry.  Does she also have a tattoo written in Chinese as a tramp stamp?  A ring through her nose?  All of this adds up to being voted off rather early in the show.  Shame.”

“Our next Survivor is Ryo.  Now, poor Ryo is chosen for the simple fact that he really shouldn’t be there.  A ‘demon’ who likes to sulk in a corner is just not supposed to be out in the sun on a beach.  He mopes about the camp constantly complaining about things, and even has the potential to break down in tears at different times.  He constantly wallows to the camera about missing his mum and dad, he can’t even cook rice over the fire and often forgets to wash.  He is voted off early and, frankly, it’s good riddance.  No one wants his type around for long.”

Poet pauses for a moment, takes a sip of whiskey, and continues.

“Next up is Tatsuo.  Now, this survivor is the one that no remembers until he shuffles on to your screens some stage during an episode.  He is often the one that the viewers turn to each other and say ‘who is that?  I don’t remember him!” when he’s been there for the first 10 days.  And that’s who Tatsuo is.  He might try and pot me for who I am, but at least I have an identifiable brand.  People know exactly what they’ll get with me.  What about you, Tatsuo?  You’re so boring, so vanilla… and you don’t pay attention.  Last time I checked I hadn’t joined the Tres Comas Club.  They came out to me.  I’m just wrestling with them this weekend.  But, when the other survivors remember you’re there, you’ll be voted off.  No one wants to be friends with you.”

“Then there’s Baker.  Christ.  This guy annoys me already.  He is like Emmanuelle on steroids.  Big, brash and dumb.  He bullies people into liking him and he dominates the early challenges, which keep him around for a few weeks.  Then he gets angry when he doesn’t get enough rice in his bowl, berates his fellow survivors… aaaaaand he’s gone.  He thinks he’s tough but really, it’s just a cover for the steroid abuse leaving him impotent.”

“And then there is my old pal, Brody.  Look, let’s not lie here.  As a survivor he is relatively likable to the common viewer.  His laid back, dopey personality is kind of endearing.  Fans can tell he smokes pot, and he can be seen looking for marijuana leaves in the forest.  He helps out a little, cracks a few jokes and falls into a strong alliance.  But much like his performance at the last Olympus, he doesn’t walk away with the cash.  He doesn’t have that killer instinct and the brains to pull it off.  He might make the final six, but he is voted off as an easy target, just like Alessandro did a week ago.  You couldn’t get the job done there, and you won’t get the job done here, either.”

Poet stops for a moment and takes another drink.

“Now, who has the capacity to make it to the end?  Nobi, of course.  The viewers at home love him.  He is nice and he is loyal.  He works hard around camp, contributes at challenges and is likable enough that he forms a good alliance early.  But nice guys don’t win these things.  And Nobi is TOO nice.  Does he have it in him to stab someone in the back?  No, he doesn’t.  When the going gets tough, the tough get going, but Nobi takes that literally and he runs off when confronted with a hard decision.  The fans want you to win, but deep down, they know you don’t have it in you.  You didn’t kick up much of a fuss when you had that title taken away, and you rolled over for me, as well.”

“Which leaves us with the ‘real’ leader of this group.  Cloud.  The ‘mother hen’ if you will.  No one gives her a chance early.  She doesn’t do a whole lot at challenges, yet it’s behind the scenes where she shines.  She is the leader of their alliance, but she keeps it quiet.  She calms people down, builds others up, encourages the ones who need it… and can be willing to stab people in the back where they never see it coming.  She will use others to do her dirty work so the blame doesn’t fall on her.  But we are on to you, Cloud.  We know who you are, and no matter how hard you try, you still can’t get yourself over the line to be the sole survivor.”

“And why is that?  Because the other tribe, the Tres Comas Club, are the ones who will do anything to win, even if that means collateral damage.  Other members of the tribe might have to miss out on winning big, but that doesn’t matter to the overall collective.  We just need one person to get us over the line, and if someone is slowing us down, then we cut them off.  We are cunning, we are smart, and we are the ones who will be the lone survivors of this tag team elimination match on Sunday.  There is almost an air of inevitability about it.  And I’ll be proud to stand over your rotting carcass in the middle of the squared circle to ensure that I’m the one who walk out of Olympus as the sole survivor.”

Poet takes the final sip from his glass of whiskey and flips the notebook to the next page.

“So, before I head off to prepare for Olympus, let me leave you with a poem.  You weren’t expecting anything less, were you?”

 
 
 
 
Poet then carefully places the notebook down on the table and picks up the remote.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to show the kids what it looks like to lose a match in embarrassing style.  I'll see you all on Sunday..."

Elijah, your words cut through the air like a blade and each sentence reveals the scars that have been inflicted upon you during your tenure in this industry. Scars that serve as a reminder of the battles you've fought, the championships you've held with pride and a smile on your face, and the frustrations that have driven you to the brink for the way those championships were taken away from you. I'm listening, Elijah, not just to your words. No, I’m listening to the passion and the fire that can be felt behind each impactful slash they strike towards me. You've held championship gold four times in your OWA career that carry the OWA banner upon them, a feat that demands respect and admiration, without a doubt. The Prestige Championship, twice. The Immortal Heavyweight Championship, twice, one of those being the moment you ended my reign of darkness and destruction upon this business. But even with those accolades, a chip remains on your shoulder, and a scar that is blatantly evident remains upon your body and soul. The scar that reflects those wars that you waged only to be met with bitter defeat, the glory the championships you worked so hard to attain stripped away from you by devious means, and moments that you had waited your entire life to achieve becoming tarnished and weathered from outside forces. Your words paint a vivid picture of the journey you've undertaken and something that these people are engrossed and devoted to watching play out on their screens. The struggle through these rough waters, wading through the victories and the losses, basking in the triumphs of your career and enduring the ache of the disappointments. It's a tale of a man who has tasted glory but has also faced the bitter sting of defeat. A tale of a hero that this business had been waiting for.

However, I hear your frustration, Elijah, as you recount the matches that ended your reigns with each one marked by outside interference or by circumstances beyond your control. It’s a rough hand to be dealt, let alone when the dealer has all the right cards in their hands to make you lose every single chip you’ve placed on the table. The six-man tag match where The Dynasty faced off against The Bad Boy Collective, a match that should have been a fair contest of skill and strategy, but was tainted by the intrusion of others. I was there and I felt the same frustration and disdain at the fact that when we were on our way to being the most dominant faction in the history of this industry, it was stolen from us out of the pettiness and envy of those who wished they were a part of our brotherhood. Your Prestige Championship reign cut short not because of a better opponent, but because of the numbers game, because forces beyond the ring altered the course of the match. It's maddening, isn't it? To lose not because you were outwrestled or outperformed, but because someone else's actions dictated the outcome. Made to meet the bitter sting of defeat not because you weren’t the best on that night, but because you were taken advantage of by the numbers. Even with all of that struggle you had to push through to create the name that you have made for yourself here in OWA, we still have the saga of the Immortal Heavyweight Championship, the championship you took away from me and brought us to this point today. Where your triumphs were tarnished by questionable decisions and unjust circumstances, you have now been forced to sit back and bite the bullet that has been forced into your body. You were forced to accept Rich Gatsby's cash-in and watch him leave with the championship you fought tooth and nail to take away from me, the interference from Tres Comas Club that made you watch a hack like Remington Ivory Prescott walk away with that championship, the feeling of being robbed of what was rightfully yours is absolutely merited in your case because you have been for quite some time.

Your frustration is palpable, Elijah, as you express your weariness with the games, the politics, the manipulations that seem to plague you at every single opportunity that you have achieved a modicum of success. You've been a constant presence, a pillar of strength and determination in the face of adversity, a face of the brand who has weathered storms while others have come and gone. You've shown up when everyone else wanted to take a step away, you've given your all when there were more than enough opportunities to throw up your hands and call it a day, and you've faced challenges head-on instead of employing the same tactics and methods that were inflicted upon you when those aspects of glory in those titles were taken away from you. However in the constant battles, the constant roadblocks, it goes to show that they have taken their toll against you. Your words reveal a weariness, a fatigue that comes from fighting against a current that seems determined to pull you under, but if you want to deny me my redemption in this match that we are set to do battle in? You better kill that fatigue before you walk down that ramp because I’ll make sure it will be the very thing that ends you if you don’t.

With all of that said and done, when you think that nothing else can go wrong for you, Jacob Senn resurfaces from wherever he was for the time he was away. A specter from the past, a figure you thought you had left behind and killed in front of this audience, someone who you thought had finally let their wrestling career be left in the sunset. The mere mention of my name stirs a fury within you, a frustration that bubbles over as you recount our history, our encounters, and the decisions I've made that have impacted your path. You express your desire for me to vanish, to stay far away, to leave you to your own devices. You speak of sparing my life, of granting mercy, only to find me reemerging, a thorn in your side once again. I can feel the intensity in your words, the anger and the annoyance, the disbelief that I would dare to cross your path once more. I do not blame you for these feelings that you have buried within you, trapped inside of your very soul and released only at the mention of my name or the sight of my face, for what I had done to you was vile in nature. Like a scratch on a record, my visage replays in your mind over and over again and no matter how you try to repair it, it will never be what it was before the scratch was created.

You question my motives, Elijah, my return to the spotlight, my reentry into the world we both inhabit. You view me as a disruption, an unwanted presence, a figure who doesn't belong. While I understand your sentiment, your desire to move forward without the ghosts of the past haunting you, I don’t intend to be the same person I was when you defeated me for the Immortal Heavyweight Championship and take the easy road of simply avoiding you. I respect your determination to focus on your career, to step between those ropes and compete without the distractions, the politics, the mind games. But, Elijah, I want you to understand that my return isn't about politics or headlines. It's not about making a splash or garnering attention. It's about something deeper, something more profound. It’s about showing the entire world that the man they last saw on their screens died when you became Immortal Heavyweight Champion and the man they see standing before them now is the one they remember before Belial was even a threat to OWA.

You're right, Elijah – I did quit when everything was said and done between us. I quit on The Dynasty, on this industry, and I personally quit on you. I turned my back on the camaraderie, the brotherhood, the legacy we had built together. And for that, I'm not seeking forgiveness, nor am I seeking to paint myself as a victim. I carry the weight of those decisions on my shoulders, the regret, the shame, and the desire to make amends when it is certainly not earned or required. I want you to understand that I'm not the same man who walked away from all of this when I lost the Immortal Heavyweight Championship. I've battled demons, both internal and external, and I've emerged from that struggle with a newfound sense of purpose, a renewed determination to correct the misdeeds I’ve done, to seek redemption, and to earn the respect that I let slip through my fingers because of the influence of Belial and the envy I harbored.

This match, Elijah, it's not just about facing you in the ring. It's about facing my past, confronting my mistakes, and defying the darkness that once consumed me. It's about showing you, and the world, that I can rise above that darkness, that I can return from this to be the legend they remember, a force for justice to punish the wicked who stand against us. I'm not seeking a shortcut to Final Destination; I'm seeking a chance to prove that I can stand beside you, that I can be a reliable partner, a worthy competitor, and a man who is willing to put everything on the line to prove himself.

Your reluctance to embrace my return and transformation is understandable. I'm not here to prove myself in words; I'm here to prove myself in actions. I don't expect you to embrace me with open arms, but I hope that through our battle, you'll see the changes in me. You’ll see the determination, the drive, and the commitment I have to become a better man.

This isn't a match where I seek to uncork pent-up frustration, Elijah. This is a match where I seek to show you that I am a man who is willing to face any challenge, to endure any struggle, and to earn respect through action. I want to stand beside you, to face the fiends of the Seventh Ward, and to prove that I am a changed man, seeking redemption and a chance at a fresh start in this industry I helped build from its very foundation.

Believe me or not, Elijah but I'm here to show you that actions speak louder than words through accepting the brutality of a strap match to make sure that my intentions are made crystal clear. This match is a battleground, a chance for both of us to prove ourselves, to settle our differences, and to show the world that we are forces to be reckoned with. The accolades and experience I have are evident, but the determination, the drive, and the will to fight for my redemption will be clear by the end of this.

Let's make this match a moment that defines us both. Let's put aside our differences, our frustrations, and our doubts, and let our actions speak for themselves. I'm not asking for your approval, your forgiveness, or your trust. I'm asking for the chance to step into that ring and show you, and the world, that I am a man seeking redemption, a man who wants to prove himself, and a man who is willing to face whatever challenges come his way.

Elijah, I understand your anger, your frustration, and your weariness. However I hope that through our battle, through our match, you'll see the transformation in me, the journey I'm on, and the man I'm becoming. I may have quit before, but I'm not quitting this time. I'm Jacob Senn, and I'm ready to face whatever comes our way, with unwavering determination and a commitment to proving myself.

Six years ago.
Wichita, KS
Charles Koch Arena


It was the night of the 2017 Empress of Elite quarter-finals. Cloud Matsuda defeated former EAW Women’s World Champion and ex-girlfriend Cailin Dillon to advance to the semis. Doing this required Matsuda to break The Dream Killer in the center of the ring, thus ending her career. Dillon did everything in her power to try and win the match like purposely knocking herself into a spectating Aria Jaxon to win by DQ. At the time, the general manager of Empire, Tarah Nova restarted the match as a No-Holds barred contest and became the ref. The former lovers held nothing back as they decimated each other in the ring. Cloud used three of her finishers: Cloud City, Cloud 9, and the Chimeraplex to beat Cailin, but the blonde-turned-redhead kicked out of them all. In one last desperate attempt, Matsuda locked her in the Blasian Sunrise and held it until Dillon passed out. When the doctors checked on her, they learned that her arms, legs, and neck were broken from the devastating maneuver, thus ending her career. But tonight, before that news was to be announced, a quiet Stephanie Matsuda walked out to the parking lot in civilian clothes and her luggage bag. She turned down Aria’s offer to celebrate and instead wanted to be to herself. She didn’t want to beat Cailin this way. Nobody knew of Cailin’s fate at the moment, but Cloud had her suspicions. She felt those bones break in her grasp. In her rage, it was her intention to cause such an act. Now that she was no longer seeing red, she knew things would forever be different.

In a week she’d be fighting her former Sanatorium ally Alexis Deimos. After that feud and fighting against her former Coven stablemates, Cloud was tired. Mentally, physically…it was all getting to her. Winning the Empress of Elite meant a possible match against her best friend that she reunited and right now that was the last thing on her mind-

Female Voice: Excuse me?

Stephanie turned around and saw a young Latina standing several feet away. She recognized her: Monica Vaughan, a backstage correspondent for Empire, half-sister to Brfody Sparks, and current love interest of Cailin Dillon. Matsuda sighed deeply and placed her bag in the trunk of her rental.

Cloud Matsuda: Yeah?

Monica was silent for a moment. She looked flustered as if she didn’t know what to say. The last time they spoke was an interview two weeks ago which led to Matsuda dropping a ring in an envelope - an engagement ring Cloud was going to propose to Cailin with, just before she turned her back on her months before. Stephanie’s actions at the time didn’t help the situation, but like a naive teenager, Matsuda thought “love” could heal all wounds. Monica was now clutching the same envelope in her hand, her small fist crumpling it into a ball. 

Monica Vaughan: I-I should give this back to you…

Monica put her hand out, but Stephanie shook her head.

Cloud Matsuda: Keep it. Considering what happened tonight, it’s my final gift to her.

Monica Vaughan: If that’s the case then you should give it to her then.

Cloud Matsuda: Oh? Trouble in paradise?

Monica Vaughan: Let’s just say hours before the match, she and I had an argument that led to some things being said that you can’t take back.

Cloud Matsuda: Ah. So even you couldn’t escape from her true nature.

Monica Vaughan: Unfortunately, no. Then again, maybe it’s for the best. It looks like she’ll have other things to worry about.

Stephanie nodded as she closed the trunk. 

Cloud Matsuda: Then, let that ring be my gift to you. Let’s call it an icebreaker. We both don’t have Cailin in our lives anymore, so we can start anew by getting to know each other.

Monica chuckled a bit and tilted her head before saying anything.

Monica Vaughan: You don’t remember me, do you?

Cloud Matsuda: Uh…what do you mean? 

Monica Vaughan: Several years ago, when you were in JET during that short US tour you guys had. It was during your title reign and they teamed you with Aria and Brody in that six-woman match a few weeks before your Cinderella Story match against Azumi Goto. You guys won that match with Aria pulling a surprise roll-up win over KAGUYA. Afterward, you guys were hanging out and I was talking with Meagan- I mean Brody backstage?

Stephanie rubbed her chin.

Cloud Matsuda: Was this the San Diego show?

Monica Vaughan: Yes! They booked it as the “Sky Princess Homecoming!” since you grew up there. I know you were born in Japan, but you went to grade school on the west coast, right?
Cloud Matsuda: Yeah…but-

Monica Vaughan: You were sent to high school in Tokyo. Yeah, I study all potential interviewees ahead of time. 

Stephanie laughed and shook her head a little.

Cloud Matsuda: Now that I think about it I do recall seeing you then. Shit, we even shook hands. 

Monica Vaughan: Do you recall what I said to you back then?

Stephanie looked down as she racked her brain. She remembered Brody mentioning that she had a sister with a podcast that focused on women’s wrestling, but it didn’t click for her then. 

Cloud Matsuda: You mentioned your podcast and said you were a fan…

Monica Vaughan: For how long?

Stephanie grew quiet as she could only look at Monica in silence. She knew the answer. She was just unsure if she wanted to say it.

Cloud Matsuda: Since my first match.

Monica Vaughan: Tri-City Wrestling aka TCW. Zero Hour ‘09.  Annie Psycho def. Mia Matsuda via Psycho Crusher. 12:25. 

Cloud Matsuda: I hated taking that movie.’

Monica Vaughan: Everybody does.

Cloud Matsuda: I…uh need to get back to my hotel. Maybe we can talk more at another time. But tonight was a lot and…

Monica Vaughan: Understandable. You know what? I think I will keep the ring on me.

Cloud Matsuda: Really?

Monica Vaughan: (shrugs) Who knows, maybe I’ll need it for the future?

Cloud Matsuda: Maybe…



“I think at this point, we’re beyond words.”
 
The camera opens to Stephanie sitting alone in her bedroom back in Japan, her eyes fixated downward. A glance at her eyes tells a story of a woman whose had little to no sleep. Her facial expression is one of conviction; she’s made a decision and will fulfill the promise no matter what. 

“Every week we sit in front of a camera and pour our hearts out to the world for your entertainment to promote whatever match we have coming up. For some it’s evolved into a form of therapy. You get comfortable in trhe limelight, with the public knowing your every move. And when interpersonal conflicts arise at the workplace, there’s no peace to be had in this business until the conflict is resolved. One way or another.”

Stephanie sighed deeply as she looks into the camera.

“I’ve said everything I need to say about Tres Comas, the Devione family, and the lackeys who serve them. As for this immortal third owner? He may find himself to be a mystery, but the hand he played revealed a lot more about him than he thinks. For someone with near infinite amount of power and resources, it surprises me that he needs the assistance of lesser men to exert his will. I’m not shook - I’ve delt with the unknown before. I’m one of several people alive who walked away from a life or death fight with Abholos and is alive to talk about it. My allies and I have toppled multiple factions, stables, and organizations over the years. Hell, two of those - Zaubatsu and the Coven I’ve ended with my own hands. The last group I’ve taken down? Underworld, alongside the World’s Finest over in Wrestleworld. Now, I march into battle with a newly formed World’s Finest. Some fasces old, others new. There’s no question what’s going to be my motivation in this match: freeing my wife. Tres Comas made things personal when they messed with my family so therefore I will be going into battle with an eye-for-an-eye mentality. Some may say that revenge isn’t worth it, that it’s a dish best served cold. As someone who grew up with sushi, this is perfect for me. I’m not walking into this match with a warm heart. I will not be filled with love, nor will I be filled with hate.”

Stephanie shook her head slightly.

“Tres Comas doesn’t deserve my emotions. They’re too valuable to be used on such a soulless group of greedy individuals. Hate defines what I’ll do to my opponents to end this match. Hate makes both attacker and victim equally famous. I have no intention of giving you any more fame and recognition than what has already been achieved by crossing paths with me. It’s easy to say I started this war the moment I called out Jaywalker and the Devione family. But here’s the thing: I left it as an in-ring business. Going after me the way you all did, proves that I make Tres Comas Club nervous. Allesandro has proven time and time again that he can’t finish me off on his own. Remington Ivory Prescott has proven that he has been and always will be a paper champion. They have two juggernauts in Golden Gauntlet and Marce Rambeaux. Two juggernauts that can’t do shit but look swole. I’ve toppled giants in my career more than once. Send the interracial twin towers after me, I don’t give a shit. This match isn’t about pinning or making my enemies submit. Blunt force trauma, deep cut wounds, CT-fucking-E. Those are my goals. If life leaves this world from my hands, then so be it. Each and everyone one of you signed your life away when you joined OWA, which is not legally responsible for your livelihoods. That makes things easier for me and my conscience. Even if you go way back with me like Reggie Dampshaw, I can give two shits about history. Siding with the Deviones means you signed your death warrant. Just simple cold-blooded murder.”

Stephanie goes quiet for a moment before continuing.

“That’s my goal. I’m already convinced that Kevin Devastation will try some shit that may cost my wife her life. And if that occurs well…the whole bloodline will cease to exist. Women, children, I kind of don’t give a fuck. Descendents? I’ll smother those little fuckers in their sleep. Any Devione is cancer to this world and must be exterminated. If Monica loses her life, then everyone’s life is forfeit. Know, understand, and believe it. Or don’t, I really don’t give a fuck. And that god of yours? I have…several ways of making him not exist, two of them involve swords that belong to my family. This isn’t my first rodeo when taking on big bad groups. As for my allies? They’ve proven their worth. Nobi is family. I've fought Graham Baker in the greatest tag match I’ve ever competed in: The Corsairs vs Queens of Wrestling. Ryo Sakazaki is one of my most dedicated students and Tatsuo has demonstrated loyalty to the movement. Then there’s Emmanuelle, a woman after my own heart. Brody is one of the fastest-rising stars in the past couple of months. Everyone fighting by my side is considered a member of the World’s Finest in my eyes. In fact, when I’m done here, their names will be etched into history in my hands.  But, yeah. I’m done talking. Kevin? Get ready to lose a son. And if you keep this up then you will watch your children fall one by one by my hand. That much I can promise you.”

Saying nothing else, Stephanie turns off the camera.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. I’m joined once again by Brody, who’s speaking to us for the first time since his loss to Allesandro Devastation on the latest edition of Olympus. Brody, thanks for talking to us."


"No sweat, dude."


"So, how have you been dealing with the first defeat of your OWA career?”
 
“It was heartbreaking, Cory. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. It took me a little bit to get over it. But ultimately, I just try to live every day to the fullest. I mean, you never know you’re your number’s gonna be called, you know? Like those dudes who died in that submarine a couple weeks ago. One minute you’re here, enjoying life. The next minute, poof. You’re dead. Just goes to show how fragile life is.”
 
“Ok, well, I don’t know that that’s the moral of the story. I mean, they didn’t just die out of the blue, did they? They paid $250,000 to get in a gloried tin can and go 12,000 feet below sea level.”
 
“$250,000? Bro, imagine paying that much just to visit the set of Titanic. That movie fucking sucked.”
 
“They weren’t visiting the set of the Titanic. They were going to see the wreckage.”
 
“The wreckage?”
 
“Yeah, you know, the actual ship that sank like a hundred years ago.”
 
“Oh, Cory, you adorable little foal. Movies aren’t real.”
 
“Yeah, I get that, but this movie was based on something that actually happened.”
 
“Oh, sure. Next, you’ll be telling me there was actually a dude who made some rings and tried to take over the world. I bet you believe the moon landing, too.”
 
“I’m just gonna move on to my next question. Do you think, perhaps, you underestimated Allesandro? I remember seeing you backstage not long before the fight, smoking weed with the event crew.”
 
“Maybe. I mean, I was for sure confident I’d win. I always am. But fair fucks; he took everything I had and was better than me on the night. And without any outside help. Genuinely, I’m impressed. But I got the chance to put it right next week, and this time I’ll smoke even more weed before getting in the ring.”
 
“You think that was the issue?”
 
“Name one thing that’s not made better with weed. Fighting? Yeah. Fucking? Most definitely. Even smoking weed makes smoking weed better. Don’t be such a nerd, Cory. It’s legal now.”
 
“Different stroke for different folks, I guess. It always just makes me super paranoid.”
 
“It does? Weird. Can’t say I’ve ever noticed that. It just completely relaxes me. Makes colors and sounds more vivid. And sometimes, it makes me really alert. Like, I can see everyone looking at me and talking about me behind my back.”
 
“Yeah, that’s paranoia.”
 
“That’s what that is? Huh. Gnarly, dude.”
 
“Right. So, you say you’re going to put things right next week. What, if anything, are you going to do differently?”
 
“Hurt him more.”
 
“That’s it?”
 
“Listen, Cory. It’s not fucking rocket science, ok? I train every day to punch and kick people in the face, to slam them on their heads on the mat. The more I do that, the more I win. Let’s not complicate things here. Allesandro might be walking a little taller this week, but he’s just a man. An incredibly cringe man with a weird dragon obsession, but a man made of the same squishy flesh and organs I am. I’ve seen firsthand what he’s made of now. I’ve been up close with him. Close enough to smell Jaywalker’s cock on his breath. And I’ll tell you this much: that dude needs to get checked out. Last time I smelled discharge that bad was like a week after my trip to Tijuana.”
 
“Jesus Christ.”
 
“I know, right? Those Mexican chicks know how to party, bro.”
 
“I’m sure they do, but you know you’re not just facing Allesandro, right?”
 
“Fuck yeah. I get to put that noodle-headed fuck back in his place, too. Bro walks into the barbers and asks for the Mi Goreng. I’m gonna shut his bitch ass up by smacking that goofy look right off his fucking face. You know, the one that looks like he smells either bad pussy or good weed? Seeing him win a title before me is… well, it is what it is. I’m less impressed by him than I am by Allesandro, though. If it wasn’t for Lazarus Arjen, then Hampton would’ve won that match, hands down. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that he is the Prestige Champion now. He’s managed to string together two wins, and he’ll be thinking he’s the shit. Time for him to come back down to Earth, I reckon. Just like your heroes, the moon people.”
 
“Who?”
 
“You know. Stretch Armstrong. Buzz Lightyear. The other dude.”
 
“Are you talking about the American heroes who were the first people to walk on the moon?”
 
“If you say so, Cory. All I’m saying is jet fuel doesn’t melt steel beams.”
 
“What are you talking about? You know what, I’m not getting into this with you.”
 
“I’ll admit, I was surprised to see Poet being friendly with Tres Comas Club. I knew he was a piece of shit, but I didn’t think he was a cocksucker, as well. And that’s not me being a homophone, Cory. I love the gays, but he’s serving hole for gold. It’s pathetic, dude. He talks about how he’s worked hard for everything he’s got. He even gives his brother shit for asking him for handouts, yet he’s more than happy to go cap in hand to the biggest assholes on the brand.”
 
“It seems to have worked out for him.”
 
“Well, you were talking earlier about me taking my eye off the ball. What about Poet? I heard he’s going skiing. In the middle of a gang war, a couple weeks before Final Destination? Not really the right time, is it?”
 
“It does seem a little out of character. Where did you hear that?”
 
“One of the backstage people I smoke with said he overheard KD and Jaywalker telling him that he’s gonna be fighting Ryo and Tatsuo again. Apparently, Poet started talking about how he couldn’t wait to hit the slopes and something about white powder.”
 
“What the hell!”
 
“I know. Bro wins a mid-card belt and thinks he’s made it. Talk about a lack of dedication to your craft.”
 
“No, that’s racist!”
 
“Who, me? How am I racist? All my drug dealers are black, bro.”
 
“Oh my God. Let’s just get back to talking about the TCC before you get us in any more trouble.”
 
“Whatever.”
 
“They’ve become quite the dominant force on Olympus over the last couple of months. Just look at the wealth of gold in their ranks. They have every singles belt on the brand, not to mention The Seventh Ward seemingly on retainer.”
 
“Smoke and mirrors, bro. It’s easy to win if you cheat all the time. Poet said it himself: Nobi is the real Immortal Champion. Tatsuo got robbed as well. Even Allesandro had to kidnap Matsuda’s wife to win his title. Their days are coming to an end, dude. It’s already happening. Hendrix realized he’s above them, and it’ll carry on next week when the World’s Finest dismantles the rest of them piece by piece.”
 
“You’re not worried about the Third Owner?”
 
“Couldn’t give a fuck, Simmons. As long as they cut my checks, I’m breaking necks.”
 
“Well, Allesandro and Poet aren’t the only ones you’re familiar with, having tangled with Reginald Dampshaw III at the Clash.”
 
“Who?”
 
“Reginald Dampshaw III? The current Icarus Champion?”
 
“Oh, the beans on toast man? Yeah, I think I remember him. He was going by a different name last time, though, right?”
 
“No, he’s always gone by RD3.”
 
“Bullshit. It was something like Hoobastank Mossycleft, Attorney at Law.”
 
“Yeah, it’s nothing like that. Do you think he poses any threat to the World’s Finest?”
 
“Nahhhh. We kicked Brit ass in World War II, and now we’re about to do it again. But besides all that, there is no threat from the TCC. You see, all their guys will be in the ring, so there’s no one else to come in and rescue them. Even those two goth fucks will be tied up with Hendrix and Michaels. When it’s a fair fight, they got no chance, bro.”
 
“What about—”
 
“Listen, Cory, I’ll save you the trouble of asking me about the rest of these bozos by running through them now like we’ll run through them on Olympus. Rip, Barrera, Rambu- Ramba- Ram- Uhh, the baguette fucker. Oh, and who could forget the Gauntlet guy? A rag-tag mix of mercenaries and guys who couldn’t get pussy even if they had a cousin in Alabama who was terminally ill and starved of a man’s touch. Although, in fairness, I did hear Prescott fucked a hooker so hard she nearly came back to life. Bro called the sexual assault helpline but didn’t know it was for victims. The others seem like the type of dudes who pull their shorts all the way down to their ankles when they pee. But whatever, I’m fucking done talking about these jamokes. I’d rather talk to our guys instead.”
 
“Ok, go for it.”
 
“Well, it’s no secret that I didn’t want any part of this war. I think I said as much before the Clash. It wasn’t mine, to begin with, but as time’s gone on, I’ve been dragged into it. That’s just how it be sometimes. As Rip would say, now that I’m in this bitch it’s time to end her.
 
“Ryo. Tatsuo. We’ve done this before, dudes. Not many gave us a chance at the Clash, but we came out on top. Things haven’t really gone our way since then. Tres Comas Club has gotten in the way, but we got a chance to fix that. Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery. None but ourselves can free our mind.”
 
“Wait, is that from something?”
 
“Huh? No, I don’t think so.”
 
“It sounds familiar.”
 
“I’m sure someone’s said it before, Cory. There are only so many words.”
 
“Hmm.”
 
“Anyway. Nobi, bro. You know you’re the real champ, dawg. You’ve beaten RIP before, and now it’s time to show the world why that belt should be around your waist. Those old pirates robbed you and sold you to the merchant ships—”
 
“No, that’s definitely from something.”
 
“Cory, please. I’m in my flow here. Now, Matsuda. I can’t imagine what you’re going through with Monica being held hostage by those lunatics. I tried to get some justice last week, and I’m sorry I came up short. I promise, as long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll fight for Monica. I mean, how long will they kill our prophets while we stand aside and look?”
 
“Right there! That’s from Redemption Song by Bob Marley.”
 
“It is? Well, he was a smart dude. I’ll take it as a compliment.”
 
“That you’re taking lines from his song?”
 
“Bob Marley didn’t invent the concept of redemption, Cory. Otherwise, they’d have named it after him, wouldn’t they? From what I understand, Graham Baker is also looking for some, and I’m more than happy to help him do that. Fuck knows we need more people round here that don’t beat their dick to the Black Dahlia. And he’s won a bunch of titles, including some right here. So, we’re golden, bro.”
 
“Which brings us to your last teammate, Emmanuelle.”
 
“Yeah, where is she, by the way?”
 
“That’s what everyone’s asking.”
 
“Well, it sounds like she wants to destroy Tres Comas Club, so we have that in common. KD, Jaywalker, and the rest of them are about to learn you can only fuck over so many people before you find out.”
 
“Well, before we wrap up, do you have any final thoughts?”
 
“Just one. And it’s something that a Hollywood exec like Devione has probably heard before, but this is for all of them. Time’s almost up, motherfuckers. We’ll see you bitches on Sunday.”

Location: Cortez Holdings Warehouse, Location Unknown, Country of Origin Unknown
Time: 7:00 P.M.
Date: 8/6/2023

...Oi, oi, Matsuda-san. 

What’s the deal with inviting so many guests to my front doorstep at once? And on such short notice too? There’s hardly any time to prepare a tea ceremony. Technically, I’m not apart of your faction, so you can’t shoulder responsibilities on me the same way you can Ryo or Nobi. But, don’t worry...I forgive you. I have no reason to betray your trust and your opinions regarding our guests are similar to mine. Much like how I told Ryo, I will lend my favor to you. 

I’m a little disappointed, however. There’s not enough tea cups. Even though we tried our hardest, the skulls of the Seventh Ward were unable to be turned into proper cups. A shame, but something to worry about later. It’s rude to leave guests waiting after they’ve finished their sakurayu.

Welcome, Tres Comas Club.

I suppose you expected harsh words off the bat but haven’t you understood it yet? I am a benevolent person. You are a group of fraudulent champions and upper-class deadweights so why should I belittle further? Your designation as trash is already set. I could talk all day about your transgressions and why you’re awful but well, it's wasting my breath. You’ve already insulted yourselves with the sheer amount of cowardice you display during each Olympus show—it's far better than any clever-worded insult I could give. 

So, as a benevolent person, I will not insult you. Trash will stay trash, no matter how insults are thrown, so instead, I will give my honest opinions. You should be grateful. The level of benevolence I’m giving is far more than what you deserve. 


You all might hold the belts but so lacking in confidence you are, most of your title reigns are strife with interferences, biases, and any other underhanded tactic you can pull to win. A child blowing upon your castle of cards is enough to make it crumble and turn your “efforts” into nothing...yet you want me to believe that you’re the ones on top? That I should be AFRAID of you? Idiots. All of you. 

So weak is your resolve that you come begging for an “end” to the fighting because you’re...tired? Is that what you said? Tch. I can’t stand people who start wars and then refuse to continue until the last flame has been flickered out. As long as one enemy is still standing, still breathing, a fight isn’t over, that’s the first rule of combat.

Perhaps that’s why the match is to settle things once and for all...but you know. I think that the more befitting route for you all is to take whatever pride you have left and go out honorably. I’ll even provide the knife required to do so, because when that bell rings, there will be nothing holding us back from destroying you. I will not let my resolve be triumphed by those that are weaker than my own nor will I let myself be talked down to by jesters who cannot provide even the bare minimum of entertainment. 

If your throats aren’t silt by the next Olympus show, then I will execute you. I said it to the Seventh Ward and I’ll say it to you too: Olympus needs innovation to survive. The rotten husk created by your hand is outdated and through your defeats, your deaths, it will go through its rebirth.

I don’t think we’re going to win. We WILL win. I simply need you to watch as you do so. Those titles you won without tasting the true flavor of combat...even they won’t stop the bitterness of a great loss. Perhaps then you’ll learn something. 

From this point on, I’ll give my opinions about each of you. You’re all guests, aren’t you? So it is only customary to do so, as a benevolent person. 

RIP, the proclaimed leader of the faction, the man who has managed to assemble a pack of loyal dogs to send out at his beck and call. You don’t care about what you do, so long as the ends justify the means. Hmph, okay. I’ll defeat you then and...I’ll break your fingers. You go and attack people in the most depraved ways so losing a hand or two is a good repayment for your karma, no? Don't be a crybaby when I do it. I’m still a newcomer to Olympus but I’m not new to people like you. The ends justify the means because you only care about being acknowledged. 

Even if people boo you, you drink it in because it's an acknowledgement of your presence, as something unique. So, I simply won’t give you it. You are not the Ripper, the Merchant of Violence, or the Prodigal Sin. You are simply an opponent in my way and you’ll be defeated, no different than the others. A nameless body in a hill of bodies. 

Who’s the next guest? Ah, Allesandro? You know, you’re quite the pain in the ass. It’s already bad enough that you walk around proclaiming yourself as a dragon—as if you ever reached such a high level of prestige in your life—but was it not your hand that forced us into this situation? Deny as much as you want, your fingerprints are all over the plot. Kidnapping a lover is pretty low but what could I expect from someone birthed from the sludge in Hollywood’s sewer? Clichés are your favorite. You're a petulant little child who will kick and stamp his feet if he doesn’t get his way. If money doesn’t work, you'll cry to daddy and if that doesn't work, then you’ll move to violence. 

A tyrant you are...or the gaudy glitzy version of one, at least. Unfortunately for you, crying to your father or throwing money to make me vanish won’t work! The only thing that matters to me in that ring is beating people and no matter what you do, I’ll tear you apart like a true dragon! An unchanging man such as yourself is an obstacle to my innovation! I’ll burn your bones until they turn black! 

Two guests so far. So many guests, not enough teacups. I'll be honest: I don't like green tea at all. However, its a kind gesture to guests during a tea ceremony. 

To correct you, Poet: It’s above heaven, under heaven. It feels pointless in explaining the meaning of those words and what it means to live as one with the universe: It’s because you’re stupid, to put it plainly. No flowery language. 

You’re stupid and your limericks are as paperthin and shitty as your persona. Earning respect through hard work and talent? Nah, that’s what you WANT people to think. In reality, you’re just the little man who feels as if they’re definitely worth more. For someone who calls me a kiss-up who goes whichever way to be pleased, you're the the biggest example of it. Is that why you crawled to the Tres Comas Club, because the collar they provide is your ticket to being “properly given what you deserve”? They’re so lucky! It’s rare to retrieve someone who will eat slop without complaining! Be sure to do lots of tricks for them before you flop on your face! 

...Though, admittedly, you’re not my main target. I can hold assurance that no matter how much you run away, Brody will soundly defeat you. No, my main target...

Is you, RD3. Did you think that you got rid of me, Time Lizard? I graciously extend my hand for a true battle worthy of our titles and you decide to desecrate it by cheating? Pitiful. It is clear that cheating and running away is all you are capable of. There was never a warrior to be found in you to begin with. 

My only folly was foolishly believing your words and expecting you to respect the art of combat. But things are different, now that I know how empty your ‘Self’ is. I’ll get my revenge and squish you like the insect you are. You will be shot out of the sky with a single arrow, Icarus. 

Don’t think you’re safe either, Rafael. Ryo managed to defeat soundly, didn’t he? The others say that you’re a veteran but I don’t care. The only thing you are to me is the guy who interfered in my fun—in other words, a pest! A lackey is all you are in my eyes and you’ll exit the stage unceremoniously, as weaklings do. 

I suppose the last ones left are you two, Rambeaux-san and Gauntlet-san. Unlike the others, I haven’t had much interaction but though you two have the same cowardly tactics as them, there’s still a bit of sense in ya, isn’t there? The Tres Comas Club looks alluring with its titles and pull over Olympus but unless you plan to be dragged down to the deepest depth of hell with the others, I suggest you figure out where you stand sooner than later. When the madmen runs, those who aren't as mad will start running. That's you two. 

You’re both big but a good kick can knock any large log over, can’t it? But regardless where you stand, you’ll be both as good as defeated in this match. 

I hope you were all listening because you’ll never receive benevolent attention like that ever again. Your mistake was dragging me into your clusterfuck and now the newbie will be the downfall to your fragile house of cards. Look down on me because I’m one of the newcomers all you want but you’ll regret when I make your bones shatter with a single kick. Look down on our side all you want but we’re unified for the single goal of decisively defeating you. 

If you want peace, then prepare for war. 

Fine then.

( The scene opens at the Gypsy Campground. It’s here we find Romanian and women young and old gathered around the evening bond fire. Children toast s’mores, young men play lively music on their guitars, and the elders pass around the bottle of Crown Royal Whiskey, as it all is Olympus’ chief backstage reporter Hugh Jass stands by documenting it all.)


Hugh Jass: Excuse me, I’m looking for-

???: HUGH BOY ME BOB!!

( from the midst of the group arises Harman Aredelean. He quickly greets Hugh with a bro hug before offering him a swig from his bottle of homemade hooch. Jass politely declines.)

Hugh Jass: Harman I can see that the mood is pretty jubilant tonight.

Harman Aredelean: As it should be. Every time the world slams a door in our faces and locks it shut, Var opens a window just big enough to let us slip back on in. Every time we get denied one thing, something even better always comes along. That’s how it’s always been for our people, we thrive when all hope seems lost. But enough about us gypsies, what brings you here today? Ready to get another reading and see what Var has in store for your future?

Hugh Jass: Well not exactly.

Harman Ardelean: Oh come to get yourself some more of those pickled peppers, that’s what 5 jars?

Hugh Jass: I wouldn’t mind, but that’s not why I’m here either?

Harman Ardelean: Then what brings you down?

???: Because some damn fool invited him!

( Harman cracks a huge grin before the camera pans left to reveal Mark Michaels flanked closely behind by his Cousins Gyp, And Sy, and his younger cousin Lil’Mark sitting on his shoulders. )

Harman Aredelean: Ah-ha! Ghomalan, Shavanlan, and all who can hear my voice, get on up on your feet and make a little noise because THE KING HAS RETURNED!!!

( Mark warmly greets his associate, Olympus’ chief reporter, and several of the Gypsy elders of the camp. )

Hugh Jass: Mark, first of all congratulations on being reinstated to Olympus.

Mark: Thank you Hugh.

Hugh Jass: Now in your text you said you if something important to talk about, and that you wanted me to bring a camera crew to document it.

Mark: Yes I did Hugh, and before I say anything else, Man does It feels good Now that I am officially back, but I can’t take a whole lot of time to celebrate seeing as that I’ve got work to do on Olympus. See more and more I’ve heard a group of greedy, jackasses run their mouths about this and that. I hear Jaywalker talking about how 10,000 centurions ran a train on him, I hear Kevin Devastation all but admit to felony kidnapping, and them both talking about bending a knee before this higher power third owner, whether to kiss his ass or just plain suck him off is anyone’s guess. But for me, I don’t bow down before no man, no maniac, no monster, and no mask wearing ass hat! I said it before, I’m saying it again now, I’m not gonna bow down to these tac tac nutsack having fucks. I would happily die as a free man, rather than live as a slave to a bunch of men who see Olympus, OWA, the entire sport of professional wrestling, as nothing more than some Ponzi scheme to make a couple extra bucks. I’m coming to clean house, drain the Swamp, and exterminate the den of rats called the Tres Comas Club. You better believe that.

Hugh Jass: I see, so was that it?

Mark: No Hugh, that’s not it. I said I had something important that I wanted you and the rest of the world to see. So I say take a look.

( Michaels gestures towards the Romani people standing before them. )

Mark: Look what’s standing right in front of you. The last time you, the last time anyone watching Olympus saw these people, they were being assaulted, and slaughtered. But look, there is no fear, no sadness, no weeping, or crying. These people have picked themselves up by their own bootstraps, and picked up everyone who couldn’t do the same for themselves. those who wished to leave us scattered to the wind, only brought us closer together. And those who thought they could send our hopes, our dreams, and our futures up in smoke, we rose from the ashes. And now we are here tonight to show the whole world that we aren’t licking our wounds, we are ready to settle some old scores. Simply put, we’re coming to get Our pound of flesh.

Hugh Jass: I take it that you’re speaking about the OWA Tag Team Champions, the Seventh Ward. Everyone knows you still hold some bad blood there from everything that transpired a few months ago when they attacked you in this very camp. Now Add to that the fact that they’ve aligned themselves with the Tres Comas Club, a group who obviously have drawn your ire, how are you feeling going into the tag team match this week, and what would winning the tag team championships from Darkane, and Lazarus Arjen mean to you?

Mark: well you’re right about bad blood there Hugh. I haven’t forgotten what happened, and I sure as hell haven’t forgiven the edge lord jerkoffs either. You know every time I think I couldn’t think less of the seventh ward, they manage to prove me wrong. I would say that these two sold their souls for drinking money, but everyone knows the closest thing either one has ever had close to resembling some kind of a soul in them, is a small order of red beans and rice from Popeyes chicken. I don’t know if they buy into this fountain of youth bullshit, or if they just did it for the money, or what’s probably the most likely case, they were playing call of duty. Got destroyed by a 9 year old who still needs his mom to wipe his ass shouting racial slurs, and thought this guy’s cool we should try and capture that energy. Whatever the case is, they decided to suckle at the Tres Comas Club teet. It’s pathetic that anyone, especially the two guys who want to relive their goth kid days when they’d get their heads dunked in toilets, and stuffed into lockers, it’s sad to seem them sell out. Next you’ll tell me Darkane grew up rich and only lived like a bum to piss off his mom, what a mark.

But I guess selling out, that’s these assholes showing their true colors. They aren’t black hearted demons subsisting off of human misery, they’re just a couple of dipshits marketing themselves to the emo kids, and behaving like good little lap dogs. They’ve sold off whatever pride, and self reap they had left for nickels. Well it’s their lucky day because I’m handing free ass kickings from sun up to sun down. If Darkane thought he had it rough in the ThunderBastard match, then boy is he in for a long night come Olympus, because I’m fixing to pick up right where we left off, with me pounding his face into hamburger. And Lazarus, boy you if you know what’s good for you, you had best use those quick feet of yours to scurry into back under daddy Jaywalker’s arms right quick. You don’t want none of what I’m bringing. You two are the swords that will go straight through my heart? You’re looking straight into eyes of a man coming at you with the kind of force that Dr. Oppenheimer wouldn’t even wanna fuck with. Me, and my family, we’re dismantling the Tres Comas Club piece by piece, and that starts with liberating the Tag Team Championships from the TCC when I take their newest acquisitions, and steamroll over them as I lead the cosmic caravan towards championship gold once again.

Hugh Jass: I don’t doubt anything you say Mark, but I also have to ask, what will the chemistry be like between you and The Don Brandon Hendrix? Just last week he was trying to end your wrestling career, you two were in a ferocious battle with each other in that ladder match, so how will the two of you be able to gel as a team quickly enough to take on a team as cohesive as the Seventh Ward?

Mark: I tell you OWA can make some strange bedfellows in the blink of an eye. Allies become rivals, bitter enemies become friends. Wasn’t it not too long ago that Darkane and Lazarus were tearing at each others throats? How about Jeff X and Chris Sabertooth? Yeah me and and Brandon have had our differences, but strangely enough it was like we were two sides of the same coin. We both prioritize our respective families above everything else. We’re two of the most stubborn sons of bitches you’ll ever meet in a wrestling ring, and right now neither one of us can’t much stand the sight of Wraith and his underlings, especially Remmington Ivory Prescott. So if that isn’t reason enough for us to put aside all the beef we’ve had, then how about the fact that we know the kind of lows those two gutless jackasses are willing to go to. If they think we aren’t gonna put aside our differences to deal with a couple of rabid hyenas who’ll stab someone in the back just as soon as look at them. Me and Hendrix both know that these bastards won’t think twice about doing long term damage to either one of us, and if we want to make it to Final Destination in one Piece, we had better get our shit together. The Seventh Ward may be the current pillars of the Tag Team division, but with the combined force of the Sania and the Antoniano ready to shake up the room, those pillars are gonna crumble to rubble!

we know this match won’t be pretty, it won’t be a technical masterpiece that inspires future generations, this will be a back alley brawl held between four ropes.
Friday Night won’t be any fun for the Seventh Ward. The con and the don are coming with nothing but bad intentions. Darkane, Lazarus, I promise the both of you that you will not enjoy this, but at least it will be over quickly, and when it’s all over you will Hail to the king, and one half of the new OWA Tag Team Champions baby!

Ain’t that right little man?

Lil’ Mark: Yeah!

( the scene fades out with everyone in the camp cheering on their king. They know greatness is in his grasp. )

The scene opened in its usual place.  The oak desk.  The expensive glass of whiskey.  Poet sitting in the leather chair in the expensive suit.  But on closer inspection, two things stand out.  One is the title that sits at the front of the desk, sparkling in the light of the room.  The second is that the notebook, in its customary position on the desk, is already open.

“Before we begin, let me give everyone a quick recap of what happened last week on Olympus…”


Poet then chuckles to himself and flicks the notebook open to another page.  He takes a small sip from the glass of whiskey, composes himself, and begins.

‘Well, I don’t want to say that I told you so…. but I told you so.  When I arrived here, I told the OWA community that I was going to earn their respect through hard work, talent and a willingness to take on all comers.  There was no other real goal in mind, other than proving to everyone here that I was worth the shot I was given.  And you would think, with this beautiful piece of gold sitting on the desk before me, that I had earned that respect and more.  It took me four matches to do it – a tester against Brody, carrying a three-man tag match, smashing a pimp off the mat in singles competition, and then putting Elijah and Nobi to bed to win the Prestige Championship.  I should be happy that I have already earned the respect of everyone here in OWA.”

“Or have I?  You know, I make a point of going back and watching my matches again the day after they happen.  I might have other irons in the fire outside of wrestling, but this is my true passion, and you only get better by reflecting on the ways you can improve.  And as I watched that match, and watched myself win my first piece of golf, I couldn’t help but notice that all the commentators could focus on was Elijah and how sorry they felt for him, how they got down and sucked him dry about what a champion he had been and that it would only be a matter of time until he was back on top in OWA.  Give me a break.  What my win proved was that Elijah Hampton is old news.  He has won his fair share of titles, but the man has had his day.  He is past it.  He wanted to wax lyrical about the fact that I’m still new to OWA and that he hadn’t put the time in to really get to know who Poet was.  The man paid the ultimate price for that, and the price was severe indeed.  Perhaps he can add ‘Loser’ Hampton to the 67 nicknames he already has?”

“But there is one question on everyone’s lips, an elephant in the room shall we say.  Yes, Lazarus Arjen came down to the ring to take Elijah out, and members of the Tres Comas Club also arrived to celebrate my victory at the end of the night.  I mean, why wouldn’t they?  These are men who can see talent and appreciate it.  Does this mean I’ve joined the Tres Comas Club?  Well… time will tell.  In wrestling, you take advantage of every advantage you can get.  A smart wrestler looks for any way to get a victory and that’s exactly what I did.  Why wouldn’t I?  I’ve never understood those who want to try and win the ‘right way’.  I don’t know about you, but when I go back and read the results, it says that I defeated both Nobi and Elijah via pinfall.  Does it say that Lazarus came out to distract Elijah, and that I took advantage of that?  Of course not.  The records just show that I won.  Nothing more, nothing less.”

Poet then takes another sip from his glass of whiskey before continuing.

“However, all of that is now in the past.  What is fact within the present is that I’m not only the new OWA Prestige Champion, but also teaming up with the Tres Comas Club in an elimination tag match against the World’s Finest.  It seems as though the word ‘finest’ gets thrown around for just about anything these days, as I wouldn’t call the members of our opposition as the ‘world’s finest’.  Perish the thought.  It’s like that episode of Seinfeld we’re they’re up in the Hampton’s, and the doctor describes everything as ‘quite breathtaking’, even the ugly baby which sits in its cot, something that confuses Elaine no end.  The World’s Finest are just that – the ugly baby sitting in its cot that people pay compliments too because the truth hurts too much.  You could be honest, but can you really be bothered hurting that person’s feelings?  Do we have the energy to deal with the fallout?  Probably not.  So we just smile, say something nice and move on.”

“I’m not going to do that, though.  If you look at the list of people who make up the ‘World’s Finest’, then you can’t help but be completely underwhelmed.  Tatsuo and Ryo?  Ordinary.  Graham Baker?  He sounds like an Australian man who is cooking a BBQ, wearing an apron and being hounded by his wife while he laments his sexless marriage.  Nobi?  Nice fella, but a little on the boring side.  Cloud Matsuda?  Meh.  Emmanuelle?  Another one of these ‘bitches’ who probably drives a car that has a ‘magic happens’ sticker on the back and loves using Marilyn Monroe quotes.  Brody?  The bloke is sexually intimate with her father.  If you’re someone who likes cheering for a face in this company, then you’re shit out of luck.  This is the best that Olympus has to offer, and you couldn’t be more embarrassed with the standard you’re being offered.”

“What about the other side?  Titles and talent everywhere you look.  Prescott, RD3, Devastation… just three wrestlers who have risen to the top of their prospective divisions.  Men who are winners.  They know how to get the job done.  I’ve taken a look at Rambeaux, Barrera and the Gauntlet, and their abilities fill me with confidence.  I know that this time around, I won’t need to do as much heavy lifting as I’ve done in the past.  As a group, we are destined to walk out winners, and I’ll be doing everything within my power to make sure that happens.”

Poet pauses and takes a sip from his glass of whiskey, which helps to clear his throat.  He then flicks to another page within the notebook.  He reads the contents of the pages for a few moments before continuing the interview.

“So, with the elimination match in mind, I thought I’d take things up a notch in terms of the poetry that I can provide.  What I’ve done is written a haiku on each of my opponents.  If you don’t know what a haiku is – and, let’s be honest here, many of my opponents will have no idea what I’m talking about – a haiku is a Japanese type of poetry that uses 5 syllables in the first line, 7 syllables in the second, then another 5 in the third.  Quite simple really.  You normally write them about something you like, but who gives a shit?  Let’s have some fun.  And if you’re listening from home, please feel free to clap the syllables out, just to be sure.”

“Let’s start with Cloud.  I wrote this one first, about someone I’ve not yet crossed paths yet, so consider this a warmup.”


“Now, that’s not too bad.  I wrote that one while I was on the toilet last night.  Cloud isn’t that important to me, so it seemed appropriate at the time.   Let’s move on to Mr. Baker.  This one was a bit of fun.”


“Graham Baker.  He even styles his finisher after Diego Maradona.  An Aussie sounding Englishman who wants to be from Argentina.  Strange fellow.  Now, let’s have a look at Emmanuelle.  What I’ve seen of her makes me cringe.  She is everything you would hate in a woman.  Here we go…”


“C’mon, I’m not wrong, am I?  Her and Graham would make a fine pair.  Next up is Ryo Sakazaki.  Our ‘grinning demon’.  I remember him well.  Weakest demon you ever did see.  Let’s see how we go...”


“I’m sure he’s in a band, they sound like Pearl Jam, the clothes are all black, the music is crap… See what I did there?  I’d love to claim that one as my own but I have to give the nod to one Steven Wilson.  Next up is Tatsuo.”


“Above or below heaven?  What does that even mean?  We are now getting towards the end, and next up to the plate is Nobi.  The man who you could argue was robbed of a victory… but as the wrestler who stole that win is on my team I’ll pretend I didn’t mention that.”


“I mean, I feel for he guy… but it is pretty funny.  Oh, and who do we have here, bringing up the rear?  Our friend and yours, the resident pot smoker, Brody.  I noticed that, even after your loss last weekend, you still can’t stop talking about me.  I find it kind of flattering, really.  All the talk backstage is that our paths are going to cross again someday, yet, I can’t help but feel that you don’t quite deserve it.  You proved to the world that you’re not ready to have some gold around your waist, while as you can see here, the path I tread is quite the opposite.  Let’s get to your haiku…”


“And with that, I believe my job is done.  I must admit that I’m relatively excited for the match this weekend.  I do take the opportunity to hold the OWA Prestige Championship as something of an honour, and I mean it when I say that I am willing to take on all comers, no matter who they are, and no matter when they turn up.  The Tres Comas Club hold all the gold, and with it, we hold all the momentum, something we aren’t going to give up in this elimination match.  The World’s Finest are going to be the World’s Second Best after we’re done with them.”

With a smile down the camera, Poet closes his notebook and takes one final sip from his glass of whiskey before the scene slowly fades to black…

“I’ve held championship gold four times in my OWA career thus far. The Prestige Championship, twice. The Immortal Heavyweight Championship, twice. Oh, the APEX World title too. Don’t really count that though. Nobody does. I retired it and nobody batted an eye. But like I said, held. Past tense. When you look at me today, physically, my broad shoulders are bare — but the chip still remains. And my waist? Nuffin. Meaning, I’ve lost every single one of them at some point. Obviously. In chronological order, my first Prestige Championship reign came to an end in a winner’s take-all six-man tag match. It was The Dynasty versus The Bad Boy Collective. The Dynasty was dripped out from head to toe with championships. Senn and Miles with the tag titles. Myself with the Prestige title. Long story short, we didn’t win. We could just leave it at that and ignore some very important details, or I could shed some light on what happened? Let’s do that. That night, we lost our titles not because we weren’t the better team, but because of the numbers game. But how, Elijah? It was 3 on 3!!! If only. Alex Carter, Titan, and maybe another ‘talent’ or two, all of which quickly fizzled out, got involved and we weren’t able to counter their attack in time. My Prestige Championship, lost because of outside interference. Kinda fucked up if you ask me. And then there was my first-ever Immortal Heavyweight Championship reign. Those were the days. The days of me finally conquering Jacob Senn and ridding this company of Belial. I went through all that trouble, the physical and mental toll that I put my body and mind through — just to, later on, lose the title to Rich Gatsby, who chose option C and cashed in his Icarus Championship on me after a grueling match just moments prior. The whole thing was crazy because you can’t cash in the Icarus Championship in the first place. Management said so themselves. That’s why I was quickly granted a rematch. A rematch I won, it’s whatever. But even with all of that, they still counted Rich’s reign, when it should have never been a thing in the first place. But nonetheless, that’s how I ‘lost’ my second title in OWA. Moving on to reign number three, the second time I held the Immortal Heavyweight Championship. I faced off against RIP. Beat him in what? Fifteen minutes? TCC was like nah, you weren’t supposed to do that. They said that match was just for the Prestige Championship. So we start ‘match number two’ and then his TCC comrades come on down and rough me up and as a result, I ‘lost’ my Immortal Heavyweight Championship. Once again, because of outside factors."

"And then most recently, reign number two with the Prestige Championship. Reign number four overall. Poet ‘wins’ it after Lazarus decided to pull me out of the ring and beat me unconscious with a lead pipe because that’s a thing he does. A lot. Like almost every couple of weeks. Totally hasn’t run its course or anything. — but I’m aware, just like he’s aware, that his bare lil doll hands are far from lethal, therefore he needs a little something to help him do some actual damage. But once again, I ‘lost’ my title due to outside interference. You see the pattern? It’s getting old. And honestly, I’m about to lose my goddamn mind. Shit like this is how villain origin stories are created. I’ve put up with a lot on Olympus. And for the most part, I’ve bitten down on my sharp tongue through it all. Because I know who I am. And I know what I’m capable of. More importantly, the locker room knows who the fuck I am and what I’m capable of. That puts a giant red target on my back. I’ve been the face of this brand for the past year and change. I’ve led it through some hard times while others either did the bare minimum or just chose to come and go as they pleased. Through it all, I’ve been here. I’ve been the constant. A good company man. I’ve done it all by the book. I may have colored outside the lines here and there, but ultimately I stayed the course. I showed up. And I continue to show up. Whether it’s on Olympus or whether it’s at a PPV, you know I’m going to do some razzle-dazzle and put on a show. I just wish some of my peers did the same and pulled their weight is all. So yeah, I’ve lost four titles in OWA. We went over this. And they were all lost because of bullshit reasons that were out of my control. Because somebody or some people wanted to create some headlines, some buzz — at my expense. That’s how you do it. You go after the top dog around here and you’ll actually garner some attention as a result. And really, I don’t fault them for that part. But what’s probably my biggest gripe is — that I wish I could legitimately congratulate the person who took the title from me. Admit that their game plan was more flawless than mine. Or better yet, admit that they were the better wrestler that night and move on. Let them carry the torch and have their moment in the sun. But instead, I can’t do any of that because it hasn’t happened. Maggall, Gatsby, RIP, and Poet — it’s an uninspiring list. Not a single one of them truly got the better of me. And it makes me ask myself, is there truly nobody on this brand credible enough to really, and I mean REALLY dethrone me as a champion? That might as well have been a rhetorical one because after what we saw in The Thunderbastard, we know the answer. I punked them all that night. I punk them all every night, really. And I knew that it would come at a price because their egos will always get in the way. And I’m paying for it by slowly losing my sanity. By slowly losing my memory from all the shots to the head I’ve taken and from all the group beatdowns I’ve endured. And by having Jacob Senn enter my life again.”

“With all disrespect, and I can’t stress this enough — fuck off, Jacob. And while we are at it, fuck off, the 7th Ward. Oh and Tres Comas Club? Join them in fucking off, aight? There. All better? Not even close. The thing is, I try to move on. I really do. I’ve even turned a blind eye to some of this — whatever it is. Mess? Sure. I rolled with the literal punches and tried to focus on my career throughout. But they wouldn’t let me do that because they are starved for my attention. Much like Kevin Durant, who says he just wants to hoop, I just want to wrestle. I don’t want to get all caught up in the political bullshit. I just want to step between those ropes and compete. But I’m not allowed to do that it seems. They just want to keep pestering me. Keep poking me until I break. It’s never-ending. Making me feel like a hamster on a wheel. Going in circles. Dealing with corrupt management. Dealing with phony paper heavyweight champions. And I’ve tried to put a stop to it. To break the cycle. To give Olympus a clean slate. But as soon as I usher out an old regime, another one just like it, with the same principles, squeezes right on through. And because of that, I’m slowly coming to terms that there’s not much I can do about it. I’ve also come to terms that maybe some of the past world champions — most of them went on a sabbatical after losing their title instead of staying put to fight and right some wrongs, perhaps they made the correct decision for their overall health. It’s food for thought for myself. With that said, there’s one guy who should have stayed hidden and that’s of course, Jacob Senn. He’s resurfaced with that ugly mug of his. Looks a little different without the crimson mask I left him with the last time we had an encounter. But yeah, he’s back. Nobody asked for it. Nobody wants him here. I don’t want him here. Which is vintage Jacob Senn. Going against the grain. And putting himself first. You should have stayed far away. Go live in the middle of nowhere. On a farm. Like Thanos."

"I wanted you out of my line of vision and out of my life entirely. I told you this when I spared your life all those months ago. When I held Graham’s scythe above your head, just seconds from cutting off the head of Senn the snake. But I didn’t. I showed you mercy. Only after you uttered the words ‘I quit.’ And that’s so on-brand for you. You quit on that match. You quit on The Dynasty. You quit on the fans. You quit this company. And when I needed you the most, you quit on me. If only you could quit on yourself and leave those boots hung up. Oh well. You’ll only be here for a month or two, tops — mostly to collect that Final Destination paycheck and then dip again anyway. But that hasn’t stopped our paths from crossing in the meantime. This time, in a match yet again. In what’s being advertised as a ‘Respect is Earned Strap match.’ I’m not so sure you even know what the words respect and earned mean. Especially the latter. Since your entire run as Immortal Heavyweight Champion was everything but earned. But I’ll save that topic for another day. I know you, Jacob. Like the back of my hand. The same hand I’m gonna use to pimp slap the fuck outta you with all over the stadium. But I know how this ideally ends for you. Your perfect scenario is we beat the living hell out of each other. Thinking that’s what I want. And I do want that. Badly. And that’s it. While you think this will mean more to me. As if this will be me exercising my demons. To use this match to finally uncork that pent-up frustration. And then once this match is over, I let bygones be bygones. We help each other off the mat and hug it out. And then I do YOU — of all fucking people, a FAVOR. And join forces with you to take on the 7th Ward. Basically coming off the bench and subbing in for the severely injured or even dead, I can’t remember, Eon Blue. As if I’m the second option. AS IF ELIJAH MOTHERFUCKIN’ HAMPTON IS A FALLBACK PLAN! AS IF I’M SOME BENCH-WARMING SCRUB, RATHER THAN THE FRANCHISE PLAYER THAT I AM! FUCK!! But — that’s what you desire, is it not? Like, I get you’ve been away for about a year but during that time I elevated my game to the highest of levels. I held world title gold twice. I held down the fort that is an entire brand on my back. I main evented a plethora of PPV’s and countless Olympuses. I had one of the greatest singles runs in OWA history in 2022 and now, 2023. And now — I’m on the outside looking in when it comes to FD. And now this is my reality. Teaming with Jacob — is my ticket to Final Destination? That’s — I’m sorry, that’s just all kinds of fucked. I ain’t having it. Just like I ain’t having you on my brand again. Therefore, I’ll take it upon myself to make sure you are sent packing. But this time, it won’t be for just eight months. Or even a year. But for good.”