"Here you are, my dear, adamant in admitting that you want to go home. Incensed that you were being denied the opportunity. Drowning your sorrows in drink when the powers that be when you see you path home blocked from your footsteps. And yet… and yet you somehow managed to fail in achieving that which you most desired in all the world."
The life of a professional wrestler is fraught with its ups and downs, its triumphs and tragedies, and they're only made worse when you have a cannibalistic dragon goddess living inside your cranium.
Like the bitter, racist great aunt nobody wants but someone ends up having to take care of out of familial obligation. Only in this case it just so happens that I ended up with big scaly bitch queen numero uno, who literally ate herself out of house, home, and worshippers, by offering a rather non-specific prayer in the right place at the wrong time.
So as her sole draconic worshipper, as a technicality, I'm kind of stuck with her. Spark and I have been calling her Miss Hissy, as to reveal her true name to millions of people would be a rather poor idea. Douchebag Old Testament Jehovah's got nothing on her, and it wouldn't be good for anybody if she were allowed to take roots and get a foothold of the faithful on a backwater, near magic-less world.
That racist old grandma in this case is an unabashed dragon supremacist. It'd be like some tribe in deepest, darkest Africa that's never interacted with any other members of humanity dumped into the care of the Grand Wizard of the KKK. I'm not going to inflict her on anybody.
But last week my trainer, mentor, and friend Desolation pulled a Spark and applied a little bit of pop culture to the situation. She'd probably prefer the new name to the old, but I'm not going to call her either Miss Hissy or Eleanor Rigby to her face. Even though she did indeed die in a church and was buried along with her name.
"If there's anybody to blame here, Matriarch, it's the referee. I'm not being paid to keep an eye on the stripe-shirted lout with no attention span in order to make sure I'm not running him over. Or stepping on him. Or clotheslining him."
"Referees, ones with any self-preservation instincts anyway, are supposed to keep themselves out of harm's way. I put Willow Wilkes down. I pinned her, one, two, three. She didn't even manage that. She couldn't even accomplish that much."
"And she couldn't even get the job done with that deluded goober Lenore Price-Mason running out and putting her nose in my business for the third fucking show in a row. She had help and she didn't manage to accomplish what I did."
"If you want to blame anyone for the outcome of that match, Matriarch, and you don't want to blame the referee, then perhaps you should blame yourself." I say, my eyes blazing with anger.
"Whatever do you mean, child?" she asks, attempting and failing miserably to be the picture of innocence.
"If you'd done as I asked the first time I invoked your primary aspect and left my foes laying in a bitter, agonized heap I might be more inclined to call upon it. But you didn't. You didn't do as we agreed, and so I've taken to empowering myself with the Devourer of Pain's blessing."
"You are prideful, you are arrogant, and you will do whatever it takes to win. But what you will not do, Matriarch, in the guise of the Queen of All is stick to a gameplan. You will not work from my playbook, you will not follow instructions."
"I will not become another victim of your pride, Matriarch. You've all but killed yourself with it once."
"But what of your own pride, child?"
"When my pride has slain millions, including my entire race, my friends, and my family you can lecture me on that particular deadly sin, Matriarch. But not a moment before."
Thankfully that manages to shut her up. I'm not going anywhere for awhile, and am thus a captive audience. The Matriarch could chase me if she wanted, but it wears her out to manifest as anything greater than a voice in my head. She prefers to have physical form while attempting to pressure me into something.
I'm soaking in a tub full of ice, though I've still got most of my clothes on. My boots and grieves I've taken off, since the damp would might ruin them. But my usual attire isn't going to be harmed by a simple soak in the icy cold.
As an elementally empowered being, a dragon in my case, my functions improve when exposed to my aligned element. In my case that's ice. The colder I get the faster I heal, the stronger I become, and the sharper my senses get.
After each of my matches I sit in the tub in my hotel room and fill it with water and ice. No, not from the ice machine. I simply use my innate magical gift to connect two points of water to one another. I loot some snow no one is going to miss from a recent fall in Siberia to get the water nice and slushy. Then I continue with making it the exact opposite of a jacuzzi by connecting the bottom of the tub to elsewhere with a dozen pinprick sized holes to the coldest place on Earth. About -140 F or -96 C. Sure, I could go and dump a tank of liquid nitrogen over myself or something. But this is free and I can do it whenever I want. It's very relaxing.
"So what have we ended up with from the old ULW title?" I ask of my entourage of supernatural malevolents. The shadowy avatar of the Hand of Arimus is also lingering around nearby, apparently practicing lordly sneers of disdain in the mirror.
The Hand of Arimus is an artifact of tremendous necromantic power that has unfortunately been grafted to my left arm. It fancies itself the vaunted instructor of evil overlords to be. I have precisely zero interest in serving as the dark lord of an army of the undead, so suffice to say we don't really see eye to eye.
"You'd have to talk to that prideful beast of yours about what to do with coalesced worship, but with the raw mana I've absorbed we are most definitely capable of casting several spells. Why in fact we have access to the favored offensive strike of my previous owner…" the Hand says, gleefully.
"No." I tell it, shooting down the idea instantly.
"It is not only a highly effective spell for subduing one's opponent..."
"If by subdue you mean kill."
"Death is surely the quickest and most effective way to subdue one's foe. And not only does it kill near instantaneously but it also has the added feature of giving access to the bulk of an opponent's life force."
"As you know my innate capabilities allow for said life force to easily be channelled into various sorts of mana. In fact given the amount of life force in a typical healthy adult, one healthy enough to fight you, you in fact get back over twice the magical energy you put forth into the spell in the first place!"
"Nooooo." I groan, rather annoyed. I'm not murdering people just to pop open a portal to make my way back home. Though sometimes people are obnoxious enough that I'm sorely tempted. "Do you know anything that's actually useful? You managed to make Lady Thanatos stronger than me and she's all of five foot nothing. A vampire yeah, but she's still a hundred pounds sopping wet."
"Unfortunately, my host, the vast majority of my physical enhancements rely on empowering aspects that you yourself are lacking. Well, not so much lacking as have backwards."
"So they're not going to work because I'm alive and not an ambulatory, life-sucking abomination."
"Basically yes. But that is a situation that is easily rectified! I have the rituals required for seven different sorts of Lichdom ascensions, two Dracolich ascensions, stored blood from over two dozen vampire bloodlines, properly scary vampire bloodlines mind you, not the bend-over-backwards-to-create-a-proper-spawn sort native to the Empire of Blood."
"Do any of them sparkle?"
"..."
"C'mon, spill it. How many sparkle?"
"Three. I do not wish to discuss THOSE particular vampire bloodlines. It was a divine mission sent down from the Divine Shaper himself to exterminate those particular lines. Inferior undead, the lot of them."
"That's something we could do. Trade sparkle-pire-hood for donations of blood to fuel mana conversion." I say, dipping my face into the slush to hide my mocking grin.
"I would rather spend eternity being endlessly scalded in a never-ending sea of holy water." Yes, the Hand literally starts smoking when exposed to proper holy water. Don't get your hopes up, it's a rare commodity around here.
"So you can't do anything useful, not even get a message back home?"
"A sending? Yes, I could do that. But it would require drawing on your innate mana reserves to break the barrier between worlds. You would likely not be able to breathe Coldfire nor Puddleport for several days."
"And how much is it going to take from what we got from the belt?"
"Extrapolating from the additional drain from summoning or unsummoning that dimwitted hairball of yours compared to back home, I can state with confidence that it will consume perhaps a quarter of the reserves. Perhaps as little as a fifth if we utilize some alternate methods in order to preserve energy."
"I'll be wanting to contact Delilah. Tell her what happened, give her some instructions on what to research on her end. Maybe have her talk to Pansy… er… Panzer and have him summon up Spark since Spark can get him a perfect rendition of the circles used to bring me here."
Panzer is my familiar, black-hued a faerie dragon with iridescent green-blue butterfly looking wings. He's about the size of a large beagle and he kicks the crap out of Kitty on occasion. He's also a notorious mother hen and would be on my ass about everything 24/7 if I summoned his sparkly little butt over here. He'd also refuse to go home over concern for my well-being.
I don't need a clingy, sparkle-shedding dragon nagging me and making my life even more difficult than it already is. So he's staying put right where he is. He's used to running the inn-tavern-pizza parlor when I'm not there.
"Though I think I'm going to hold off on that. I need to talk to some people on this end about things so I have all the information I can possibly have collected, organized, and ready to go."
"Plus, I'm sure, you'd want to be at your absolute best for this upcoming match. You can most certainly walk out in two weeks as the rightly crowned ULW World Heavyweight Champion."
"Yeah, no referees to get in the way during a ladder match."
"There are, however, also no disqualifications in a ladder match either. And as Mr. King has noted, Wilkes seems to be rather chummy with this New Eden faction." If the Hand's shadowy avatar had a visible face it would have looked like it had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon.
"Odd, they seem to be in league with dark forces and employing demonic forces. I'd have thought they'd be right up your alley."
"Inaction, my host, is an unforgivable sin. As your muse would describe it, the situation reeks of Orcus on His Throne, wherein the forces of darkness simply sit on their backsides doing very little aside from apparantly plotting."
"I do not see a point to their presence in an organization that features gladiatorial combat. Much like I do not see the point behind employing Angel Kash. Your job description is to fight. New Eden has done no fighting and the so called Princess seems to do everything in her power to outright avoid carrying out the primary facet of her particular career."
"There's a very simple answer to that."
"Which is?"
"The moment you become the owner/operator of a wrestling federation your IQ drops somewhere between 20 and 50 points. Or you're pretty stupid to begin with. A proper businessman would want to make as much money as possible and the way to do that is to create the best product possible."
"The way to do that is to allow your employees to work together cooperatively, pulling one another up by their bootstraps. Attempting to set them on each other's throats like Raymond's attempted to do with Jason King is counter-productive. People ought to be trying to go out there and have the best matches possible, respectful, competitive fights."
"That way what we're doing, even if we hate each other's guts, is building up the ULW, its titles, and each other. Instead what we've got going on here is that we've got a shit ton of people attempting to drag others down to their level. Like Angel Kash. Angel Kash who doesn't wrestle, calls other wrestlers ugly, boring, and unmarketable, despite demonstrably being the second largest NEGATIVE impact on ULW TV ratings."
"Raymond doesn't care about ULW. Yanking around the cards, stripping Jason's title, letting people run roughshod all over the company behaving as they please without regard for rules and regulations."
"Lenore Price-Mason has stuck her snoot into three consecutive matches of mine. Why? Because I'm the biggest, nastiest, scariest threat that ULW has to offer. By tweaking my nose she gets to glom on to my reputation, the reputation that I've had to work my tail off to build by being here since day 1 with this company and being undefeated until she decided to butt in to my business."
"Rather than hanging around and competing, racking up an impressive record of her own, she's decided that she would get herself some fame and some glory by spoiling mine. She's not pulling herself up to my level to do that, she's trying to drag me down to hers."
"Crab mentality, I do believe that's called, dragging one another back down into the depths of the bucket so in the end none of them rise above and none escape, and thus they all end up in the cooking pot."
I sigh, pulling myself up out of the bath. My soreness has long since vanished, but the chill and the bubbles feel so nice. But I've got places to go, people to see, and promos to cut.
I don't know whether I ought to laugh, cry, or put a brick through my television on behalf of the fanbase. Because that was horrible, that was wretched, Raymond, you spat personally in the face of each and every person that paid real money to watch the debut ULW PPV.
What you told them, Ray, is that they can't trust you. That they can't trust the ULW. That the thing you've spent two months building up to, that the thing they've shelled out a couple dozen bucks for, that it doesn't matter. That the big build up and the big finish of the main event of the ULW's biggest, baddest, bestest shows don't matter at all.
In five minutes you took the main event of ReBirth, unzipped your pants, and pissed all over it. All over ReBirth and all over the ULW World Heavyweight Championship. What you've told us is that you can't be trusted, Ray. That we can't trust our eyes, we can't trust our ears, we can't trust the referees, we cannot trust the announcers, and we cannot trust the management.
I was denied number one contendership for the World Heavyweight Championship because Lenore Price-Mason decided that she didn't want to work for a reputation and that she wanted to hack off a chunk of mine.
She interfered in a match that she was not booked in. Then she did it again. And again. And I'll bet she'll try and do it again this week. Silencer gets assaulted, Jason King gets his wife's medical records stolen. And yet it seems that this company is chomping at the bit to get this Dante guy in action, to bend over backwards for New Eden, for Raymond to cram his head so far up Silas Mason's ass that he can lick his cowper's glands.
And I ask why?
Why do the ill behaved little shits get everything rained down on them? Why do I have to wrestle week in and week out and Angel Kash can go "Ho hum, you're an ugly unmarketable slut, you get to wrestle Steve Smith and seventeen other men."
Why does Jason King get his title stripped upon review of the tape of his match and I don't get my loss in the Gauntlet overturned because somebody who wasn't a part of the match decided to butt in?
Why go out of your way to please New Eden, when everybody knows that they're a bunch of scum-sucking parasites that turned the IWC into a shambling husk of its formerly vibrant self?
Why court somebody like Silas Mason, who treats his clients like playtoys, puppets, and action figures? Using them up, discarding them when they're so physically or emotionally broken that they will provide him no more profit and no more entertainment.
Why would you EVER want a bunch of entitled, whining, lazy, destructive, petulant little children in your company, Raymond? Why would you shoot yourself in the foot like this, hmm? Tell me.
Tell them.
Tell the fans, Ray.
Tell the fans, tell the people that pay the bills why you hate professional wrestling. Tell them why you hate the ULW so much.
Tell us, Ray, why you're drowning in a sea of strife and you keep wrapping chains around your neck.
Why do you cater to them, why do you entice them, why do you bow to their will and their whim? Why have you put so much effort into signing people that don't give a shit about you, that don't give a shit about anything you're trying to do?
I don't like you, Ray. I think you're an asshole. I think you have a stick up your ass. I think you're a sad, fat, weak, cowardly little man who has finally managed to latch onto a position of power and that exercising that power makes you feel funny in your pants.
I like mocking you, I like making fun of you, I like making stupid plans blow up in your face. I like pointing out the silly things you do.
I'm obnoxious, but I make life interesting. i'm a good natured person and you know that. You feel that it's perfectly fine to get in a shouting match with me and jab one of your sausage-like fingers in my chest.
But New Eden makes you just about piss your pants, Ray. You are scared shitless of New Eden, and when New Eden is all happy and has Mika Kozlov being all slinky and seductive, even though you feel funny in your pants you're still fucking terrified.
You know you can't control them. You know that they can reach out and hurt you in ways you couldn't even imagine possible; that they can suck your soul out of your asshole and then stuff Beelzebub into the ambulatory Raymond der Vaart meat suit and then by golly we've got a fat empty-eyed Dutch demon running the place.
New Eden isn't going to help ULW, Ray.
Silas World isn't going to help ULW, Ray.
They're parasites. They're going to suck all the life and cash out of this company that they can, and they waddle off sloshing with their fat, bloated, blood-filled bellies off to their next big score. They will leech off of this company until it's little more than a desiccated husk that is looking for a cool and comfortable place to lay down and die.
Why, Ray? Explain to me why you hire people like that. Explain to me why Jason King busts his ass for you and you try to turn everybody against him, that you strip him of the title he earned, and that you make him look like a fool with your decisions?
Explain to me why Cameron MacNichol has to come to work every day only to have Cassandra Mason making up lies about him. Tell me, Ray, tell me why he should go out there and put on a show for the fans each and every night when he's getting dumped on?
Why does Clay Colton have to put up with Serenity whining and moaning and kvetching? Why does he have to face her again and again and again? Why do you reward her ill behavior? Why do you reward failure, Raymond? Why do you bend over backwards to give the most unpleasant people on this roster the biggest opportunities?
And explain to me, Ray, why I ought to stay with your company if I win the title match next week. Explain to me why I ought to trust you and trust this company if I'm the face of ULW. Tell me why I ought to hang around here instead of jumping ship for the whomever offers me the largest payday to take the ULW World Heavyweight Championship and set it on fire in a barrel of liquid shit?
Because what guarantee do I have, Ray, that you won't magically decide that because the referee in your main event last week was too stupid to get out of the way I lost last week's World title match retroactively? I got shoved off the ropes BACKWARDS. I may have some weird anatomy, Ray, but I don't have eyes in the back of my head.
You're welcome, by the way.
You're welcome that despite having the match I was promised, the match that I was looking forward to, the match that everybody was dying to see I went on and wrestled for you.
Despite you LYING to me I went out there and wrestled for you. I went out there and I beat the hell out of Willow Wilkes in the main event, even though you lied to her too.
Because you bend over backwards to mollycoddle fuckwits, Raymond. You spent how much to get Damian Angel over here to compete, spent how much only to have him stink up the joint, spent how much only to have to spend even more to cater to his pissy, prissy, bitchy little whims and desires?
And after all that money spent, no showing a fucking pay per view, being so absolutely fucking useless that you have to pull a main event match with him in it, how do you feel, Raymond?
Does it feel good being used like that? Does it make you feel happy for some SCW fucktard to waltz in here, rip you off, and fuck up so bad that he gets to sit on his loathesome, spotty behind and squeeze blackheads for the rest of his contract? Because you sure as fuck can't trust him to do anything on your show.
And do you know what's funny, Ray? That in the end you ended up having to do exactly what I said you ought to have done in the first place. I said two weeks ago that Damian Angel was an untrustworthy fuckwit that under no circumstances should be trusted with something so precious and promising as a ULW main event.
Didn't I tell your pasty walrus-waisted tuchus that Jason King and I ought to be your main event? And lo and behold, when the whole Damian Angel thing fell through, whom did you come to in order to get the job done? Who could you rely upon to go out there and fight for the World Heavyweight Championship?
Me.
And lo and behold, two weeks later what is your main event? Jason King and I.
You could've made things right from the beginning. You knew Damian Angel was unreliable, you had him sitting on his ass as far away from the Blue Cross Arena as you could get him hours, maybe even days before FUF aired.
It had to have been less than 24 hours after ReBirth that you reviewed the tape and decided that Jason King's behavior was worth stripping him of the World Title for. You knew you were pulling that belt off of him before you'd even decided who was wrestling whom on FUF V.
You could've made things right from the very beginning, Ray. But you didn't. You decided to fuck around with me, with Jason, and with Willow.
Hell, you spent so much time kissing ass with New Eden and Silas Mason that Jackson Adams didn't get his retirement speech. The retirement speech YOU FUCKING ADVERTIZED. Once again, Ray, here you are bending over backwards to please people who haven't done fuck all for this company aside from piss off the other talent and you're spitting in the faces of the fans to do so.
You PAID MONEY Raymond, you PAID MONEY to have the truck monkeys make up some videos promoting Jackson Adams' farewell speech. You had the commercials make the circuit on TV. And then you made each and every fan that said "Hey, I remember that guy. I want to tune in to see him say goodbye!" feel like a fucking idiot for trusting you. Because you didn't deliver. Because you were too busy kissing the asses of people who don't give a SHIT about your company.
It took the fucking board of directors stepping in to fix your fuck ups, Raymond! Fuck ups that I've been warning you about week in and week out. I ought to be Kassandra Kriegsdottir with the way I'm predicting the future and having my dire prophecies come true and go unheeded.
So let's talk about the future, Ray, you and me. Let's talk about how you're going to fuck up this time. Because you are, you know it and I know it. Let's talk about this ladder match and the people in it. You know what? Let's leave Jason King and I out of this, let's talk about Willow Wilkes.
Willow Wilkes who has pissed and moaned and whined and thrown fits in order to get a title shot. Willow Wilkes who has bitched and quacked and screeched about a campaign of oppression against her from the moment you said go on this federation.
Poor oppressed Willow Wilkes, who despite having managed to completely and totally FUCK UP every chance at a World title shot gets given yet another one on a silver fucking platter.
Number One Contendership versus Jackson Adams? Fucked it up.
Number One Contendership via one night tournament? Fucked it up.
Given a one on one match out of nowhere despite TOTALLY BLOWING her last two chances at a match for the belt? FUCKED. IT. UP.
Willow's had her three strikes, Ray. She's out.
You went and reviewed the tape and decided to strip Jason King of his World Heavyweight Championship, Ray. So why aren't you going back and awarding me my rightfully earned ULW World Heavyweight Championship, hmm?
Because your referee fucked up and decided that it would be a once in a lifetime opportunity to have a 400 pound dragon stage dive onto him. Go back and watch the match, Ray. Go back and watch the crowd count for the ref that wasn't there.
I pinned Willow Wilkes. One. Two. Three. In front of everyone. In front of the world. It's there on glorious VHS, DVD, Blu-Ray, and MP4 formats to play back right before your eyes.
So, Ray, why aren't you being consistent with policy, hmm? A ULW employee committed a wrong in the process of a World title match, and it's something that needs to be corrected. Jason King was supposedly deficient in his job as a wrestler, did something he shouldn't, and had the title stripped because of it. He committed a wrong against a referee and was punished for it.
Why is my situation any different? A ULW referee was deficient in his job as an official, and unprofessionally put himself in the line of fire, and as a result I don't have the ULW World Heavyweight Championship around my waist. A referee committed a wrong against me, Raymond, where is my compensation for the misdeed, hmm?
But that doesn't really matter because I'm not going to get it. Because you don't reward effort, you don't reward loyalty to this company, you don't reward excellence. You reward scum, Raymond, because that's what you are.
You reward scum, you give gold stars for failure, you will trip all over yourself to please egomaniacal morale-destroying dipshits while alienating the people that are doing all the hard work in your wrestling federation.
Serenity blows her title shot against Clay Colton, she pitches a fit and does something naughty, so she gets to have another one. Willow Wilkes loses to Jackson Adams, loses to Jason King, loses to Kalinda Kriegsdottir, and she throws tantrums, she pitches fits, and she gets rewarded with yet another title match!
She's got a fucking tag title, Raymond! How about you stop kissing her crabby, entitled ass and make her actually do something with the belt she actually has rather than let her do fuck all with it for two and a half months, eh?
Because she was awarded the damned thing back In November, didn't defend it in December, isn't going to fucking defend it in January, it's going to be February 13th's FUF at the EARLIEST that she actually has to defend her gods-damned belt.
Oh wait, what's that you're saying? We don't HAVE anything resembling a tag team division? Well, that's your fault as well, now isn't it? Trying to pair me off with a lazy bimbo like Roxie the Drag queen, hiring lackluster dipshits like the Donelleys, like the Rising Tide, like motherfucking End Effect.
Let's talk about End Effect, shall we? More rewarding of bad behavior more rewarding tantrums and whining and bitching and pitching fits and unprofessional antics. Let's talk about End Effect, because they did the exact same thing that Willow Wilkes has done. They whined, they pissed, they moaned, and they've threatened to walk out on the company.
You gave End Effect a main event, and what happened? They became such unprofessional, ill-behaved, home-schooled, inbred, polygamist, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints ASSHOLES that you had to take the wind out of their sales and send them down to the depths of hell to wrestle Piddle and Plop every night for the rest of eternity in a fate worse than death.
What's going to happen when New Eden and Silas World march right out and decide to fuck with your main event and Willow Wilkes manages to walk out your World Heavyweight Champion, Ray-Ray?
How is it going to look the moment she starts bawling on Twitter because someone says that the title belt clashes with the colors of her meat curtains, hmm? Tell me Ray, what's she going to do? WHY SHE'S GOING TO WHINE AND BITCH AND PISS AND MOAN AND THREATEN TO QUIT THE COMPANY AGAIN, THAT'S WHAT THE FUCK SHE'S GOING TO DO!
Not because she's a sociopath, not because she's a professional wrestler, but because she's a petulant, entitled little shit with a fucking martyr complex that cannot admit her own fuck ups, cries at the drop of a hat, and cannot tolerate anybody poking at her PWECIOUS WIDDLE FEEWINGS.
Fuck "Wicked" Willow Wilkes.
Fuck "The Sophisticated Sociopath."
That's not who she is, oh no.
Who she is is fucking "Weeping" Willow Wilkes, professional victim. A tiny oppressed damsel in a world conspiring against her. When something positive happens to someone else, it's oppression. When Jason King gets to be the center of a marketing campaign it's slander and a slap in the face because it's something SHE deserved.
Gee, Willow, I wonder why the company won't pony up a few buckaroos and put a mass marketing campaign out in your favor. Oh, could it be because you've been a snotty child that's threatened to quit the company oh, I don't know, like three or four times now? Why bother putting money behind you when you might vanish next week like a momentary queef from your mighty meat curtains?
Oh yeah, that's such so the hallmark of a champion, isn't it? Threatening to flap your meat flaps and go flying off into the sunset because somebody decided to say a snide remark on Twitter about a ridiculous image you posted.
Dark and dismal weepy bullshit day after day after day. If you're really so un fucking happy with your life, Willow, fuck off and cuddle some kittens or something. Get some fucking mood stabilizers. Oh wait, you can't. Because you don't trust the mental health establishment because some naughty doctor touched you in your Honey BooBoo Place a decade ago and you can't fucking get over it.
You're like gods-damned Aurora Rose, where everything is rape. Only in your case everything is against you, everything is a dire plot to screw over scrappy little Willow Wilkes the Sophisticated Sociopath who spends TOO GODDAMNED MUCH TIME THINKING ABOUT WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK ABOUT HER!
Watch, Ray, just watch. Sit back and watch. Your phone network is going to motherfucking EXPLODE the moment this thing airs when Weeping Willow and her cast of fucking thousands that she hangs out with decide to ring you up to complain about me.
My guess is that she's going to threaten to quit on the spot unless you take action against me for daring to be part of the worldwide conspiracy to make little Willow cry and be all sad and emo and cut herself and listen to Papa Roach so she can scream the lyrics to Broken Home at the top of her lungs like aaaaaaall the other pro wrestling jackasses from mental institutions out there do.
And what are you going to do, Ray? What are you going to do when Weeping Willow Wilkes has thirty pounds of sand poured into her vagina, irritating those massive meat curtains to no end?
Are you going to fire me, Ray? Fire me in favor of a tantrum throwing little bitch that's already threatened to walk out on your three or four times that I know of, and probably half a dozen that I don't?
Are you going to punish me, Ray? For what? For speaking my mind? For speaking the truth? For lashing out oh so viciously at my designated opponent for the week? For exaggeration? For lying?
What a hypocritical shitbag you'd be then, Ray, if that were the case. Letting your partner in crime Cassandra Mason fucking slander Cameron MacNichol into the fucking ground to the point of manufacturing criminal charges against him.
Why can't you be logically consistent, Ray? Why can't you treat everybody equally? Why can't you enforce once solid, homogenous set of rules over the whole damned roster?
Would it be okay with you if every single show for the next two months I came out and hit the Cu Chullain Dragon Dive on Cassandra Mason for no reason? No, no it wouldn't. You'd be apoplectic! You'd blow your gasket and threaten to have me in the dark matches evaluating new "talent" the first time it happened, be wrestling Plop the second, and be forced to become an honorary member of End Effect the third time.
So why does Lenore Price-Mason get to do it?
If I stole Weeping Willow's medical records and threatened to post them on the internet for all to see, revealing to the world the FDA drug trial that enlarged her lady parts to their current gargantuan state would you come to me hat in hand going "Oh, would you return those, would you please?" No, you'd do your best to get me fucking sent to jail for theft.
So why did Silencer get away with it?
And if I stole something that didn't belong to me, if I carried off Serenity's motorcycle, let's say. I picked it up, tucked it under one of my mightily thewed arms and ran out of the arena and onto the back of a waiting pickup truck you wouldn't be timidly asking me "If you could bring it back and return the thing to its rightful owner, please, if that's okay with you." I'd be fucking dragged off in chains.
Why are you giving New Eden such a long leash, Raymond?
If I refused to wrestle my matches, if I had my supernatural minions wrecking havoc, if I decided out of the blue one day to start snorting cheeto dust and not wrestle on a PPV, if I threatened to quit on Twitter, if I marched into your office and DEMANDED that someone on the roster be fired or else I walk…
You and I both know my big blue butt would be thrown out the door so fast there would be a sonic boom.
So why do you keep lying to us, Raymond? Why do you keep saying you're about cooperation and happiness and nonviolence and peace and harmony? You're so keen on punishing me for my misbehavior, why are you letting the rest of your roster get away with such terrible things, hmm?
It's because you're scum, Raymond, and you're showering gifts down upon your fellows.
But you don't have to worry about me, Raymond. I'll be here. I'll be here right until you manage to run this company into the ground. I'll be right here if it manages to succeed in spite of your mismanagement.
I will never walk out on your with your World Championship and set it on fire in a barrel of liquid shit like I said I would earlier. Because I need that belt to be a symbol; a beacon of excellence, a radiant icon respected by the whole of professional wrestling.
Because I want you to prove me right. I want to see each and every one of your poorly behaved hires blow up right in your big fat face. I want to see you dropping into the depths of despair as you become more and more entangled in a web of manipulation, lies, deceit, and blackmail.
I want to be here when the dawning realization sets in, when to your horror you discover that I was right and you were wrong.
I'm not going anywhere, Raymond. No matter what you do you're not going to get rid of me. Because I've decided that the most entertaining thing in this whole wide world of yours is to see the look on your face each and every time you figure out that you've fucked up.
And Ray? With the way you're running things I just know I'm going to see that face over and over and over and over and over again.
[Fade to White]
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