Five months ago I severed ties with the IWC. Five months ago I cut the federation that I spent six months of my life prepping for. Five months ago I said farewell to the collection of idiots, morons, hacks, and egomaniacal dipshits that decided that the best place to put a seven foot tall dragoness was in a freakshow division fighting against an idiot, a moron, and a retard.
And they teamed him with an autistic and a midget.
I'm better than that. I know I'm better than that. But because I didn't pick a side, that I didn't surgically graft my lips to the asses of either one of the emergent factions whose warfare dominated IWC I was ignored. I was an afterthought. I was given no opportunity to thrive amidst inferior fellows. There were teeming masses of non-wrestlers and the personal friends of Mr. Flies and the Dumbest Woman in Professional Wrestling needed lavish paydays, and brother dude jack, trickle down Hoganomics is what's best for business, Mean Gene!
And in those five long months I've shown the IWC what fools they were to waste me like they did. Remember my farewell pay per view match? You know, the one that was signed into being at virtually the last minute. The one that got made as an afterthought. The one where two people who had been with the IWC since its founding were given less consideration than some schmucks who had just signed with the company days before.
And speaking of schmucks, do you know just how wonderful and forward looking that little contest was? Of the four people that stayed with the fed in those five months only Leviticus has wrestled, he only did it for one match, and he sucked ass in it.
Yeah, the exact moment I left the fed, they stopped bringing in Fitzgerald. Amazing, isn't it? It's like he was brought in with the sole intention of being an embarrassment and being a gods damned albatross around my neck.
Since I left the IWC I've been one of ULW's mainstays, though mostly I've spent my time dragging perennial bag of suck Angel Kash to actually watchable television. Because the bitch won't wrestle, the little bimbo can barely scrape together the two minutes needed to film a promo. And it falls to me, as the most unique draw in professional wrestling to balance out her abominable amount of suck.
And in between dragging the Trillion Dollar Princess kicking and screaming to tolerable television, I've fought for the World Heavyweight Championship twice, pinned the current World Champion for 3, and have the management running so gods damned scared that they outright CANCELLED Jason King's match with me.
Yeah, their big golden boy that cannot ever possibly take an actual loss or the world will end. Or at least Raymond der Vaart will be heartbroken and sob into his brightly colored rally towels, matching armbands, and their corresponding line of Fruity Pebbles style t-shirts.
But hey, they've continued the proud ULW traditions of serious amounts of angst and a hefty pile of dead babies. Yeah, that's a thing. I'd kind of forgotten until recently just how many dead babies, murdered children, fetuses scraped out of demon-infested wombs, and Sean Johnson pushes there were in ULW. Hmm? SeanJon pushes? You know, abortions?
I thought I could be happy in ULW, I thought I could live out the rest of my life without seeing the tremendous, fed-killing cancers that made me leave the IWC in the first place. The Sinistry and Silas World.
But no, no, you fuckers won't let me be happy. Not content with being the malignant tumor on the ass of professional wrestling and keep your shitty gang warfare here, you had to come over and piss all over my new home.
You went and infected ULW with your disgusting brand of suck, IWC, and I'm never going to forgive you for that. I went to ULW to get away from the soulless husks of New Eden, the sheer inane ignorance of Taylor fucking Chase-Cruze, whom I will refer to now and forever more as the Dumbest Woman in Professional Wrestling, because she kept having her life fucked up by her assgasket of a manager Silas Mason.
Hell, he could be still shitting in her purse and blaming it on random members of the roster at the moment. I haven't a clue, and I don't care. But the fact remains your world champion is a woman of such peak mental caliber that she 1, doesn't even watch the damned show that she takes part in, and 2, would have had half of her gods damned problems solved by doing so.
So yeah, fucking thanks for sending New Eden and Silas World my way. Because Silas Mason's sister-wife-cousin Lenore has decided that she gets to put her hag-like, witchy nose into each and every one of my matches. There have been FOUR. FOUR FUCKING MATCHES where she's butted in right in the middle, hit or attempted to hit the one move she knows how to complete properly, and then fucked off merrily to the back feeling like she's the best in the whole gosh darn world.
So I've made Silas look like a complete and total goober on ULW television, I'm going to leave lost Lenore a bloody fucking wreck at Ascendancy, but that's not enough. Oh no. The IWC had to come and invade my life in ULW. It wasn't enough to humiliate me by having me wrestle a midget and have to deal with fucking twerking, you had to come to where I lived in order to rob me of any potential happiness that I could ever have.
Because let's face the facts, ladies and gentlemen, the IWC is exactly what it says on the tin. It's a Cartel, an organization of scumbags fixing things behind the scenes so that a select group is unfairly able to capitalize on a particular circumstance. In this case, it's a conspiracy to elevate a handful of individuals and their very best buddies to the upper echelons of professional wrestling.
Silas World and the Sinistry, and thus New Eden, are the same thing. For all the horrible, dire, terrible things done, it's amazing how everybody bends over backwards for Taylor Cruze, isn't it? Isn't it just amazing that once again that the Tay Tay gets to defend her belt on PPV against a former member of the Blacklist, Mika Kozlov.
You remember her, don't you? Adopted sister, demonically possessed, blah, blah fucking blah. You know the story better than I do, except… except you don't. It's amazing what words can do. Like saying that the Cruzes and the Blacklist were in cahoots to protect Taylor's illegitimately won initial title reign throughout… oh, most of last year.
Mmhmm, each and every member of Taylor's sister's faction got themselves a World Heavyweight Championship shot, that dearest Tay won. Amazing how the moment that such a narrative is unleashed upon the world that the man responsible for spreading it and his client, Leeland Gaunt and the Sinister Saint, Legion, were unceremoniously DUMPED from the company.
An act with absolutely zero fanfare, where one evening on RIOT the pair are simply escorted from the building and that they're never seen again, not a single solitary scrap of them seen on IWC television since.
It's hard to silence the truth, isn't it, when you're bending over backwards to confirm it? When Orlando Cruze is palling around with Aaron Harrison and Lukas Montgomery to take on the dark forces of the Sinistry, that stole poor Mika away, blah blah blah angst angst angst fucking angst and bullshit.
Because the Sinistry and Silas World are in cahoots. Remember when for one night for all of five minutes Taylor Chase stole Gaunt's schtick and did the whole magic shebang during the lead up to her match with Legion? Remember how it never, ever came up again? You've got two groups in IWC capable of doing that, the Black Crusade and the Sinistry, and it most certainly wasn't the Crusade lending their mojo to their upcoming opponent.
They've had a stranglehold on the IWC World Title since damned near day one. Taylor just HAD to have that belt to go with her shoes, and her poor henpecked hubby Lando moved heaven and earth to get the job done, damned near having Rose Savior murdered to pull it off.
And isn't it just amazing how we've got New Eden, subfaction of the ULW stable Genesis, putting a lockdown on the ULW belt, with Willow Wilkes holding the belt. Now stop me if this sounds familiar, but one of the top reasons I left this shitheap in the first place was because of people's supporting casts, the infamous Sinistry Cast of Thousands. A dozen or so decided NON WRESTLERS that magically manage to have an appearance on each and every fucking show even though they do precisely FUCK ALL for the company, excpet start shit on their ass pal's behalf.
Now, isn't it just AMAZING that New Eden has the same schtick going over in ULW with Dante, a non-wrestler who MAGICALLY manages to make it to the main event segment of the show each and every week. A guy who DOES NOT have a ULW contract, and yet is allowed to happily skip and prance tra la la out to the ring and butt into matches, to attack ULW superstars.
And not only is he neither disciplined nor punished for it, but less than a week ago Raymond the Fart gave him a little ringy dingy on the bananaphone and had him take out Sheryl Grey, who was about to strip Ray-Ray the Jet Plane of his job.
Gee, those tactics are right out of the IWC playbook, aren't they?
And while Jason King has to deal with Dante von Braceface and His Demonic Orthodontics from Hell, I've got another entitled, over-privileged dumbfuck butting into each and every one of my matches.
Yup, I've got Lenore Price-Mason to deal with. Once again we have remnants of the Sinistry and Silas World collaborating to keep a World Heavyweight Championship within the family, as it were.
Willow Wilkes has the ULW gold because the Shadow Cartel wills it so. My match was ruled a draw, despite me getting an obvious three count, due in part to the interference of Lenore Price-Mason.
Jason King was unfairly stripped of the ULW Championship for failing to adhere to the tenants of his job, and striking a referee. His win was stricken from the records after the fact.
I am not World Champion due to a referee failing to adhere to the tenants of his job and failing to get out of the way from a 400 pound dragoness being shoved off the top rope. A review of the match would determine that due to the unprofessional actions of a match participant, the result would have been different.
But the World title that I had EARNED, that I had RIGHTFULLY WON was denied me. Because of Lenore Price-Mason. Because of Silas World. Because of the Shadow Cartel.
And then two weeks later? Jason King was denied the World title that he RIGHTFULLY WON because of the interference of Dante, of a non-wrestler, of a man not signed to a ULW contract. Because of New Eden. Because of the Shadow Cartel.
And with Sheryl Grey out of commission, Toots van der Poot has free reign over the whole of the company without a duly appointed representative of the ULW Board of Directors. I'm not going to get any justice there until I can cut out the scourge of the Shadow Cartel with my own two hands, and I will start with ripping out lost Lenore's heart at Ascendancy.
But that's not going to stop Silas World, that's not going to hurt the Shadow Cartel, oh no. You've got what? Twenty people right there to take her place, just using Taylor Cruze's supporting cast? Silas doesn't give a shit about the people he manages. They're interchangeable action figures. Break one and he'll just put another one in its place with a ridiculous, much-mouthed folksy nickname, probably involving the word Baby.
And ULW is, of course, the federation where babies come to die, as mentioned earlier with the infamous, ever-growing pile of ULW dead babies. Yummy, yum yum, grab a fork.
So what can I do? Where can I go, since the Shadow Cartel has decided that it will hound me to the ends of the motherfucking Earth for DARING to not step into line behind one of the two approved factions, the public arms of the incestuous conspiracy.
I'm going to do exactly what no one has expected me to do. The one day of the year where the IWC throws open its doors to all comers, to let them compete in the most grueling brawl in the history of sports entertainment.
Oh you poor bastards who think you're only going to have to go through 29 other people, doctors, Daleks, Cybermen, Weeping Angels, clones of the Stig, the Dara O'Briain and the Mock the Week Panel, and all the other favored cosplays of the IWC AV Club that have the BBC's lawyers sharpening their fangs.
Last year the Last Stand Rumble drew in somewhere around FIFTY participants, with who knows how many more turned away. There were some dozen or so Loons who offered their services if there were more bodies needed for last year's event, and it turns out they were not required. The rest of the pro wrestling world saw fit to fill the ring with more examples of humanity, plus Ladder, Legion, and whatever the fuck kind of inbred Mormon space gerbils Eric Herrera and Brandy Danielle are.
And my plan is to complete, totally, and utterly ruin the Invictus main event for the Shadow Cartel. No easy victories, no compatriots to feed to Tay Tay to protect that belt from any real competition. Each and every one of them are going to be thrown out onto their loathsome, spotty behinds.
But my end goal? That's the fun part. I meant it when I said I'm going to ruin Invictus. Because I'm going to win. Doesn't matter if it's 30, 40, 50, 60 men, women, children, and the entire cast of Thomas the Tank Engine since we seem to be looting popular European TV characters. I'm going to blaze my way through each and every one of them with one goal in mind.
Taylor Chase-Cruze.
The vestigial head of my sufferings. The false head of my pain. The chosen mask behind which the Shadow Cartel lurks. I;m going to win the Last Stand Rumble, I'm going to devour Taylor Chase, and I'm going to take the IWC World Heavyweight Championship. I'm going to take it away from the Cartel, I'm going to take it away from Silas Mason.
I am going to rip the mother-fucking HEART out of the IWC. I'm going to destroy your chosen champion, because let's face it, we all know it's going to be everybody's DARLING walking out of Last Stand against all the terrible, horrible, horrific, horrifying, just a whole lot of words beginning with the whore sound, as the champ.
Though just watch, watch, the moment I open my mouth Mika's going to get the damned thing and hold onto it until the powers that be have determined that it is completely and totally safe to get it back to dear Tay Tay so that her poor pretty face doesn't have the potential to be scarred by my ripping claws, or that her perfect skin will start sloughing off due to icy flames and Frostbite Kisses.
I'm going to take IWC's biggest, baddest, bestest title and I'm going to destroy it. I'm going to burn it in a pyre right in the middle of the ring. Because I sure as fuck don't want to hang around this pus-filled fissure of the asshole of humanity any longer than I have to.
I'm going to do it to send a message.
Don't fuck with me.
Pull out your shithead tumor brigade out of ULW. No more New Eden, no more Silas World, no more supporting cast run in fuckery. No more management drooling all over themselves to cater to a bunch of fucks in the crowd that haven't even signed with the company. No more miscarriages of justice to add to the ever-growing ULW dead baby pile.
ULW is mine. It belongs to me. You fuckheads came after ME, you couldn't leave well enough alone.
So I'm going to hit you where it hurts. Bang, right in the ego.
I'm going to flood Silas World in a tide of blood.
I'm going to burn down New Eden.
I'm going to turn that Last Stand ring into a motherfucking ghost town.
And you have no way to stop us.
Oh, wait, did I forget something?
Oh I did, I definitely did! I left something out!
You see, I'm not going into Last Stand alone. I'm not going to be picked off by the numbers game. I'm not going to be overwhelmed by whatever splinter stable has managed to weasel its way in charge of this place. I'm not going to get trampled by your pwecious widdle pwincess's cast of thousands.
Because the door is open and the die is cast, the rules have been written in blood.
You thought you were rid of them, the one force that stood in your way. The one that had to be cut out from the IWC before it ruined EVERYTHING.
I am not going to have one man standing beside me. Not two. Not three.
Oh no.
What I am bringing along with me to Last Stand, ladies and gentlemen, is an entire fucking Legion.
You stand against the not merely the icy flames of a dragoness, oh no.
Here you stand against the very fires of Hell.
The icy chill of Cania shall consume you all.
And then you will stand no more.
I always have conflicting urges when I step into Leeland Gaunt's office. First is that it reminds me so much of home. It is one of the largest consolidated collections of magically empowered artifacts on a virtually mana-barren orb, and I can feel their presence, they tickle. It's a trophy room, filled with items of power taken from defeated foes, and every adventurer (even reluctant ones) longs to have one of those.
But it's also moderately unpleasant because of Artifact Grade A Numero Uno sitting smack in the middle of the room in a weird round fireplace, set just above a bowl that seem to produce a never-ending flow of flammable fluid.
There's a big flowery name for it, but the Hand of the Legion, because that is exactly what it is. It's the physical vessel for the destructive mass confluence of bound spirits known as Legion. And it never stops burning.
One, that's creepy as fuck. Two, I am literally staring a perpetual energy creation machine. Three, these two thing just might be a contributing factor to global warming depending on how long they've been together. Four, I'm a Water elemental dragon and that thing is Fire aligned as all hell. Literally. And it makes my skin crawl as a result. And fifth, I'm an adventurer and it is a powerful artifact sealed in a way to prevent it from being stolen. So my brain immediately starts trying to figure out how to swipe it. My plan involves an adamantine saw blade and one of those shiny metallic looking heat suits.
Of course I'm not actually going to make off with the thing. I've already got one particularly mouthy magical gauntlet as well as my own conglomerate spirit residing in my head already. I also can summon about a half dozen critters on my own. So I really don't need more of any of them. Besides, this one definitely does not match my dragon-y theme.
Spark likes to joke that all dragons have hoarding tendencies, and while I don't hoard gold or jewels or priceless art or knowledge like normal members of my species do, I still hoard things nonetheless. I hoard other dragons.
I'm like a crazy cat lady if said cat lady also happened to be a cat. I kind of picture a hipster, spinster Felicia from Darkstalkers in a hoodie and granny glasses, but no pants, with a swarm of cats.
"You couldn't keep it even if you got it out of there," says the man whom I've come to see, "You'd have to off me first before it would accept a new host, and even then things would probably end badly. It tends to devour anyone not of the Marchand bloodline. I get the feeling that my ancestor's soul did not have a particularly pleasant flavor."
"U haz a flavor!" Spark giggles from inside my noggin. I just ignore him, he makes comments of this nature on literally everything.
Sixth, it's a soul-consuming abomination and violation of the natural order. Trying to get those to work for you seldom end well. You'll usually end up with it raised above your head at the moment of solar eclipse as a party of adventurers approach screaming "You fools, I am the MASTER of this artifact, its powers are MINE to command! I am invincible!" and of course the moment you say that death is virtually guaranteed to follow.
"Mr. Gaunt, it's been awhile." I say, reluctantly taking my eyes off the gauntlet. I grab one of the chairs before his desk and drag it off to the side, so that I can keep Gaunt, Gaunt's Gauntlet, the office door, and the creepy slithery brass mirror in the corner all within my field of vision. That's how they got Wild Bill Hickok, shot in the back when he wasn't looking.
"It has indeed, my dear. We run in different circles these days, and it's been some time since I've ventured into the pro wrestling arena. And you..." he chuckles, "For one who is so steeped in a world of sorcery and the supernatural, you seem strangely averse to helping me tackle the comparatively low powered spirits this world has to offer."
"If you had something solid, Mr. Gaunt, I wouldn't have a problem. But most of your jobs seem to revolve around purely ethereal creatures. Though I can interact with them and beat the..."
"You beat the sheet out of ghosts!" Spark adds helpfully.
"Peas out of angels and demons alike, it's really disconcerting trying to fight something you can't see and having to rely entirely on Mr. Hush giving you instructions."
"It's like watching that Jake Roberts/Rick Martel blindfold match."
"As a professional wrestler I take pride in my fighting, and there's a reason why there have only been three blindfold matches over the span of 60 years." I admit, I'm not above co-opting Spark's comments for my own purposes at times.
"Mmm. Very prideful beasties, you dragons. Though I had expected you to come to me for help a bit sooner." he stops smiling as he speaks. As unsettling as the sight of Mr. Gaunt smiling usually is, it's even rarer to see him without a sharklike mouth full of teeth, or a smug smirk.
"You've gotten a sample of the pro wrestling business, my dear, and it has changed you. Not for the better, I'm afraid."
I'm not sure what he's talking about. "How so?"
"Months ago you were swearing that you would never draw upon the dark forces at your beck and call, and yet you allow them to influence you with ever-increasing frequency. You take up your White, Green, and recently debuted your Black state as often as you wrestle under your own power."
"But it is to be expected, this sport is one that will never pass up an opportunity to drag an angel down to earth, to swallow a diamond in the rough beneath choking mud. You used to make an effort to be happy, bouncy, pleasant. But these days the moment the light turns on for a promo you have nothing but anger and hatred to vent."
I give him a shrug. It's true, I suppose. "Well, in my defense basically everybody I've ever wrestled has been such an downright awful human being that I want to basically punch them in the face until I hit brain matter."
"Indeed. Most professional wrestlers are absolutely deplorable people and this becomes obvious the more one interacts with them. It's why I set about utilizing this industry for Legion to vent his desire for combat upon. Because quite frankly you could wipe half of them off of the face of the earth and none except their compatriots would ever shed a tear. In fact I'm sure many people would rejoice in their departure."
"I know I sure did. We had this hideously inept gal a few weeks back faking multiple personality disorder and demonic possession. You know the baby talk voice I use when shitheels who are supposed to be all big and bad start pissing and moaning about how their pwecious widdle feewings have been hurt?"
"Yeah. She fucking talked like that one third of the time. The demon aspect was meh, but the main one was supposedly a cannibal. I say supposedly because she didn't even TRY to eat one of them. There was nary a comically oversized fork nor a single giant stew pot to be had.
Mr. Gaunt sighs, "Hmm, still a titch upset about the whole being unable to bite people issue that we spent the better part of two months to purge from your repertoire of combat maneuvers."
"If I can fit it in my mouth, I can bite through it. That is a useful offensive weapon to have."
"Now now, the last time I recall someone having a body part bitten off in a professional sports event there was a massively negative media frenzy, and it was only an ear. For the most part they're merely decorative. Nipping off a few fingers would result in some very severe loss of functionality and a nibbled off nose would be a lifelong facial disfigurement."
"All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put lost Lenore's face back together again."
"You're truly going to pursue the Shadow Cartel and wound them as deeply as you can, aren't you?"
"You bet your ass. I left the IWC to get away from their brand of bullshit, and they came after me. They had their chance to live and let live."
"And Spark is singing "Live and Let Die" in your head right now, isn't he?"
I grit my teeth as the mention of it breaks down the mental barrier I've erected to block out Spark's commentary while I'm having a serious conversation. "Yes. Yes he is."
"You do realize that the moment you state your intentions, the moment you try and shine a light into their petulant cellar of darkness, the dirty tactics are REALLY going to come out of the woodwork."
"I've already had bullshit handicap matches and endless interference."
"No, my dear, they're going to hit you from an oblique angle. They went at Jason King through his family. First with his wife's medical records, and then through his wife and child. Premature babies are such terribly fragile things. It would only take one of their demonic allies a few moments to orchestrate something dire."
"Woah, you think that they had a hand in that?"
"In murdering a defenseless child? Why not? They've shown complete and utter contempt for the rules and regulations of professional wrestling. They've shown themselves to be perfectly willing to abuse the laws of man for their own ends, as one can see from their persecution of Cameron MacNichol and the threat to subject Jason King to a lawsuit mere hours after the death of his daughter."
"They're scum."
"They are. And the so-called heroes of professional wrestling will never truly stand up to them. So proud and so arrogant they will do as you have done, continue on as an individual attempting to stand against the public face of the Shadow Cartel, unprepared for the horrific mass they have sunk beneath the surface, lurking sight unseen."
"They seek to overcome the odds, feeling that when they finally do that their triumph will seem all the grander because of it. But tell me, my dear, are you any happier for having stood up to Raymond der Vaart's corrupt practices on you own? Is the enjoyment of your profession improved even a smidgen for weathering Lenore Price-Mason's never-ceasing assaults on your own?
"No. It'd be nice to have some backup. But der Vaart's turned down every application I';ve made to have someone join the company to provide that backup. For awhile it was all "Lulz, no, we can't officially hire SPIDER until he pees in a cup." and "Lulz, no, we cannot in good conscience hire someone that bulky, especially with a recent wrongful death suit brought by the family of one of the more portly men in pro wrestling history.""
"And after our actions at Land Stand, they are most certainly not going to extend a laurel and hardy handshake in friendship to my client and myself. Especially not now that you've stated you're going to rip the heart out of their organisation and the shambling cancer-federation of the IWC."
"I'm either going to have to trick them or I'm going to have to find help within ULW."
"Mmmhmm, that you are. And in order to do so you are going to need to suck up your pride and be the one that asks for an alliance. But on the bright side it does seem that circumstances have aligned to bring King, Clay, and Cameron into a convenient alliance. Hmm. King, Clay, Cameron, and Kalinda. Very interesting that the lot of you have names that start with the same sound."
"That seems to be a portent." and I start grinding my teeth again.
"Is he singing "That's Amore" now?"
"Yes." Grind. Grind. Grind.
"Mmm. I'm not sure if I should be offended or honored that Spark and I share similar thought processes."
"He can modulate his voice, autotune, and provide backing music all at the same time. You're lucky you can never be exposed to his rendition of Tiny Tim and Yoko Ono doing a polka duet of "Where the Wild Roses Grow.""
"I do believe I may become ill just attempting to imagine that atrocity." Gaunt loosens his tie and makes a terribly amusing expression of disgust. The British always manage the most wonderfully disdainful and disapproving facial expressions. Probably comes about due to nigh unto eternal disappointment at the dismal weather.
"Anyway, my dear, my client and I will most definitely be on hand to aid you in your quest to ruin the Last Stand Rumble for the forces of the Shadow Cartel, and I may in fact be able to help you in ULW. They may not allow you to bring in another wrestler, but they most assuredly cannot deny you a manager. Virtually every ULW employee has some sort of manager or valet, and it would be a crime to deny you equal representation."
"But Mr. Gaunt," I say with a grin, "They've already shown themselves quite ready, willing, and able to commit crimes have they not."
"Touche, my dear, touche. But irregardless of deplorable nature of our collective foe, you can be safe in the knowledge that… heh." Gaunt spends several moments chuckling.
"What?"
"Forgive me, but I do share your muses predilection for turns of phrase and in the construction of my discourse have inadvertently stumbled onto a rather amusing term to collectively describe the pairing of yourself and my client."
"As I was saying, I will stand beside you, come Hell or High Water.
If I had laser vision instead of coldfire breath, Mr. Gaunt would be reduced to cinders on the spot by the intensity of my death glare. "You'll be happy to know that Spark has been dislodged from his songs and commentary by his… I believe you would term in "nefarious giggling?""
"I used to play bass for Nefarious Giggling."
I wince. "I'm just going to see myself out before you do any more damage to my sanity. I get enough of that in the workplace."
It has been a long time since your eyes fell upon us. But our eyes have never strayed far from you, IWC. You thought that a simple cancelling of a contract would send us away, that such an act would keep you safe.
But oh how easily you forget that you left yourselves open to assault, for on one night of the year you provide an open invitation to all those who have the will to compete, the struggle, to battle dozens upon dozens of warriors in the confines of the wrestling ring.
For one night of the year we may return in order to rain down carnage upon the deserving, to bring a brutal of reality to those who egomania make them feel invincible, untouchable, immortal and unable to be struck down by the hands of men.
But ours are not the hands of men. Ours are so much greater, so much more than the sum of our parts. Not just the souls of mere men, but everything in creation sacred or profane. Every fell monster that has preyed upon mankind during the hours darkest before dawn is within us, hungry and eager to rip and tear, to devour the hopes and dreams of mortal men once again.
For that is why we have come. Not merely for the biggest battle provided in the history of professional wrestling, where last year more than fifty individuals took part. Oh no, we come not merely for the sport, for the screams, for the agonizer writhing of broken bodies beneath our feet, but for hope.
We are here to kill hope.
We are here to murder dreams.
We are here to suffocate the ambitions of dozens of petulant husks pretending to be human beings, to attain greatness by seizing the IWC World Heavyweight Championship. They seek to seize the false, golden idol of adoration of the masses in hopes to become the receptacle of that worship.
Dozens upon dozens of men, women, and assorted deviations seek to claim this otherwise unattainable prize for themselves. For whomever becomes the Last Man Standing is awarded a guaranteed IWC contract and a title bout.
But there has never been a Last Man Standing in this event, only a monster. For while nearly 50 men and women lusted for that prize, none of them could stand before our collective might. Fifty souls came forth to do battle, only to find themselves breaking against us. And break them we did.
Only a single soul escaped us, though the simple fate of having been purged from the battle before our joining. Only a solitary spirit was spare our wrath. Four dozen of the best warriors that professional wrestling had to offer, and in the end it was they that were found wanting. Four dozen agonized bodies, four dozen scarred and tattered souls, forever changed by their brush with an unimaginable force with overwhelming power.
They thought they had nothing to fear. They had thought us banished, never more to darken the halls of the IWC with our presence. The fools thought themselves safe and secure, smugly congratulating themselves on a job well done, looking ahead to a bright and glorious forever in which their plans could be carried out in safety without the fearsome obstruction that had been in their way.
That long and glorious forever ends tonight.
Not only do we stand in the way of those who conspired to banish us from these unhallowed halls of competition and combat, but our standing alongside our inhuman majesty is another monster, another creature of raw, primal elemental power, of unconquerable spirit, and of devastating physical force.
Standing alongside us is an untamed elemental spirit made flesh, a great beast born in the guise of a man, a brutal power that in a scant few decades shall blossom into an infernal force of carnage the likes of this world have seen only in the most horrific of fever-driven nightmares.
She will stand alongside us, fight beside us as we all strive to accomplish a single shining goal: the complete and utter destruction of everyone and everything that the world of professional wrestling has to offer.
Bodies will be broken. Spirits will be crushed. Dreams will be devoured before the star-filled eyes of those who dare to dream them. For when elemental fire and elemental ice come together they create a churning, boiling, scalding, searing, torrent in which nothing can survive.
Oh you fools, you poor, naive fools. Believing that for one moment that the fates would simply HAND you your moment of glory, to offer you greatness upon a silver platter. That all you would have to do to become a gleaming, golden god of professional wrestling would be to simply step into a ring and be lucky, to let the carnage eliminate the rest, to be awarded a shot at a prize that would forever otherwise be barred from their sticky, grasping hands.
But we do not compete for fortune's favor, oh no. We compete for the joyful symphony that is the screamed agonies and howled anguishes of all that stand before us. You are not engaged in a competition simply to attain a trinket of gold and leather. The moment we enter the ring, each and every one of you will be engaged in a struggle for your very survival.
We have such few opportunities to truly savor our battles, so precious little time to perfect our craft, to maximize the misery and suffering that each and every soul that dares stand against us in opposition.
For it is not merely about shattering the hopes and dreams of main eventing Invictus, but crushing them all completely and utterly. To feel the reverberations in the ether the moment that a soul breaks, that a mind cracks in half under the realization that it is filled with lies. That the power and the glory imagined for the grotesquely overconfident will never come.
For each blow, for each hold, for each hideous suplex and slam wracking their bodies and turning their insides to splinters of bone and bloody, tormented jelly. Each moment wearing down the mind, the body, and the soul, robbing them of their futures. Every punch, every kick, every armbar, and every powerbomb sucking away just a little bit more from the potential career of all those who dare face us.
Days, weeks, months, years will be stripped away from the dozens that delude themselves into believing that it will be they who will triumph, it will be them that grabs the glory. But there will be no glory to be had, only agony. The is no victory, only violence and vengeance. For each and every one of you who sought to fulfil your hopes and dreams here there will only be despair and dismemberment to be had.
Not that some of you will not find new hopes springing up in the scorched-earth soil of your souls. Hopes like finding sweet escape from the pain by throwing yourselves over the top rope. Blissful release from the never ending tide of agony by being able to drag yourself with broken fingers and pushing yourselves with useless legs out of the ring and up the entry ramp. To recover from the dire maimings you are sure to receive at our hands.
And in time you will dream of walking again, of being able to have partial vision in your damaged eyes. Of being able to shakily lift the tiniest of teacups with the hand that we transformed into mangled meat wrapped around powdered bone.
And no one will care. Not a single soul will shed a tear for the atrocities perpetrated upon you. For you know in your heart of hearts that this is the fate you deserve, this is the punishment that awaits each and every one of your for an eternity. That the burning hand of fire and steel that strikes you down merely reaches from the burning abyss that is your ultimate and well deserved destiny.
Each of you are wicked. Each of you are unworthy. Each of you are irreparably broken and corrupt. Each and every single one of your are malignant and shattered spirits that diminish the world around them with each stinking, fetid breath they exhale.
You are the scum of the Earth. The dregs of mankind. And you are, as you have always been, our divinely mandated prey.
For we are Legion. AND…
WE!
ARE!
MANY!
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