Today is not going to be a happy day. There isn't going to be very much in the way of happy, playful insults. There will be no making up ridiculous stories regarding my opponent this week and his associates. There won't even be any of the usual lunacy where I pretend he's something that is obviously not real, like an Angel Kash robot, a plant alien with his brains in his armpits, or a mush-mouthed southerner who can't pronounce my name correctly because of the parasitic beard that's latched onto his face and is manipulating his brain via vile tendrils.
Brandon Vow, whose name I will pronounce correctly when he sees fit to get his tongue under control and be able to properly enunciate mine, is someone who needs to be dealt with the utmost seriousness.
Because the potential he has to cause mayhem and pain in ULW is unprecedented. He has the advantage of being in a position where he and his crows are seen as a lesser evil, as a threat that is not quite so dire as New Eden.
And because he hasn't dived into the deep end of wickedness, of supervillain cackling, whip wielding, summoning a gimp masked asshole when the lights are out to interfere in main events, meat curtain flapping, barbed wire noose lynching, Nazis-with-skulls-on-their-uniforms-are-we-the-baddies outright EVIL he comes off as comparatively harmless.
Hell, we agree on a whole lot of things. We both want to shake things up, to rip the corruption out of ULW in the head office and in the locker room. We think that New Eden is a cancer, that der Vaart is an inept, racist, dutch gorilla doing the arm pit fart when he ought to be booking shows and stringing together advertising to promote his company.
You don't have to go very far to see how badly this company is being mismanaged. Of how ULW's nose is being cut off to spite its face. You only need look at how I'm being excluded, isolated, ignored by ULW's media machine.
Depending on the week I'm somewhere between the second and fourth most popular wrestler on the roster. People love me. People tune in to watch me wrestle. I was part of the highest rated match in ULW history, the highest rated SEGMENT in ULW history. One and one half million people tuned in during the course of twenty minutes in order to see me forced into a situation where I had to take on the whole of New Eden on my own.
And we all know that they were there for me. They sure as hell aren't there for Willow, precious, protected, gets opportunity after opportunity at the World title even though she keeps blowing them Willow. Because Willow Wilkes sure as hell doesn't rope in 1.5 million pairs of peepers during her Best of Infinity series with Jason King.
Oh sure, I'm not pulling in the population of Hawaii to me each and every time I wrestle. But when have I been given the opportunity? When have I been given the chance to wrestle an important match with a decent opponent? When have the dark powers of ULW chosen to bestow upon me the blessing of the dark arts of marketing?
Seriously. When have they ever deigned to promote anything that I do? When have they ever given me matches that build towards the future, towards something bigger, something better, something with a deep meaning and lasting consequences?
I've wrestled Willow Wilkes three times so far and it's never been in a fair fight. I spent months trying to get Angel Kash to wrestle her own goddamned match. I got a puffed up corporate puppy with delusions of greatness hounding my ass and tainting my matches for even more months.
They tell me I'm a joke. That I'm ridiculous. That I'm a disgrace to the sport of professional wrestling. Not because of who I am, but because of what I am.
I used to be happy, bouncy, pleasant, and playful. They've managed to wring every drop of levity and joy out of me that they could. And so I got serious, I got violent. I lashed out. Maybe if I behaved a bit more in fashion with the darlings of the company that I would be recognized and rewarded instead of mocked, scorned, and shunned. And if I wasn't? Than by the Goddess, I was at least going to be noticed.
I've seven feet tall, I'm bright blue with fire engine red hair. I have a ten foot tail sticking out just above my ass for fuck's sake. And yet somehow I can't get anybody in charge to give me the time of day or tell me anything aside from the fact that I'm a joke and a disgrace.
But you know what gets me laughing? The fact that they hired me anyway. That I so disgust them, and yet on some level they recognize what I can do for this company. They just won't give me a chance to do it.
Professional wrestling administrators have got to be the dumbest fucking people on planet Earth. Because they'll fall over themselves to worship at the altar of Silas Mason and whatever piece of fluff he's dug up this week, they'll plan to give main event runs out of pity to a bunch of never-wases like End Effect, and there are two wrestling federations, TWO that refuse to treat someone who is legitimately a unique talent like anything more than a comedic aside for a few moments on a show of utmost seriousness.
And it hurts. It hurts in a way that most people will never be able to imagine. I am LITERALLY unique. There is no one and nothing else like me on the whole of Planet Earth at this moment. I'm a fucking magical dragon from another world who is funny and witty and basically indestructible.
After every pay per view Willow and Jason have to be packed up in bubble wrap and put on a shelf for two weeks so they don't shatter into a million bajillion pieces. The best promoted, supposed biggest draws in the company don't even compete on a quarter to a third of the actual week to week shows.
I do.
I am out there literally every week. No one else on the roster has been there on every show since the beginning.
I've busted my ass for this company, and all that it's gotten me is corporate shill after corporate shill trying to tear me down, make me look bad, and get themselves over at my expense. That's why I was hired on. I'm not here to be a superstar.
I'm here to be someone's stepping stone to stardom. To be shuffled off and stuffed into a dark corner the moment someone comes forth that can match my physicality. That can actually go toe to toe with me. That can actually fucking FIGHT ME like a decent human being instead of some skullduggerous piece of sneaky, skulking shit.
They'll believe the hype for manufactured personalities, they'll buy in the the assholes who will spend a million bucks on plastic surgery and another five to make themselves look like the next big thing to people with hefty pocketbooks, but no soul, no love for the business.
That's what's driven me to try and piece something together out of duct tape and bailing wire, trying to engineer and alliance of people who are sick and tired of this shit. To put aside egos and get something done for the greater good, because a rising tide raises all boats, you know?
I've got Jason King by my side, and I think that maybe I managed to get through to Cameron MacNichol and Clay Colton. Maybe we can do something to change the face of ULW, maybe not. But at the moment we've not done much of anything aside from turn away some New Eden attacks.
I hate to say it, but Vow and the Crows are what I wish the Unity could be. What we could do. I think I said recently that Mya Denton's been the gatekeeper of suck in ULW thus far. We will accept anyone, but we will let anybody hang around below this level of badness, and Mya is our basement for bad wrestling and bad performing.
For all the hell and hullabaloo raised about me impaling a guy, IT'S NOT BLOODY CRUCIFIXION IF THERE ISN'T A FUCKING CROSS, YOU ASSHOLES! And supposedly "ending the career" of Adam, Mya Denton has ushered what? Half a dozen scum sucking pieces of filth out of ULW and gotten nary a peep from management about it.
Brandon's managed to get things done. He's got himself one willing minion and is trying out some tough love on Itchy Ichirou. He's mirroring the message that I've been trying to get across, he's trying to bring about some changes in ULW. He's being taken seriously.
And I'm not.
And that hurts, knowing that if it weren't for one little thing, I could be in his position. I could be doing the same thing. I could be well on my way to legitimately becoming ULW's savior.
And that pesky little thing is that I have a conscience. That I have morals. That I have dedicated myself to getting things done the right way, not doing whatever it takes to achieve my goals, consequences be damned.
I will not let myself stoop to believing that the ends justify the means. And that's why Brandon Vow and the Crows are so dangerous.
They're combining my message with the same ethical school that New Eden attends, or lack thereof. They look downright cuddly and friendly in comparison. And yet they're not infighting, they're not bickering, and rather than trying to dissuade his associates from seeking out higher ambitions and personal glory, he's managed to get them into a title match.
I can't do that. I have nothing that I can offer that even compares to that. All I have are promises that if there's a beat down going on, that I'll be out there to hop in the brawl and even the odds so that the damage done isn't too severe.
Because even if I offered to tag team with somebody, they sure as hell aren't going to let me anywhere near a title. The Crows haven't even been a thing for a month, and they've got title shots. The last major series of matches I had, I won, and magically SOMEBODY ELSE is getting a title opportunity before I am.
And that pisses me off. The only belt that DOESN'T have somebody gunning for it at the moment belongs to Clay Colton, and I'm sure in the back of his mind he's wondering if this whole "band together" thing I've got going is just a scheme to get in close to somebody and stab them in the back the first moment I can grab a title belt.
Because I want one. I need one. I've talked before about how important a symbol that is respected and adored by millions upon millions of people is, and how powerful they can be. Not merely as symbols, but as repositories for all that emotion and devotion.
People say that the best wrestling matches, the most dire title defenses, they're almost magical. And that's because they are. There's an energy there that can be tapped into, that can be drawn out, that can be used.
Like, say, to allow a dimensionally displaced dragoness to have the opportunity to get back home.
Funny, isn't it? That probably the sure fire way to actually get rid of me, to keep me out of der Vaart's non-existent hair is the one absolute thing that he absolutely, positively, does not want to happen.
Gods, I'm rambling. I'm wandering all over, I'm pouring out my heart and soul here when I shouldn't be. Because I know what kind of a man Brandon Vow is, what he's capable of, and the things he can do with the spoken word to break minds and bind souls.
Because he's done it with Mya Denton, he's trying to do it to Isamu Ichirou, and he's attempting to pull the ULW fans right into his hands.
His is a great message, a wonderful message, but the words are backed by a filth and foulness the suffuses them utterly.
Because of what he's done to Mya Denton, and to "April."
To understand the insidiousness of what he's doing, I need to talk about the frailty of the human mind, of the suggestible nature of mankind, and of the cultural zeitgeist. There are things that you see on TV, that you read in books, that weren't there all that long ago. Ideas and images and concepts that didn't exist all that long ago.
For example, flying saucers. They're a pretty standard alien trope, right? They must've been around forever, right? Nope. It's not until the middle of the 20th century that flying saucers show up in sightings and such, before that most UFO type sightings were described as cigar shaped.
Sometimes ideas catch on and spread like a wildfire with the help of mass media, and like just about everything else the Hollywood does, very often things are gotten wrong. Very, very wrong.
Like multiple personality disorder, or as it's come to be known dissociative identity disorder.
It's everywhere, and it came into the public knowledge through a book and a film. Both of which earned millions of dollars, both of which resulted in the actual patient receiving basically fuck all for having a pair of doctors write about her and then proceed to get rich on her illness.
If only that were the last stop on this railroad of depravity and human suffering. But like many other things it inspired people. Sick people. People who wanted attention. People who wanted to be special. People that wanted an escape from their normal, mundane lives. People who wanted fame. People who wanted a fortune of their own built on the backs of the mentally ill.
People who pretend to have multiple personalities for attention, people that delude themselves into believing such a thing to explain all the horribleness in their lives, and the doctors that exploit them.
Lawrence Pazder believed the whackaloon bullshit his patient was spouting, inconsistent, incoherent, dreck from a woman who alleged she was a childhood priestess of a grand, satanic organization who did grand acts of evil on an incomprehensible scale. The result of which brought about the whole 1980's "Satanic Panic," which similar copycat stories that were equally false and fanciful lead to not only millions of dollars spent, but that innocent people have served jail time for.
And in professional wrestling it seems to be so common. Just look around here in ULW, how many people have we had that have claimed to have so-called multiple personalities? How many of them are real? How many of them are just the exploitation of a sensationalized mental illness in an attempt to grab attention, fame, and fortune?
Because ULW loves misery. It loves pain. It feeds of an angst and agony in equal parts and proportions. Those who feed it with anguish and heartache are rewarded, and those who deny it its favored feast are shunned.
ULW has been built on a boneyard of dead babies. It is borne aloft on a sea of psychologically scarred screw ups, mentally deranged fuckwits, miserable bastards with lives filled with tragedy, and victims of heinous, terrible things.
That is, if they're true.
Which I doubt.
I doubt even a tenth of them are true.
The vast majority of so-called tragedy in the lives of professional wrestlers are as fake and manufactured as Angel Kash's breasts. Because most people aren't special snowflakes. Wrestlers tend to be men and women who have managed to get into shape, scrap together around three thousand bucks, and go on to wrestle in front of a few dozen people for money that won't even cover the cost of the gas it took to drive there.
Professional wrestlers, real professional wrestlers, are people who go out there and compete in the ring for the love of the business, for the thrill of performing their chosen craft in front of a crowd. Be it a few dozen folks at the local VFW outpost, or millions upon millions of viewers every week on international television.
I'm unique, I'm special. I'm an absolutely massive leviathan of a woman who happens to have some genetic quirks that don't occur on this particular planetoid. Your average joe in a pair of tights cannot hope to compete with something like that when it comes to mind share. I'm a fucking dragon from another world, working at a McDonald's, pumping iron every second between work and sleep, coasting through community college on a Liberal Arts degree, and then getting signed to a major promotion because Mr. McMan-Package gets an erection for your bulging muscles is not going to compete with that.
So wrestlers lie.
Wrestlers exaggerate.
And at this stage in the game? There's three ways you get to a promotion on this level.
You're actually a good enough wrestler to blow through all of the bullshit, seize stardom by the short and curlies, and FORCE your way to the big stage.
You're such a good liar and bullshitter that you believe your own hype so well that you can infect other people with your diseased, warped view of yourself.
Or you have a patron. Someone in a position of power who uses their influence, their pocketbook, and their connections to force you up onto the stage, whether you're capable of being there by yourself or not.
I don't know how Mya Denton got to this stage in the game, and I don't care. Because what we have here with the Crows, and thus with Brandon Vow, are two options. And they're both disgusting.
Mya is faking, and thus is capitalizing on a sensationalized view of a little understood disease that has been built up in the public consciousness over the years. She's basically standing on the backs of the mentally ill and using them to skip a few rungs on the ladder of success because she cannot make herself stand out otherwise.
Or she is one of the few, rare, legitimate sufferers of this illness. She is not a healthy woman and she should not be in an environment as calamitous, catastrophic, and as utterly caustic to the mind, body, and soul as professional wrestling.
Her disability is thus being exploited by Raymond der Vaart and by Brandon Vow in order to further their own agendas, line their own pockets, and propel themselves to fame like all those wonderful book-writing doctors who stumble across such an interesting and dire mental illness.
And then just so happen to start fucking the patient.
Either way, it's an exploitation of people with a mental illness.
Either way, it's fucking disgusting.
And that, Brandon Vow, is why I'm a better person than you will ever be.
Because I'm not going to climb to the top at the expense of others. I'm not going to change ULW for the better by stepping on the backs of the people that have suffered enough in their lives.
I have a luxury that the rest of the world does not.
I can afford to be patient. I don't need to scramble to cram in everything into one short decade before I'm broken down, aged before my time by a gruelling road schedule.
I can sit here and wrestle meaningless matches with no promotional value to them week in and week out. I can do so for years and years and years until someone finally gets their head out of their ass and realize what a tremendous opportunity they have with me.
Because I'm a dragon.
I'm eternal.
I want to fix ULW, I really do. With better management this place would be amazing. All the missed opportunities, the poor business decisions, and the petty, bitter bullshit sickens me. I don't like what ULW does to people, it brings out the worst in all of us. And the reason it hurts me so much is because I care. I care what happens to this company, to the fans who invest their time and money to come out and see us at every show.
I care about my co-workers, those who come out and perform because they want to. Because they love this industry, because they love the art of professional wrestling.
The rest of you? The lot wrestling because they want attention, because they want money, because they think it'll make their stock portfolio hop up a few points, because they have an agenda they want to get across, because they want to hurt people…
Or because they're a puffed up asshole with a literally shitty beard who thinks that he's found all the answers, and whose truth is so wonderful and obvious that he has to FORCE it on people.
You're scum, Brandon Vow.
And while my chosen path, while Unity may work slower, while we haven't gotten results yet, we're going to get there in the end.
We're going to make ULW a better place out of respect, out of togetherness, and out of mutual benefit.
Not out of fear.
Not out of exploitation.
And most certainly not via the ten thousandth bird-themed fucking cult of personality that professional wrestling has to offer.
See you in the ring, Shitbeard.
"It's like herding fucking cats." I grumble to my mentor as we circle around one another in the ring. We're practicing my pinfall escapes. One of the problems with having teen feet worth of tail sticking out of the end of your spine is that there's an additional hundred or thirty pounds or so worth of meat that makes your bottom half heavier than your top.
About one third of my bodyweight is contained in my tail, which essentially makes me half again as heavy as I would otherwise be were I a slightly more normally arranged person, and not a dragonblood. It also means that two thirds of my body weight is below my waist which means more pressure pushing down on me should somebody manage to get my bottom up over my top.
"Herding cats with an explicative, or herding cats that are also engaged in having sex?" Desolation asks, lunging for my leg and getting a knee to the face.
Surprise roll up was how I lost to Brendon Vow last time, and I'm going to do my absolute best to avoid it this time. So I've got the master of weird, wacky wrestling moves pulling out every quick, out of nowhere pinning maneuver he can think of and schooling me in them. Not just the best ways to get out of them, not only to find counters, but to watch for the tells. The subtle signs in body positioning and motion that will hint at what he's going to do.
"Because I'm not sure if herding cats while they're fucking would be easier or harder. I mean they're not going to be able to run off. Cat penises have those barbs and whatnot that would make pulling out quick rather painful."
I make a disgusted face and stick my tongue out, and in the moment I have my eyes closed I end up with a camo-pants wearing, 270 pound backpack.
"Gross." I say, not going anyway.
"Well, the crucifix is definitely out."
"Yeah, my bottom half is heavier than pretty much anyone on the roster that isn't Priest. I'm not going to be leveraged down from this stance."
He continues to cling to my back and arms like a jaguar sized tick.
"Are you going to get down any time soon, or do I have to demonstrate how to counter this thing?"
"No, it's rather comfortable up here."
I fling his legs off my arm, and Desolation manages to pivot himself to fall straight down, hooking one arm around the base of my tail with one arm and thwacking me in the back of the knee with the other, forcing me down onto one knee. Upon hitting the mat he pivots, kicking me in the other, letting go of my tail, and instead grabbing my neck and dragging me over.
My knees don't work to push me over, and I'm in the air before my feet can find purchase enough to kick off to overshoot the intended flip. I hit the mat, his knee on one arm, an elbow pressing my other arm down. He's got my tail hooked, so I can't even roll myself over with the mother of all abdominal crunches.
"One, two, three!" Desolation says smugly.
"Wrong! Look where my feet are!"
"I can't see where your feet are. I've got four hundred pounds worth of dragon-y lard ass in the way."
"Feet are in the ropes. Can't kick out, but it's not a legal pin."
"And you're going to trust the stunning record of wonderful referee competence in the history of professional wrestling to come through for you?" he slithers out from underneath me, letting my backside fall splat onto the mat.
"Let's face it, sensei, I go into every match expecting somebody to fuck with it in some way. If it's not a run in, it'll be a ref bump, or for the lights to go out, or the lighting ring to fall down. A blind ref is the least of my worries in this fucking clownshoes outfit."
"Ha ha, foreshadowing!" Desolation says in his best Phil Ken Seben impression.
I push myself up into a sitting position. "Do you think it's going to work?" I ask with a sigh.
"Your lack of counter for this particular pin? Oh yeah, not countering it is most assuredly the way you're going to win the match."
I give his calf a swat with my tail. "Ass. I meant Unity. Trying to pull in all the top babyfaces to stand against a corrupt regime."
"I don't know. I don't really know any of them. King and I have had a few conversations, and I may have shared a hallway briefly with Clay Colton, but MacNichol I don't think I've even been within 100 feet of."
"You'd know if you were. He's kind of a bit… well… let's say he's of the school that figures slathering on enough cologne for the smell to choke a horse is an acceptable substitute for bathing."
"I'm guessing you can tell by scent once you get in so close that Eau de Douchebag doesn't fully conceal the reek anymore?"
"Actually it's the Pigpen from Peanuts-esque cloud that flew off of him the first few times he got hit." I say with a chuckle.
Desolation seems to actually consider the matter for a few moments. "I think you could definitely accomplish something if you all worked together. Hell, I think it'd work even if we could get more people involved. It wouldn't have to be top guys or ex-title holders. Just enough people to say 'Enough. We're taking a stand' together at the same time."
"I get the feeling, though, that der Vaart will try and have us at each other's throats. Imagine him out of the blue being all smiles and 'Oh, Kalinda, I've just been testing you and preparing you for hardships! Here, have a shot at Colton's title. It'll be a no DQ match, so you can actually use that Can of Fun that we have the roadies sneak off to the back to moment you let go of it for once!'"
"...they've been stealing your can of fun?"
"Yes! I don't think I've gotten to use it EVER in ULW! I bring the damned thing out every week, and when I get an opportunity and the desire to use it, they've nicked the damned thing and spirited it off back to my dressing room."
"Which you're still sharing with Piddle and Plop?"
Kalinda shudders. "Yes. Shows you how much they think of me."
"Hey now, they're historic superstars with a long and storied history in this federation. Historically bad, but still historic."
"Can you say history a few more times? I don't think I got the message."
"History. History. History."
"Now you've done it. We'll be assaulted by documentaries about Hitler."
"No, no. They changed it. It's all crap about aliens, UFO's, and bigfoot."
We both take a moment to experience a collective shudder.
"D'ya think I ought to invite Vow and the Crows into Unity?"
The Dark Man makes a disgusted face. "I just realized that on paper Vow and the Crows looks like it ought to rhyme, but it doesn't, and now my teeth are going to be on edge every time they get mentioned for the rest of forever."
"Oh great, now I'm going to be doing that too. Thanks!"
"You're welcome."
A few moments of quiet. "You didn't answer the question."
"Because I'm pretty sure you already know the answer."
"I think he'd go along with it at first, and then when he feels things are far enough along that he can take over with his own agenda, I think he'd leave us high and dry. Or do something to "teach us a lesson" about life, or piss on a photo of the pope while dropping some Richard Dawkins tweets where he does some serious mansplaining."
Desolation shudders. "I heard that wrong and now all I'm thinking about is Richard Dawkins' manscaping."
"Ew."
More silence.
"You're thinking of maybe trying things his way if Unity ends up not working out, aren't you?"
"Maybe."
"Brush up on your exorcism rituals if you do. Just in case Mya's little quirk turns out to be demonic possession."
"You're not worried or upset or anything?"
"Kal, you're a grown-ass woman who has chewed the arms off of things twenty times scarier than Brendon Vow will ever be. You've got voices in your heard that I can hold fucking conversations with. Both of which are centerpieces in religious factions with a far broader following that Brendon Vow will ever have in even his wettest of dreams."
"Brandon."
"Huh?"
"We're calling him Brandon Vow until he learns how to not say Kalinder."
"Are you sure he's realized you're a dragon and not a Dutch time-telling chart?"
"I have no idea. You never know with these weird cult-y types. They could be on all sorts of funny mushrooms, or licking the wrong series of toads. Maybe he interprets the world as a wall and everyone in it as various timepieces."
"I wonder how he manages to even see Raymond der Vaart, since I'm sure he'd be represented by one of those watch rings you get in the little plastic bubbles outside grocery stores for fifty cents."
"Now I'm thinking of what grocery store tat would correspond to each ULW personalty. I think der Vaart would be more suited to being a set of sticky hands."
"I shook hands with him somewhere along the way and I can confirm that's true."
"Now I'm picturing der Vaart as Marv in Home Alone 2. Now I'm picturing der Vaart as Harry in Home Alone 2 with his head on fire."
"And he dunks himself into a toilet shortly after. Fun thoughts, fun thoughts." he says with a grin. He seems to be lost in thought for a few moments and his grin goes away.
"You know, I think that if you wanted to try to bring the Crows and Unity together, the easiest way to do it would be by taking a mutually attractive prize. Something that wouldn't totally benefit either side one way or the other, and would require mutual cooperation to maintain." he says with a grin.
It takes me a few moments. "Oh god. Let me guess. Joe Pesci with his head in a toilet equals dirty toilet, equals crappy booking, equals the ULW tag team titles being defended for the second ever, and the first time for a tag team match?"
"Nearly nine months later. Yup. Because I'm pretty sure that Willow will just bludgeon Isamu unconscious using Mya as a stick. If Vow wants the Crows, ugh it doesn't rhyme and I see the letters in my head, to hold tag team gold, he's going to have to bring in a better class of wrestler. Mya and Ichirou aren't exactly going to set the world on fire."
I nod, "Yeah, even if Doc Gracie shows up rendered into tallow by Cindy Todd, Willow'd probably be able to defend the belts. Hell, der Vaart would probably roll over, let her rub his tummy, and let her have any partner she wanted."
"Brandon and Kalinder, World Tag Team Champions."
"We couldn't possibly be any more dysfunctional than Willow and Gracie."
"I look at that pair and I think of that Betty Johnson song "The Little Blue Man." One evening in wild desperation I rushed to a rooftop in town, And over the side pushed the little blue man
who sang to me all the way down; "I wuv you! I wuv you!" said the little blue man "I wuv you! I wuv you to bits." "I wuv you!" He loved me said the little blue man And scared me right out of my wits!"
"Gracie's just as crazy as Willow is. It's creepy the way she gets the crap beaten out of her and still thinks that people like Cindy Todd and Willow can be saved. Or that they're worth saving."
"In this business, Kal, I think you'd be hard pressed to find much of anybody worth saving. But sometimes the most important thing is that you try. I'd think being put into the hospital by a psycho bitch with a barbed wire noose would be a pretty obvious "No, fuck off. No savings here, plox." But if she wants to cuddle up to New Eden until they kill her, it's no skin off my back."
I nod. "I think she'd be better off without the tag titles binding her and Willow together."
"Then hey, go to bible camp with Brandon Vow, sing songs, make s'mores, win the belts, and make the Tag Team division the Odd Couple division."
"No way. I'm not going to listen to Mya Denton doing harmony with herself singing Kumbaya."
Desolation winces. "Okay, take five. I need to take a quick water break to wash out my mouth. I just threw up a little bit in it."
Fade to white.
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