July had been a busy (and fruitful) month for my little side career of draining the essence of things that go bump in the night in the hopes of getting enough magic juice to fire up a nice, stable portal between dimensions and cart my big blue butt back where it belonged.
I'd managed to put an end to a pesky regiment of British undead whose spectral forms would possess buried bones and claw their way to the surface every July 4th, feebly attempting to bring the disobedient colonies to heel some 240 years too late. The damned things could be put down and banished, but they came back each and every year.
We'd have to see next year if the bald general and his cohort would return from the grave once again.
It was actually a pretty good haul, magic wise. A good 700 Mals. Maybe a 10th or a 20th (if I wanted to play it safe) of what I'd need to be able to comfortable poke a hole between two realities without too many unpleasant side effects.
Like grotesque, tentacle-y abominations popping in to visit from the Far Realms. A place of infinite horrors that even the slightest glimpse of it would drive men mad. Hideous, malformed creatures whose forms made no sense to the rational mind, filled with strange moralities, plots, and theologies that made no sense to a rational mind.
So of course there was one of the fucking things at the Republican National Convention. I was sort of equal parts pissed off and ecstatic. Pissed off because after maybe a minute or two of talking to basically anybody I felt like I was about to have a brain aneurysm and have blood start leaking from my eyes, nose, and ears at any moment.
With all the plastic surgery, badly dyed hair, and toupees aplenty the Intellect Devourer's pretty bad human costume with a latex application covering his usual purple-green skin and his four skull-cracking, brain-scooping tentacles concealed beneath a great big bushy beard actually seemed relatively normal and mundane.
With all the botox in this place no one really noticed his complete and utter inability to form most microexpressions and the huge beard and mustache concealed the face that he didn't have a mouth in the usual place.
I cursed my luck drawing the Republican convention, while Gaunt and his crew were covering the Democratic one in a few days time.
There were always teams of mages in place at these things. People of power gathered here from all across the United States and if a specter, spook, devil, or demon wanted to find a body with a weak-willed soul to shove out of the driver's seat and then go on to live a life of luxury or cause havoc, the national conventions were one of the most accessible ways to do so.
A few folks tied to the convention's management who were in the know always hired secret security forces from the sorcerous contingent to make sure that Senator Billy Joe Jim Bob from Kentuck-a-ho didn't return home with someone else in possession of his body, or having sold his immortal soul to a succubus in the bathroom for a bag of magic beans.
Though actually with this lot it was more likely an incubus in the mens' room with some toe tapping code and a wide stance.
Spark had been monitoring internet traffic and was laughing his stripey blue tail off over the fact that porn usage had shot up massively since the convention goers had rolled into town, with over 400 percent increases in searches for "gay hunks," 200 percent for "gay group sex", and a 184 percent increase in porny activities overall.
Mostly he'd been rolling on the floor over the fact that the number one search term in Cleveland had become "cuckold" basically overnight, a favorite insult from certain conservative sections of the ol series of tubes.
And to be perfectly honest I was much happier trying to chase down an unauthorized Wyrd than I was trying to hold a conversation with somebody who uses the term "cuck" in a non-ironic, completely serious context.
It wasn't that squamous, tentacled horrors weren't welcome on the convention floor, hell no. The Koch Brothers were big time supporters of the party, after all. Just that you had to register your status as a creature of magic beforehand.
They gave you a little stamp on the hand that made a kind of neat, glowy, geometric pattern around your hand (or equivalent grasping appendage) that anybody with the right set of sight-enhancing spells would notice.
Both conventions tended to have problems with Intellect Devourers; a bunch of soft, easily-pliable wills with minds that never bothered to question the tenets of their parties, coasting entirely on blind obedience where in abundance. It was like an all you can eat buffet of fast food.
Of course most were just content in basking in the aura of the collected masses who had outsourced their thinking and morality to other parties, filling their plates with little bite sized morsels from a thousand different brain bowls.
Mostly we were on the lookout for the asshole that'd grab the whole fucking tray of chicken nuggets and waddled obesely back to his booth, wedging in after doing a big ol shimmy shimmy shake (and having the booth creak ominously). Figuratively of course. Ids (short for Intellect Devourer) tended to be even more skinny, bony, and fleshless than the UWA's mostly female, mostly tiny, mostly undernourished roster.
Wasn't one among them that I'd have hired as a serving wench back home at the Sapphire Shell. Never trust a restaurant that's staffed by skinny people. It means they're eating elsewhere, and if they're eating elsewhere, then by golly that's where you'll want to be going to find the best food.
Though I complained bitterly on air about there being only one proper sentient race on planet Earth, there actually were a handful of supernatural beings about, though most couldn't do much aside from mask their appearance due to the low ambient mana over most of the planet.
I'd actually had to keep myself constantly in motion during the whole thing thus far, or else I would find myself suddenly in the midst of every absentmindedly wandering Wyrd in the place, as they subconsciously positioned themselves to bask in the glow of mana I threw off.
Dragons are basically living ley lines, after all.
Most big cities actually had spells in place that made most folks not notice the strange beings amongst them. I'd actually gotten the nagging question that I'd had since forever answered. That being "Why the bloody fuck do my coworkers keep forgetting that I'm a motherfucking dragon?"
And to be perfectly honest, I wasn't anywhere near the most outlandishly dressed person at the convention. I fit in perfectly by complementing my natural blue complexion and red hair with a red and white striped dressed, one red boot, one white boot, and a bunch of stars airbrushed onto my skin in white.
It'd taken a while to spot the Id. Like I said, with all the botox injections in the room it made it hard to pick out the rubber prosthetics from those attempting to stave off the ravages of time by injecting a deadly poison into their noodles.
I'd managed to pick him out due to the fact that he'd been holding the same wine glass for fifteen minutes, not bothering to take a sip. The tentacular membrane covering the Id's squid beak-like mouth would actually come down to about a normal person's chin, so in order to properly drink the fellow'd basically have to peel back half his face and stick the glass halfway down a normal human throat.
Oh, and because I'm sure you're curious, Trump is a perfectly mundane human being, and though his hair is in fact a supernatural creature, it's non-sentient and is merely there feeding off his body heat.
Pence on the other hand, brrr. Let's just say there's a reason his forehead looks like hardwood polished to a shine and in certain lights his hair color looks suspiciously like bleached bone.
Though have no fear, Dick Cheney is still the undisputed king of Lichdom.
As I darted down the halls after the fleeing Intellect Devourer I once again thanked my genetics for having a foundation in place for my feet eventually going digitigrade, which meant that I felt perfectly comfortable running at top speed in heels. And also Mr. Skeltal for calcium and good bones. Doot doot.
The brain sucker'd attempted to drop me with a big blast of psychic energy a couple of times, but magical attack that attempted to target me directly never worked, and area effects had a tendency to bounce directly back from me. You basically had to aim at something else and catch me in the splash, rather than attempt to hit me directly.
Just another weird thing about me.
The Id managed to jump off one balcony, use his telekinesis to steer to the one below, and then change direction and take off running, while I had to figure out a way to do that basically adhearing to the laws of physics.
Once again I found myself wishing I'd grow up a bit faster and finally get my goddamn wings grown in.
No one takes you seriously as a dragon unless you have wings. Until you can fly you're just a funny colored lizard with strange indigestion issues.
But thankfully I had Spark monitoring the security camera feeds and relaying information into my earpiece. Ol Mr. Tentacles was headed back into the bowels of the building, towards the offices.
Goddammit. I did NOT want to accidently run across the presumed chosen candidate (after all it wasn't quite technically official quite just yet), because I was pretty sure that the moment he opened his mouth the urge to smack him in said mouth and knock his teeth down his orange neck would grow too strong.
Thankfully he wasn't on site just yet, probably hanging out in luxury at a penthouse suite in town somewhere or something.
The group I passed staring blankly into space could easily be confused for your normal sort of rent-a-cops, but the fact that one had tipped over onto his side and kept his pose like some kind of mannequin betrayed the fact that he'd been hit with a pretty big mind whammy.
"He went into the big office, back there on the left." Spark informed me helpfully.
I ran right into the office, shattering the door into a bajillion little pieces, only to find my target behind a desk with his fake beard askew and his tentacles upon the cranium of a red-headed older woman with a bob cut who sported a totally blank expression on her face.
"Not another step, or I'll turn her into a vegetable right here, right now!" the creature growled.
I snorted at him, filling the room with mist using the teeniest, tiniest bit of the raw cold my breath weapon was capable of generating.
"That's not going to help you. I know precisely where you are. I can feel your thoughts. Put down your weapons."
I dropped the enchanted dagger I'd been assigned. Standardized set of enhancements that will allow it to ruin the day of just about anything on the low end of the supernatural totem pole. If you lunged at me and put all your weight behind it, it might gives me a teeny, tiny scratch. The kind that just displaces a little bit of skin and perhaps leaves a raised red welt.
I stabbed it into my water bottle and dropped it at my feet.
"Good, good. Now, you're going to get down on your knees and look directly at the ground while I get my portal ready. I've got myself a brand new thrall, a speech writer no less, that would be wonderful to add to my collection. I'd wanted to pick up a few more, but one will do."
I can see perfectly through my own mist, it's a dragon thing. A dragon is the complete and total master of her body, and the products thereof. I could make my magical mist transparent to anyone I desired. It was very useful.
I did as the creature said, dropping to my knees and putting my hands on the sodden carpet.
Let's see, water bottle, water bottle, coffee pot… ah! There we go! Bottle of non-dairy creamer on a shelf about neck level to my target.
The creature's tentacles twitched, casting a spell. Intellect Devourers were one of the more dangerous kinds of Wyrd, as they didn't operate entirely from mana. They drew their strength primarily through the consumption of, well, intellect. Emotions, thoughts, and ideas, and on occasion the entirety of the brain itself.
They could crack open your skull, extract your brain, and gobble the thing down before your brain started to have the slightest bit of dysfunction.
It was not a pleasant way to go. An Intellect Devourer was pretty much entirely nervous system, even their muscles and their stomach had nerves and neurons and synapses and shit. Your brain didn't so much get digested as converted directly into Id tissue. The living bit got to witness itself being consumed entirely, unable to so much as move. You became a part of it.
Well, the intellectual part of you did. The moment your brain got ripped out the spiritual bit of you fluttered off for your eternal reward.
I learned this in my necromantic studies courses. It's quite interesting the number of sentient undead you can create from the same being if you really put an effort into it.
"In a few moments none of the mundies," a common Wyrd slang term for humans, "Will even remember who she was. It will be like she doesn't even exist, save in the printed word."
I slammed down my gauntleted fist, striking down through the puddle of water beneath me, connected to the bottle of coffee creamer behind Mr. Tentacles' head.
Devourers are damnably smart, and they get smarter with every sentient brain they consume, and even though they look like a bundle of sticks wrapped in rubber with squid for a head, they're actually pretty damned strong. Like professional athlete levels for your typical member of the Id community.
But peak levels of human durability are still merely human durability.
I'm a motherfucking dragoness with a literal god-damned gauntlet stuck to my left hand. Flesh parted, bone cracked, and I forcibly tore a chunk of his spine out of the back of his neck.
He collapsed onto the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. With their entire body being a nervous system, however, they can easily survive having their spine ripped out. It'd grow back into place in about a week.
I stood, walking behind the desk, grabbing a few water bottles, pouring them over my gauntlet to get the mess off as well as get myself a portal big enough to dump this fucker in the middle of the Marianas Trench.
The look like squids, but they don't breathe water.
"Umm… Kal, this isn't good. This gal is Mrs. Trump's speech writer, and she's going to be zonked out for a few hours. She's not going to have the speech done in time!"
I sigh. "Okay, fine. Can you hack in here and get something done? I dunno copy/paste shit from something else?"
"Sure!" Spark says with such raw, childlike glee that I know I've made a mistake. But I'm sure as fuck not going to type out a speech that important.
"Spark, I swear to god you need to keep the memes out of this."
"Awww!"
"Okay. Just one meme, but you have to kind of try to make it blend in and it can't be direct. Got it?"
"Yay!"
"And I want you to swear to me that it's not going to be a rickroll."
"I'm sorry. I cannot do that, Dave."
"Goddammit, Spark."
I'm actually somewhat at a loss for words here, I'm not really sure what there is to say. Because to be perfectly honest, everything I come up with is something that I'm almost positive I've said before. About something else, about someone else, about a very similar situation.
I just don't understand it. I don't see it. I don't get the purpose of having people like Alana Starr and Kennedy Street on the payroll, when they spend the vast majority of their time basically fucking around and refusing to do their jobs.
Alana Starr is the X-Limits Champion, and in the six months that the UWA has been its own entity she's never been made to defend her title. Not once.
The last time it was defended was the X-Class/No Limits unification in late February.
Before that? Before that it was September. Then July. Then March.
Thus far Alana has defended her belt on exactly four occasions, an average of once every five months.
Of course she's not the only one to blame. We also have to take into account the fact that a lot of the time the talent does not get to pick and choose their own matches.
A fact that seems to be lost on The Ginger Nation with all their bitching about Selena and I having done nothing to deserve a tag title shot.
But what we got, that wasn't a tag team title shot. That match was put together with zero possibility of Double Dragon, yes we have a team name now, walking out of there the Tag Team Champions.
We were put out there as bait. We were given a title shot, not because we were deserving, not because we're the only bloody team in the fed with matching tights, not because we're friends, not because we have overlapping themes of dragons and the cold.
Oh no.
We were put there out so that Alana Starr and Kennedy Street could come out and throw a tantrum, that they could have a strope. That they could stomp out and have a hissy fit, pitch some toys out of the pram and go "WAAAAAAH! WHY DADDY!? WHY ARE YOU GIVING THE OTHER CHILDREN TOYS THAT WE WANTED?!"
Because apparently dear Alana didn't want to play nice with the other children and stomped off to her room to make sure that the UWA was missing one of its major titles on the biggest show of the year.
I've wondered aloud, time and time again, why anyone would bother putting up with these ridiculous people and their selfish, obnoxious, demands that only serve to undermine the company you're trying to build.
The way I see it, what we're supposed to be setting up here is a sort of morality play, a presentation of good versus evil, where heroes and villains battle it out in the squared circle for the entertainment of the masses.
So as a result you go out and you hire vile, twisted people. Self-deluded egomaniacs with a greatly inflated sense of self worth who believes themselves to be the pinnacle of perfect, to be greater than all others, that they deserve to have everything handed to them on a silver platter. People who are so fucking annoying that anybody watching wants to see them punched in the face,
Oh and Alana absolutely excels in that regard. I want to punch her in the face. I want to punch her in the face really, really bad. I want to punch her in the face until there's no more face there and suddenly whoops, there's nothing there to punch any more and I'm actually punching pulp fragments and bone splinters on the ground.
So in that respect, I suppose, she's doing her job and doing it well.
But on the other hand, she isn't really doing her job very well, now is she?
I mean the downside to having a personality so awful that a goodly portion of the viewing audience gets tingly shins because they want to kick her directly in the cunt so badly is that such an unpleasant, distasteful, lacking personality means that Alana is most certainly never going to be a model employee, or a pleasant coworker to hang around with.
I've never missed a show since my debut. Every show that my employer has put on with me on the roster, I've taken part in it. I come out, I wrestle a match, day after day, week in and week out.
Not once have I asked for time off, not once have I had to miss a show due to medical issues, family drama, or the ever-dreaded "personal demons."
While half the roster comes wandering in smelling of alcohol, reeking of tobacco, stinking of ganja with their eyes dilated, their coordination flawed, covered in their own vomit and unable to even perform the most rudimentary task of speaking coherently into a camera for a few minutes.
I not only go out there and wrestle matches, but I also stand here in front of the camera each week attempting to do my job. Attempting to get the fans at home fired up, get them eager to tune in to see what I'm going to do next, what major battle I'm going to be put into, and what bullshit I'm going to have to overcome this week.
Because to be perfectly honest, that seems to actually be what my job primarily consists of. Not wrestling matches, not standing in front of a camera to make events seem like a big deal. No, most of my job these days seems to be dealing with the most recent bit of ridiculous bullshit floating down the gutter.
And what happened last week?
That was supreme Grade A Bullshit.
Oh yeah, sure, Alana threw a fit, stomped off, and made having a title match between me and her impossible on the biggest show of the year. Boycotting shows until she's given a tag team title match, because she needs a second title belt that she can do precisely fuck-all with.
So you give her an ultimatum, book her for a match, and if she doesn't show by the end of the night she's fired and gets her fashion accessory stripped away.
I mean it's been so fucking long since that belt was defended I'm going to have to blow dust off the damned thing, wipe off the cobwebs, and hose it down with fuckin' Armor-All.
So she no shows her match, which means that in order to not have her title stripped and be unceremoniously thrown out on her ass, she's going to show up somewhere along the line.
And she pops up exactly where everyone expects, ruining the main event match. But she made her appearance before the end of the show, so she's not fired.
And the UWA powers that be knew that was exactly what was going to happen.
Selena and I got tossed out there in a match that was never, ever going to have a legitimate conclusion, because Alana fucking Starr is way too full of herself to have something that's belonged to her for damned near two years taken away on a technicality.
And do you know what? I don't appreciate that. I don't like being somebody's little bitty fuckin' chesspiece on a board.
You gave Double Dragon exactly what Kennedy and Alana had been asking for: tag team title contendership out of nowhere. Granted just because. With no fanfare or build up. And you knew that'd piss them off, and it meant that they'd skip out merrily tra-la-la to the ring and fuck up the first title match I've had in professional wrestling in well over a year.
You made a match, not because you wanted a match, but so you could use Selena and I as bait to draw out… you know what? It's getting really fucking annoying to say Alana Starr and Kennedy Street, because I sure as fuck am not going to refer to them by their chosen tag team name, which not only has positive connotations that they're not deserving up, but also because it contains Alana's obnoxious, overused, overpromoted, run-into-the-motherfucking-ground dead horse of a catchphrase.
So the tandem is henceforth going to be referred to me as "Those Bitches."
Anyway, like I was saying, you made Selena and I an official tag team and out of nowhere you gave us a tag team title match. Which pissed people off, because we'd never tagged before. And what am I going to do? Come out and go "No, I don't want a tag team title match. Put me in some other match."
So from the moment you gave Double Dragon an official blessing to be a tag team, you were undermining us from the start.
Because that was all Ginger Nation harped on. That we'd done nothing. That we were undeserving.
Honestly, what the fuck? It's not like I can wave a magic wand and give myself any motherfucking match I want, and it's not like I begged for a goddamned tag team title shot.
Whomever made this match, be it Bryant or Helms, knew that throwing Double Dragon against Ginger Nation would bring Those Bitches crawling out of the woodwork, which is exactly what it did.
Congrat-u-fuckin-lations, lads. You've spent I don't know how much effort to coax Those Bitches back into the ring and all you had to do was kneecap a brand new tag team that your fanbase has actually seemed interested in for once in order to do it.
Why the fuck are Alana Starr and Kennedy Street so fucking important to you, hmm? Why do you need to make your own tag team division look like shit for the sole purpose of motivating them?
Look at me. Look at who I am. Look at what I can do. Look at what I've done for your company each and every day that I've been here.
I've done everything that you could possibly ever have expected of me. I've gone above and beyond the call of duty.
You look at me and compare me to half of the fuckheads on the roster, who don't fucking show up to wrestle their contractually obligated matches, who spend all week riding the goddamn washing machine instead of coming out and putting themselves in front of a camera for promotional segments.
I have done everything within my power to do my job, to give you the best performance that I can.
And what do you do? You purposefully put me out there and undermine my legitimacy.
You sit on my X-Limits title contendership for so long, the damned contract smells like Office Depot faux-leather chair and Taco Bell ass.
You throw me in a tag team title match that you KNOW will end in a clusterfuck run in, a match that leaves precisely no one happy.
Ginger Nation wasn't going to be happy with that match since Double Dragon's contendership came out of nowhere.
Those Bitches weren't going to be happy, because it wasn't going to be them getting a freebie tag title shot.
And Double Dragon was sure as fuck not going to be happy, because you never intended to even give us a legit shot at winning the tag titles in the first place, since you planned on having Those Bitches ruin the tag team title match right from the start.
There was never a chance for us to succeed. You put us in a position where there was nothing we could do except come across as a failure.
And I don't know why.
I have no idea why you'd bother to do that.
I don't know why you'd bother wasting all that time and effort to try and get a couple of assholes to come in and wrestle matches when they don't seem all that keen on wrestling matches unless they're the precise, exact, specific, accolade-laden matches that they want.
Alana? She's already got one belt, and actually got saddled with a partner that wasn't complete and utter ass in the ring and made it all the way to the World Title Tournament finals.
I don't believe for one second that those picks were random. That magically the 6.25% chance I have to get paired up with the worst fucking wrestler in the whole goddamned tournament happened.
Honestly? I probably ought to have beaten the living fuck out of Lilith Evans, stuffed her in a box, and wrestled the whole gods-damned tournament on my own.
Because I've had two tag team matches in UWA thus far, and management has blatantly pulled their pants, spent the day at the All You Can Eat Mexican Buffet, and promptly took a big, steaming, spraying, spattering diarrhea dump all over both of them.
Purposefully engineering circumstance where it's going to be difficult, if not downright impossible, to win. Matches where I come out looking bad no matter what the outcome is.
And yet here you are, fucking me over so that you can give pwecious speshul snowflakes like Alana Starr and Kennedy Street the motivation to actually come to work and do their goddamned jobs.
I told you not very long ago that you had one last chance to prove that you actually gave a fuck about the wrestlers that bust their asses for this company. The people who come out and wrestle week in and week out, never demanding preferential treatment, never demanding ridiculous, unearned accolades.
You put Alana Starr in the goddamned World Title tournament while she was carrying around the X-Limits title.
You've never made her defend the fucking X-Limits title until now, until early August when the company started in motherfucking march.
You let her wander off into the back alleys of Bitchburg, or wherever the hell she's from, leaving you down one title on the biggest shows of the year.
Oh, hey, you know what other title was missing from the biggest show of the year?
How bout those fuckin' tag titles, yeah?
Oh, sure, Marie was in the main event and she won the World Title, and she had to defend the tag belts the very next week. But that means a full forty percent of the UWA championships were not defended on what is ostensibly the most important event of the year.
So does that mean that these are titles you don't give a fuck about, gents? Because if you're going to ignore them, why bother even having them in the first place, you know?
But I don't think that's the case. I think what's going on is that you're far too lenient, far too giving, far too lax about maintaining rules, enforcing regulations, and keeping order.
You treat a select handful of superstars with kid gloves. You baby them. You spoil them. You shield them. You shelter them. You protect them. You refuse to make them take responsibility for their actions.
A professional wrestling championship is not merely an accolade, it is a responsibility. In carrying one you present yourself as one of the elite in a federation, one of a handful of ambassadors to the rest of the world.
But some champions are not fighting champions. Instead of serving as the paragons of the championships they represent, they are instead shirking that responsibility in the name of self-aggrandization.
Holding a championship is like owning a puppy. You have responsibilities and obligations that you need to uphold. You need to keep it safe so it isn't stolen, or runs off and gets into trouble. You need to take care of it so that bits are smooth and shiny, and other bits are solid and stain free. You need to take it around the neighborhood for exercise and to show it off and get it socialized.
Some people take care of their dogs and their titles. Others just treat them as fashion accessories and stick them in their purses, and pay somebody to clean up the messes that are made because the owners shirk their responsibility.
In part that's the fault of the owner, and in part that's the fault of the master of the house.
If Daddy doesn't put his foot down and state in no uncertain terms that Little Billy and Sally have to take Rover out for walks, pick up his poops, and make sure he doesn't widdle all over the carpet, and instead just has the maid do it, those kids aren't going to learn responsibility, and that dog isn't going to be well-trained at all.
Nobody wants an incontinent little yap-beast that barks, snarls, chews furniture, humps legs, and pisses all over everything.
Just like at this moment no one really gives a good goddamn about the X-Limits title.
It's been the ugly little rat-dog sitting in Alana Starr's purse for the better part of twenty fucking months.
And the tag belts? Why, they were an afterthought at Olympus while Marie Jones got to go down the the humane society and pick out a brand new puppy to play with because the old one had grown up and wasn't quite as cute and darling as it used to be.
So the Tag Team titles got to sit in a kennel, undefended, unwanted, and unloved while their master went out and played with a cute, new, exciting, expensive purebred puppy from a breed that everyone in the world wants.
If Sophie James wants to compete for two titles and hold them simultaneously, than by god she better be fully prepared to commit to the responsibilities that having those two titles require.
But don't worry, boys and girls. I'm not going to let these spoiled little brats be mean to those gold and leather puppy-dogs any longer.
Because I know what's coming down the pike.
They give Those Bitches exactly what they want, either giving them the chance for Tag Team Title contendership by facing Double Dragon, or directly getting a title match with the belts on the line in a three way tag team grudge match.
But do you know what else that means?
It means that I have the opportunity correct these little flaws, to take the oh so heavy burden of responsibility for these neglected title divisions off the hands of a few overworked, spoiled little princesses.
Drew Bryant, David Helms, I'm going to do you a favor.
You don't want to put you foot down, you don't want to punish people, you don't want to force misbehaving little children to live up to their responsibilities?
Fine.
I'm going to bring order to all this chaos. I'm going to discipline your bratty, misbehaving children. I'm going to beat every last ounce of ill behavior out of each and every one of your spoiled rotten superstars.
And I'm going to start with Alana Starr.
The greedy little bint doesn't want to play with her two year old X-Limits doggie and instead wants to adopt a pair of new puppies with IDK-MY-BFF-JILL? Nope. Not going to happen. No new doggies for AM Talk Radio's answer to Beavis and Butthead.
And her long neglected X-Limits puppy is going to have a brand new home with me, where it will get the love, and attention, and devotion it deserves.
Because I'm not going to sit on my ass and defend the damned thing once a season. If I had my way I'd be defending it at least once a month in the UWA, and I'd take the thing on the road. Hit a few territories.
Have myself a nice little hardcore brawl with anything and everything that isn't nailed down in one of those little garbage wrestling feds, since you know, THAT'S BASICALLY THE ONLY THING I'VE WANTED FOR FUCKING EVER AND NO ONE WILL BLOODY BOOK ME IN A MOTHERFUCKING HARDCORE MATCH!
Maybe pop down to Mexico and take on a Trios team all by my lonesome. I mean it's not like they're too much bigger than the teeny tiny stick-limbed supermodels with eating disorders I find myself wrestling around here.
Honestly, I think management is just scared I might grab up any three given members of the female roster at once and swallow them without needing a glass of water. Because seriously, y'all got some tiny-ass bitches up in this joint.
I'll drop by Japan, where I'm sure they'll treat me a hell of a lot better than I've been treated around here. After all I'm an absolutely huge, foreign wrestler who likes through lariats. The fact that I'm bright blue with anime red hair and a tail is just a bonus. I'm a living anime character. I'll be making more money in a week from dakimakura than Alana Starr's made in the past two years with her one, singular, worn down to a nubbin, tattered, threadbare husk of a catchphrase.
Hell, I'll do all that in one week, and get more done to promote and get exposure for the UWA X-Limits championship than the UWA itself has managed to do for the thing in six fucking months.
But that's okay. I'm already going to be doing one aspect of your job for you in disciplining the poorly behaved miscreants you call a roster. While I'm doing that I might as well take over adding value and prestige to the title I'll be carrying.
Since, you know, you're also direly failing at that aspect of your designated duties as well.
Fine.
You want to let your roster behave like a bunch of spoiled children?
It's time to bring back corporal punishment to the classroom.
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