There's always a bigger fish, no matter how big you are.
No matter how powerful you are there's always something more powerful.
Something that makes you feel weak, that makes you feel helpless.
Even when you're a mage.
Even when you're a dragon.
Even when you're probably in the top ten most powerful supernatural forces on the gods-damned planet.
Because there are natural forces compared to which you're little more than an oversized, bright blue bug.
Like the bullshit in the Caribbean, where it's basically The Neverending Story: Tropicane Hurristorm Edition.
I'd spent the better part of the past month and a half doing what I could to help out with hurricane relief efforts. It turns out even when you're a spellcasting, water-controlling dragoness that there isn't much you can do on a grand scale.
I'd spent the last week doing what I could in Puerto Rico, which wasn't much. Even when you can connect basically any two bodies of water on a global scale, when you're limited to two and a time and top out your radius at the level of "largish pond with delusions of grandeur" the best you can do is drain a few areas of stagnant water and move around a few trucks worth of goods.
Delivering generators and fuel to far inland places cut off from transportation was probably the most useful thing I'd done. But there were only so many donated generators that I could access and bring over.
Next most useful was evacuation. I could get people from one place to another, but communication was the issue there. One had to be able to find people to tell you "Oi, get me out of here!" and also be able to have a place to take them to.
Thankfully when your mentor owns an abandoned amusement park complete with several thousand seat stadium in one of the most climatically stable areas in the United States (and also due to being in basically a desert having the good fortune to not be on fire like most of the rest of the West coast) you can use that as an evacuation ground.
Though it doesn't help when some knob decides to shoot up the nearest major city, requiring you to truck in supplies from a hell of a lot further away.
I'd spent quite a lot of time lately cursing the fact that mine was the blood of a Water dragon. The best I could do was run a single file line of semi trucks through with supplies. But that was slow and only could serve one community at a time.
If I'd been an Earth or Stone dragon I could clear landslides, move debris, and make roads. One train could make far more difference than all my semi-based puddle porting could in a week. Unfucking the roads and highways would allow trucks to distribute things brought in on massive cargo container ships.
If it weren't for this stupid gods-damned gauntlet grafted to my arm I might be able to do more with my magic. Though arcane magic didn't do healing all that well compared to its divine counterpart, there were still a few things I could've cast to help.
I couldn't trust the Hand of Arimus not to fuck with any spell I cast. Theoretically, with the right combination of spell and metamagic effect, I could potentially wipe out any and every living thing smaller than a bumblebee in an area larger than some US states.
The combination had been found in the course of wizardly research somewhere on my homeworld of Tatheon some time ago.
Said wizard found himself brought before Xethion, the Dragon God of Darkness and Magic himself was asked to explain what the fuck just happened, and after happily stating what he'd done, was promptly eaten as a message to other spellcasters to not casually faff about with the destruction of life on that particular scale.
I could do ritual magic, but it took hours to have all the sigils set up right and carefully put protections in place to maintain the diagrams and sigils so that they'd last more than a few hours.
The hospitals, quite understandably, weren't much interested in a seven-foot tall dragoness taking up entire rooms worth of space for several hours carefully doodling arcane sigils on the floor.
So I'd taken to putting them on the roofs at night.
The best I could do was spend a few hours to keep things from getting really bad at the morgues where they would be without power for days, weeks, or months still to come.
Bureaucracy had reared its ugly head, with procedures required that the bodies be identified before burial and such.
I'd done everything I could think of, but I still felt fucking useless.
A subtle shift in the air caught my attention.
I frowned and pointed a finger at the disturbance.
"Nope. You can fuck the fuck right off. And once you've fucked off, fuck off from there too. Then fuck off some more. Then keep fucking off until you get back here. Then fuck off again."
The Manifold Matriarch's central white head scowled at me with sapphire eyes from between a slithering tangle of her other necks.
She had one head for every single draconic soul she devoured, each one of them trapped eternally in servitude in an unholy hybrid of their original consciousness and the Matriarch's own.
The cannibalistic dragon goddess had consumed her entire pantheon, then the dragons that opposed her, then her own faithful.
I never so much as thought her actual name, lest it somehow be snatched up by a telepath or mind-reader and released into the world, allowing petitioners to truly worship her, granting her power and gaining the capacity to bring her divine sorceries into being.
"But as loathe as I am to accept such simple, vile, short lived creatures as worshippers, surely devotion to me would be better than simply allowing them to perish."
I turned my hand, retracting my index finger and extending a single, central digit.
"Seriously, Eleanor," after Eleanor Rigby as the Matriarch had died in a church and was buried along with her name, "Fuck right the hell off."
"You get to sit in my fucking head, like the omniverse's biggest squatter taking up residence in my soul until I kick the bucket, you devour me, and then bereft of worshippers you go back to the oblivion that I regret accidentally yanking you from every day of my gods-damned life." I snarl.
"You would have died without me, my avatar." the hydra goddess purrs. "Surely the potential millennia of life ahead of you were worth it."
"Yeah, having to live with you as a fucking voice in my head while knowing that after I die I get to spend the rest of eternity as basically one in yours is just sooooo thrilling."
There's another strange feeling in the air as if a million greasy scumbag lawyers looked upon an ambulance and started wringing their grimy hands at the thought of profiting from the misery of others.
"AND YOU CAN FUCK OFF TOO!" I roar, flicking off the manifested shadow form belonging to the spirit that dwelled within my necromantic hell-gauntlet.
"I was merely going to suggest that the whole matter of soul-devouring can easily be remedied by a transition from a state of living to one of undeath sometime later in life, my host." the deep, demonic growl of the Hand of Arimus rumbled.
"My avatar cares not for your promises of immortality as a decaying husk, a bodiless specter, or a fleshless abomination." the Matriarch says smugly.
"She would rather meet her mortal end and spend eternity within my coils than taint her body and soul with your filthy sorceries."
"And yet for all your smug superiority in this calender year she has called upon my power more often than she has yours."
If an eight-foot tall cloud of writhing shadow in the silhouette of an armored man could stick out its tongue, I'm pretty sure the Hand of Arimus would be doing that now.
"Mmm. Tell me again about the part where she's ceased casting spells entirely, instead preferring to use dreadfully slow ritual magic because she doesn't trust you with even the slightest mote of magical power."
"Certainly. After we discuss how she finds you such an objectionable, abhorrent deity that she has never once used your actual name, nor drawn upon even the slightest mote of your own divine power in devotion, or even so much as lit a gout of flatulence in your honor, let alone a candle."
The air starts to grow thick with magical energy as two of the three spiritual manifestations of the voices in my head bicker with one another.
Now, which pocket of my Coat of Holding did I leave my popcorn in?
"Second rate artifact of a god of bards!"
"Top-heavy hack of a deity unable to find her own appendages in the tangle of her own bloated mass!"
"Not merely content to trespass on the forbidden side of the veil, young water drake, you also rope strange small kami into your mischief?"
The many-tailed, white-bearded old kitsune that's popped up behind me suddenly finds himself the target of three rather pissed off gazes from a trio of beings who on this rare occasion are in agreement.
"FUCK OFF!"
"FUCK OFF!"
"FUCK OFF!"
"Such disrespect! Very well, I suppose I shall have to discipline you with force!"
Yet another source of mana fills the air, this one making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. My lips part into a feral grin.
An unarmed little old man is almost always the most dangerous thing in the room. But I know two things he doesn't.
One, you just outright cannot target me with harmful spells. They'll just slide right off at best, outright miss most of the time, and will just plain ol blow up in your face at worst.
Two, the third voice in my head is my bonded muse, an Air Elemental by the name of Spark. Who as his name would suggest is basically living electricity.
Which means that the bolt of lightning that slams into me doesn't hurt me. In fact, it heals me; banishing my physical and mental fatigue from my rather trying day.
It'd been almost a year since the last time I'd encountered someone with both the magical oomph enough and the inclination to actually cause me harm, and over four a half since I'd actually been targeted with a spell cast by someone who wasn't spiritually bound to me.
But the lessons my grandmother had drilled into my head since I was a child came right back.
For the first time in ages I draw upon the Sublime Path, what Spark referred to as "Anime Bullshit Magic," and cross the space between myself and my vulpine attacker in the blink of an eye.
My right hand reaches out and I feel layers upon layers of magic shatter upon contact with my bare skin. Just as no spell will accept me as a valid direct target, no form of sorcerous protection can withstand my touch.
Not even being out of phase with the material plane is enough to stop me. I've literally punched incorporeal spirits to death with my bare hands.
I never get tired of seeing the look upon the faces of powerful spellcasters when I just reach through their shields, their wards, their auras of protective power.
The first time I'd done this had been to the former owner of the Hand of Arimus, a vampire sorceress who ruled the province of New Avalon through the strength of her hand. Of course, I hadn't known that at the time, merely that she was a bitchy bureaucrat who had ordered one of her minions to goad me into combat by attempting to drown a sack full of kittens that I'd spent the last week trying to coax out of my woodpile.
I'd knocked one of her fangs out and given her a bloody lip. It was the first time she'd actually been struck in centuries.
The Hand of Arimus transforms the elemental power of the lightning I'd absorbed into raw magical energy, crafting it into a heavy, weighted ring of runes wrapping around my left hand.
I release the kitsune from my grasp, ducking down as he begins to fall from nearly ten feet in the air.
I connect with the underside of his chin in a gauntleted punch, spectral chains lashing out from the circle of sigils that orbit my fist, locking down any teleportation capabilities he might have for the next few hours.
Instead of going down the impact of my blow reverses his flight sending him flying head over heels.
Drawing upon the ambient mana and the last dregs of the lightning bolt the Manifold Matriarch gains just enough power to act according to my will.
She draws in a breath and exhales it mightily upon the ground, the freezing ice of her own Frost Breath solidifying the somewhat mushy earth into a painfully hard surface.
Sadly the kitsune mage doesn't get to experience the impact, as instead of letting him simple smack again the ice, I link it to the most fetid, rank, mosquito-infested den of malaria and dengue fever that I know of.
He crashes through the ice and into the disgusting, stagnant water of the swamp somewhere in the middle of the Amazon that I'd used my puddle portation ability to connect with the ice patch.
I dismiss the connection with a disgusted wave of my hand.
"Serves him right. Who does he think he is calling me a small spirit?"
"Not merely a diminutive, but comparing such majestic beings such as ourselves to common spirits of simple rocks and plants. Feh. He deserved what he got."
Honestly, I really ought to thank him. I'm no longer feeling sorry for myself, am exceptionally pissed off, and in the mood to completely and utterly beat the crap out of someone.
It's a good thing DTW has opened back up and given me acceptable targets to take my frustrations out on.
Imagine that you have a baby. Not your baby, you're not going to be keeping this baby. Someone, somewhere, has given you a baby and invested you with the power to hand off this baby to whomever you please.
But you're not going to hand off this baby to just anybody, oh no.
Because along with the baby you were given a promise, that depending on how this baby is raised, depending on how it grows up, how happy it is, how successful it becomes as an adult, all of these things are going to contribute to your own professional and financial well-being.
So what do you do to make sure that this baby not merely survives, but thrives? Why, you'd have to look into all the potential families that are available to be parents to the poor dear, make sure that they're good, morally upstanding people and not mad dogs given the forms of men that are going to rape it to sleep at night and leave it to boil to death in a hot car during the day.
You've got to make sure that the family can afford this child, can support this child, have a career that will assure that the child grows up to be happy and healthy.
You look down the street at all the potential families that you can give this baby to. This wonderful, special baby.
Just having this perfect, unique child will bring fame and prestige to whoever gets to raise this baby.
This is a very sought after baby.
You have men and women clamoring at your door, each of them extolling their virtues, telling you exactly why they would be the absolute best to receive the honor of having this baby for their very own.
In time candidates prove themselves worthy and unworthy. There are some close calls, but in the end, it comes down to two choices of who gets the baby.
One on side of the street in this theoretical suburbia, you have a big, grand house. It's absolutely titanic, it's amongst the biggest houses you've ever seen.
It's not one of those grotesque McMansions with their clashing architectural styles, their mismatched windows, their cluttered rooflines, their Pringles can entryways, their fake pillars, their glued on foam decorations, their shoddy construction, their yards devoured by concrete driveways and backyards bereft of trees.
Oh no. This is a sturdy construction that you're sure will be housing families long after you and your own children are dead and gone.
The house has been ill-used, though. Renters have not treated the place very well. In fact the last renters, let's call them the Uwa family, were arrested and evicted for cooking meth in the bathtub and running a brothel filled with inane, inept hookers.
But that's all over and done with. The place has been cleaned up, and there's a rather pleasant immigrant family living there now.
They haven't been treated the best, they haven't been given many opportunities, they've been overlooked time and time again in favor of folks whose looks, voices, and religious beliefs are those that are far more common in the area.
These folks are a bit reclusive because they have not been treated very well. You can remember how happy and polite and nice they were when they first moved into the neighborhood, only to have that niceness worn down into bitterness and cynicism through the actions of some members of the neighborhood.
Why, you can even recall some local businessman that paid out a bounty to the local Our Lady of Batshit Insanity Fundamentalist Church congregation to stand on their lawn and set fire to some rather large, wooden objects.
But they've wanted a baby since they moved here. They've filled out all the forms, they've crossed all the T's and dotted all the I's, but nobody will give them a baby.
"Because they're not one of us." they say.
"They're not from one of the upstanding families that have been living in this community for decades. They don't deserve a baby. Look at all the bright, young men and women with a recognizable last name. Look at them and tell them they don't deserve a baby."
And then the open their wallets and toss a few bills around, "Whoops, clumsy me! I seem to have accidentally scattered around a few thousand dollars that have blown into places where I can't reach. I sure hope someone will pick them up once I leave, as I am thoroughly convinced that you will make the right decision. Wink. Wink."
The sorts of humorless, unpleasant bastards that would actually say "Wink, wink," because they're about as bright as a sack of concussed puppies and think that everybody else is too.
But you've seen babies that have been adopted by these sorts of people, just using them as little more than status symbols.
Why you remember one baby who was handed from daycare to nanny and back again day after day after day for the better part of six months, the adoptive parents never even so much as looking at the child aside from a few staged photo opportunities.
That will not happen to YOUR baby, you tell yourself.
Then you turn and look across the street, looking to the OTHER family that you've got on your list.
To be perfectly honest, the only reason they're there is because you wanted to get them to leave your office, and telling them they were a candidate for adoption was the only way you could have them pick up their diaperless child from shitting all over the floor, their toddlers from pissing in your potted plants, and their grandma from openly masturbating in your waiting room with a Washington Monument paperweight from your secretary's desk that you ordered burned afterwards.
Oh, the family is well known all over town, they're in the news frequently. Usually for some sort of disturbing the peace violation, indecent exposure, public intoxication, or vandalism. Enough to be annoying, but not enough to throw them in prison.
Somehow they manage to scrape up enough money to pay their fines, bail, and court fees. But they stopped paying Public Services and had their water and sewer shut off.
Well, that might not be so bad, but they don't wash, they don't drink water. They drink nothing but soda pop, don't brush, and have awful teeth.
You're pretty sure one of them is a hoarder. The whole yard is overgrown. You can spot a few cars in various states of being taken apart amidst the foliage of National Geographic's Wild Kingdom.
The house might've been a nice place at one point, but these days it's missing shingles, the roof is sagging in places, a few of the windows have been broken and covered with plastic wrap on the inside, so the window sills are rotting.
As you watch one of them comes out of the house with a five-gallon bucket. They walk over to the in-ground pool that has never been filled with water in living memory.
You watch with horror as they upend the bucket into the pool, a flotilla of turds sailing upon a sea of urine pouring out.
The wind shifts and to your disgust, you can smell the stench coming out of the pool. This is a common practice.
You shudder, not recalling the slightest sight of toilet tissue in the mess. Do they hoard it? You wonder. Stuff it into bags? Or maybe they just throw the used TP into the otherwise useless bathtub.
Maybe they don't even use toilet paper. Maybe they use newspapers. Maybe they use their hands.
Oh my god, is that person licking spatter from the bucket off of their hand?
Remember, your future is tied to the life of this baby and how well it turns out.
Which of these two families are you not only going to entrust with this precious human life but also your own eventual prosperity?
Who's it going to be? Which of the two families do you think the kid is going to do the best with?
Is it going to be the Shitlickers? Whose home has long since passed beyond the realm of fixer-upper and into knocker-downer, who judging from the cacophony have a home full of flea-ridden mongrels that have turned whatever once covered the floors into a wall to wall tide of canine excrement.
The people from which will arise the next great plague that will devastate mankind.
Fuck no.
If you have one goddess-damned ounce of sense in your head, you're going to give that baby to anybody BUT the Shitlicker Family.
A professional wrestling title isn't quite a baby, but like a baby, it needs to be cared for.
It needs to be cherished.
It needs to be loved.
It needs to be respected.
Teiji Shintaro gives precisely no fucks.
He doesn't give a fuck about you.
He doesn't give a fuck about me.
He doesn't give a fuck about his own goddamn personal hygiene.
He doesn't give a fuck about the DTW World Championship.
He's the professional wrestling equivalent of the parents you see going to jail because their kids have lived in a closet their whole lives, utterly bereft of human interaction. Ten-year-olds that can't talk and shit themselves. Not because they were born mentally disabled, but because their scum of the earth parents never gave even the slightest single fuck to teach them how.
It's been four years since I got started in professional wrestling, and so far I've not seen a single fucking federation that's managed to keep even half its titles in something resembling a respected state.
"Hey, let's engineer circumstances so the gal the boss is fucking wins the belt, basically blackmail her opponent into losing, treat the win as if it makes her some kind of great heroine, and then have her defend it against her family and her family's friends that just magically all of a sudden turned against her."
"Oh, what's that you say? You've got a pair of tits, a cute enough face, a personality disorder, emotional issues, and enough brains rattling around in between your ears to make up some bullshit backstory that makes our financial backers' misery boners rock hard and throbbing? Eh? You've been trained by one of the half dozen people whose names are on our magical list? Well, why didn't you say so in the first place! Here, we'll just GIVE you a title belt!"
"Huh? What's that? DEFEND a title? What the heck is that nonsense? Inactivity vacation? Well, I DO want to go on a nice Alaskan cruise. Oh, not that kind of vacation. I don't understand why you're so grumpy, you've won a number one contendership. We're never going to let you compete for it properly, but you've got something that's almost as good as a title! Why are you so unhappy? Just go out there and do the half a dozen moves we say you can do, make sure to let your opponent kick the shit out of you, and we'll run you down on commentary all the while."
"Here, let's just throw you and another wrestler we don't really like together in a tag team randomly. Oh, just as randomly, we're giving you a tag team title shot. You disgusting, undeserving bitches. Yeah, how disgusting that we just HAND you a title shot out of nowhere, while these two other lovely gals that have been refusing to wrestle for weeks have been begging us for a tag title shot. So worthless. So petty. So undeserving."
I am sick and tired of this horse shit.
You would think people who run wrestling companies would actually be interested in the product being respected, their titles trophies of honor, their wrestlers cherished employees, their fans as the entire reason for their being a professional wrestling federation in the first place.
But no, the world seems to treat feds where the name of the game is aggrandization of the ego between the face running the place and his chosen cadre of special needs wrestlers. Oh, you have to treat them so carefully so their pwecious widdle feelings won't be hurt.
You have to shower them with praise, give them title shot after title shot, pay their friends to come and wrestle for your company, do precisely fuckall when they decide to ruin your sanctioned matches by sticking their noses where they don't belong.
Why? For the sake of ego. For the same reason TV execs ax shows with good ratings and a big fanbase. The same reason the Tangerine in Chief has complete and total bupkis as far as accomplishments go, but he sure is doing his best to get rid of literally everything that has the last guy's name on it.
It's all so at the end of the day you can point to something and go "Fuck you all, I made this! Me! This is a thing that is mine that I have done!"
If it's something someone else had a hand in making, it's not something that's going to win you accolades. It's not something that you get to add to your resume. It's not something that your fawning toadies are going to kiss your ass for.
No one wants Teiji Shintaro to win the DTW World Championship from me.
His own manager thinks that it'll be a fucking financial disaster for DTW if his client gets a hold of the thing to cover in his own shitty fingerprints for a few moments before casting it aside in apathy.
The so-called Terror doesn't care one whit for accolades.
All he wants to do is smear his crappy, "life sucks, then you die" philosophy around just like he does with his own fecal matter.
Teiji Shintaro is just another televangelist, just another street corner prophet, just another dickhole with a message to peddle.
The only reason the son of a bitch isn't out here with a cum-covered hardcover book in his hands trying to foist it off on the dickless wankweasels that can't reach orgasm without thinking about Tyler Durden is because he's a fucking lazy waste of space.
Why bother to go to all the effort of actually thinking, of structuring, of writing things down when he can just go into a professional wrestling ring, speak a few dozen words, and then shit himself and jack off while basking in the disgusted horror of everybody watching.
"Teiji doesn't care about his health! Look at all the suicidal moves he does without regard for his body! Look at all the poop he eats! Look at all the grotesque matches he's put himself through! He's suicidal!"
No. No, he's not.
If he was suicidal then he'd have long since shoved one of the NRA's favored matte black doomcocks into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
If he was suicidal he wouldn't have had his asshole stitched back together after having a bottle shoved up his ass and broken into a bajillion pieces. He'd have just left it as it was, let it fester and rot.
No, Teiji is perfectly happy to get stitched back together, and do you know why?
So he looks like a martyr. So he looks like he's suffering for his philosophy.
He wants you to go "Look at what this man endures, look at what he believes. I'm suffering. If I believe as he does, maybe I too can have the strength to fight on through my battles."
His philosophy is one of irresponsibility. You are freed from your shackles to your fellow man, give in to whatever desires you might have no matter how illegal, disgusting, or depraved they may be.
Tear down the society that has lead to your suffering. Suffer no longer, instead inflict the pain you have felt for so long upon others.
He wants to be beaten, broken, bloodied.
The thing that would give Teiji Shintaro more pleasure than anything else would be to die out there in that professional wrestling ring.
Not because he's suicidal.
But because he's interested only in chaos, in carnage, in destruction.
And what better way to completely and utterly ruin another human being than to make a murderer out of them, hmm?
Poop washes off. Scars heal. Bones mend.
But the emotional trauma of making someone end a life?
That's enough to tear a soul apart.
Teiji Shintaro wants to die for his cause. To live life in death. To be remembered as having died for his beliefs, for his ideals, for his philosophy.
But the thing is… that's the easy way out.
Death is always easy. Everybody does it, eventually.
It's just so easy to take one more step and throw yourself in front of a bus.
Just clench your finger just a fraction of an inch.
Just a few minutes with a bottle of water and a bottle of pills.
Just a little motion with a blade.
Just one step off the chair with the noose around your neck.
And then it's over.
And then the suffering is gone.
And then the pain ends, the responsibility is gone.
It's easy to lie down in the dirt and rot.
The hard thing is picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and to keep going.
I'm going to do something that Teiji Shintaro never will.
I'm going to live for my beliefs. I'm going to live for this federation. I'm going to live for the DTW World Championship.
Because I'm not going to let you turn this into a joke. I'm not going to let people like you turn DTW into yet another bottom-feeding, scum-sucking professional wrestling federation where the titles are pathetic, the wrestlers are pathetic, and the fans are the most pathetic for daring to even believe that they could possibly be treated with sense and decency instead of thousands of mentally retarded walking wallets that clap and bark like inbred seals at whatever rubbish and pap is dished up to them by butt-sucking empty suits.
Because right now DTW is alive. It's pulsing. It's thriving. It's something vibrant, something different.
Because the big man in charge gives precisely zero fucks about playing political games with the roster. He's not playing favorites, he's not trying to stuff his shitty, shitty children into the main event. He's not making life miserable for half the roster. He's just sitting back, relaxing, and letting us do whatever the fuck we want with the occasional nudge in one direction or another.
I'm not going to reward Goro for being the only promoter that's not thrown roadblock after roadblock in my way to let this promotion sink into a fetid mire of literal liquid shit.
It's a hobby for him, a dalliance, an amusement.
Every time he passes gas several hundred dollars in fifties comes flying out of his butt, he's so goddamn rich.
He can afford to throw away millions on DTW if he wants to.
He can afford to let the inmates run the asylum, and can just sit back and laugh if the whole thing crashes and burns.
Me?
It took me the better part of four fucking years of working my gods-damned tail off to get to the point where I can have the opportunity to fight for a title without a single drop of bullshit, and if this place goes down, who the fuck knows if I'm ever going to be able to find another one.
I fight not just for myself, not just for the fans, but for DTW as a whole. Three-fourths of the roster only care about their own sorry-ass selves, boosting their own ego. Sucking all the glamor and fame out of this place that they can before drifting on to the next blood buffet they can stick their self-centered proboscis into, rather than giving a damn for this entire wrestling federation.
All they want is to use DTW to benefit themselves.
I'm going to use myself to benefit DTW.
I'm going to drag this lot of degenerate bastards, egomaniacal dipshits, tendie-chomping edgelords, shit-eating hobgoblins, and whatever the fuck Claudia is, kicking and screaming into reverence and respectability.
I am going to be a shining bastion of honor, grace, and fighting spirit in a sea of personality disorders and abhorrent behavior.
I will face anybody that gets put in front of me for my DTW World Championship. I'll face them, and I will put them down and then move onto the next challenger. And the next. And the next.
A fighting champion who will take on all comers. No tricks. No bullshit. As long as this belt rests around my waist, DTW title matches are going to be held with the grandeur and respect that a World class championship deserves.
And if that involves stitching Teiji Shintaro's mouth shut, wrapping his hands in oven mitts and duct tape, and supergluing him into a pair of DayGlo fishing waders, then so fucking be it.
I'm perfectly willing to beat the ever-loving fuck out of each and every member of the DTW roster until they learn to behave themselves.
I mean I basically spent the entire "first season" of DTW making Riddick my own personal bitch. If I have to spend the next year dumping gasoline on people's crotches, setting them ablaze, and then putting the fire out with a two by four studded with nails and broken glass every time some member of the roster threatens to rape me, uses the words "Game of Thrones," "Lord of the Rings," or "Dragon Slayer," or runs off cackling with mad glee with all the goddamn cupcakes from catering, eventually they'll learn to behave.
And if not, well, they're not going to be able to breed and pass their stupid along to the next generation.
Hell, if I take out Teiji and Riddick's ability to achieve erection, I've cut out about half of their objectionable behavior right fucking then and there.
I've fought worse.
I've fought creatures more disgusting, more loathsome, more vile, more repugnant, more sickening, and more repulsive than you can possibly imagine.
You're just a bunch of badly behaved human beings.
Me? I'm a motherfucking dragon. It's no skin off of my ass to take the next decade of my life and dedicate it to beating lessons about how to adult into each and every one of your thick, probably bald, probably beardy skulls.
It may be Teiji the Terror's battlefield, but you know what?
It's my fucking war.
I'm inexhaustible.
I'm unbreakable.
I'm unstoppable.
It doesn't matter how hard you fight, how much you hurt me, how much you sacrifice to win.
Because you wear down. You erode. You age. You fall apart.
I don't.
I am Dragon.
I am forever.
I am the infinite tide that will wear away all that you are, all that you've been, all that you'll ever be.
I am DTW's Dragon Queen, and I will defend my crown against any and all pretenders!
All.
Hail.
Your.
Queen.
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