Y'all are a bunch of uncultured fuckwombles, seriously.
I mean just look at what little miss "I only wrestle on rare occasions, but can interfere in my fuckpets' matches all I want and can run my filthy whore mouth about them and can cry foul when a professional wrestler actually lays their hands on me" said not too long ago.
It's like you people are incapable of forming your own ideas, of having your own hobbies, of going out to see a movie that isn't a bajillion dollar blockbuster, of watching anything but the most recent popular television show.
Because fuck me in my blue, scaly cloaca, do you people do precisely fuck-all creatively when it comes time to insult somebody with draconic heritage.
Of course out come the reptilian slurs, which are stupid. Because I'm neither splay-legged nor cold-blooded.
Then come pretty much the only three works involving dragons that you guys managed to have hammered into your skulls in between sessions of drinking french fry grease and inbreeding.
Game of Thrones.
Lord of the Rings.
Puff the Magic Dragon.
Y'all can take a puff on my motherfucking magic dragon because I know that the number of you fuckers that have actually sat down and read a book are about equal to the number of books read by Champion the Wonder Horse.
Zero.
So you've got the TV and Film versions.
WHERE THOSE FUCKING THINGS ARE WYVERNS!
TWO LEGS, TWO WINGS, THEY ARE MOTHERFUCKING WYVERNS!
THEY ARE FLYING SNAKES THAT AT BEST ARE CHEAP DOLLAR STORE KNOCK OFFS.
Wyverns are to dragons what Spooters-Man is to Peter Parker.
So as your Queen, it's up to me to educate the ignorant fuckheads amidst my royal subjects about the way the world I come from works.
Somewhere along the line we'll talk about dragons.
But this week, boys, girls, bearded dwarven fuckboys, weepy goth bitches, and the seven hundred and ninety-eight members of Cindy Todd's entourage that are going to show up next week, interfere in my match, and randomly beat the fuck out of me for old times sake, we'll be talking about magic.
See, there are a couple kinds of magic, and they all involve the utilization of some sort of power.
You've got your Wizards, who shape their magic through memorized words and gestures using ambient energy. Studious sorts who strive to make the thing more of a science.
You've got your Sorcerers, who have their magic on an instinctual level, coming from internal stores of elemental power. This is where you've got your dragons and folks who can trace their ancestry back to some weird critter.
You've got your Ritualists, magics that pretty much anybody can perform given the knowledge, time, and patience. Basically, a mana vending machine, insert particular diagram under certain circumstances, receive bag of jelly beans that will animate the dead.
You've got your Witches and Warlocks, folks who lack innate power and knowledge of their own but have made bargains with creatures of power in order to acquire arcane might for themselves that they were lacking.
And then you've got your Disciples. While a Witch'll bargain away a part of herself while she's' alive, the Disciple's master is more interested in what comes after. They're not satisfied with having you serve them merrily in this life. They want you for eternity. This is where your holy men, evil overlords, staunch defenders of nature, and champions of the Faerie realm come from.
Gods damn, do I ever hate the motherfucking Faerie realm.
"I am Fey, Fey, Fey! I make gold from rocks!"
And then in a few hours, it turns back to motherfucking rocks after you've used it to pay for goods and services, you cheap little filigree winged fuckheads.
Never mind the magic, let me tell you about the last bit of bullshit I had to deal with Rosie the Rapist.
I'll note that she didn't actually do anything sexual, she took exception to my being a woman, seven feet tall, and preference of swords, guns, and explosions to the "traditional" lady-arts of waif-fu, archery, staves, casting healing magic, being immobilized by being grabbed by the upper arm, and and waiting for big, strong, masculines mens to come rescue you.
So instead of giving me the nice, simple immunity to fire that I asked for, she decided that if I was exposed to enough fire, she'd make it so that I poofed over into a properly feminine form. Five feet tall with a small chest, bright pink, blonde hair, blue eyes and with my natural element of Coldfire replaced with the normal sort.
That and she decided that perfectly normal way dragons and gender work wasn't good enough and decided to fiddle with THAT.
I don't want to get into it and dragon naughty bits are complicated and have several structures that don't have a human analog, and I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain in diagrams the sheer variety of assorted bits that dragons can have down there.
But let's just say I was happy with my original arrangement, which is now split up against normal Coldfire Kalinda, and sawed-off pink Pretty Pretty Princess Kalinda.
And that really pisses me off.
Do you know what else pisses me off?
The fact that I'm contractually obligated to have Rosie the Rapist drop by once a week, and have the wonderful experience of having to converse with the women who violated my body and my magic.
Every week she'd come up to the VIP entrance door that lead down into the underground levels of the Sapphire Shell Inn, the tavern/inn that I'd taken over from my Grandmother due to her absence.
I'd had the original building expanded, had a new floor added on top, and a couple additional lower levels put in.
Grandma had the insight to buy up the land right on top of a convergence of ley lines and had the original basement of the building set up to allow for high-paying clients to bask in the concentrated mana.
All the former landowner wanted in exchange for the land was to be granted a special VIP table once a week in perpetuity.
Thankfully the fey contract didn't specify precisely WHERE the table needed to be.
So when Rosalina Wyrd knocked on my door it was business as usual.
"I have come to claim my seat and my meal as guaranteed by the contract." the four foot tall, pink-haired pixie bitch stated, pushing on the door that I'd opened just a crack.
"Sorry, no interior VIP tables available today. Reserved for the"Rosalina is an oath-breaking coprophagic cornucopia of fucknuggets" family reunion." I smile sweetly, "Of course we have the "Rosalina is a curse-inflicted bitchgoblin who needs to crawl up a unicorn's ass to be reunited with all the other pink, sparkling turds" VIP table out on the corner of the back patio."
"Kalinda..." she says with a scowl and a very well executed Stock Sadness Expression #3.
"Nope, no Kalindas here. I'm not personally familiar with any backstabbing fey that are allowed to use my first name. Do you want your table in the composting section or the non-composting section?"
The non-composting section is by the dumpster.
"Miss Kreigsdottir..."
"Nope. Contractually obligated business only. Use one of my proper titles or fuck off. Then keep on fucking until you fall into an open sewer."
"Handmaiden of the Smoking Scythe, I beg of you to give me entrance, just this once! I'll never so much as ask for the duration of our contract if you will simply let me draw upon the mana I need to complete my duty." the faerie said, giving a curtsy as she knelt on the cobblestones.
"Too bad. You ruined your chances of getting in here forever when you decided to use your magic to play Musical Chairs with my reproductive system."
"So you are standing in the way of me being able to carry out my duties as one of the highest ranked Malefic mages in New Avalon?"
"No. You did that. I'm merely showing you that actions have consequences. Like when you trust your grandmother's friend to honor her word and give you something so simple as instilling a permanent immunity to fire magic, never imagining that she'd use the opportunity as a soapbox to stand on and shout the core tenants of her sexist-bintdom."
"It wasn't my fault!" she protested.
"Mmm. Maybe I'd accept an apology from you one day, Rosie, if literally every one of them didn't have an excerpt from the Narcissist's Prayer. "That didn't happen, and if it did it wasn't that bad…""
"It's not! You have the capacity..."
"And if it was, that's not a big deal..."
"If you ceased your childish games and merely adopted your Fire-infused shape as your base form, you would have equalized your height in the five years since!"
"And if it was, it's not my fault..."
"It's not! Something went wrong with your ridiculous draconic magic! Probably that wretched Void bloodline of yours. You should blame the Void Queen who blessed your bloodline with her chaotic essence, not me!"
"And if it was, I didn't mean it..."
"I didn't! I didn't mean to empower a second, independent elemental state!"
"And if I did, you deserved it."
"I'm beginning to think that you did! I need that mana to be able to power the spells I need without leaving me weakened and half dead!"
"Buy mana stones and potions like everybody else, Rosie. It's not my problem."
"Fey magic cannot be restored through common stones and potions! I cannot empower myself through any means but energizing myself in a ley line nexus without undue financial hardship."
I stuck a menu out the door, "Well then set sail about your undue financial hardship to your special reserve table near the dumpster or the compost heap."
"Then it looks like I have no choice."
"Sure you do. Menu's right there. Chef's special is soggy fish sticks heated up in the microwave with a side of whatever snacks went stale sitting on the bar last night. For the wine, may I recommend the leftover water from this morning's mopping of the restrooms?" I said, closing the door.
"Hand of Arimus, I bequeath the task laid upon me to the greater, more powerful servant of His Diabolic Maleficence!"
"Oh you fucking bitch, don't try to dump your Faerie Godmother bullshit grunt work on me!" I growled before I spit a gout of Coldfire on the floor. Hopefully, I could teleport myself out before she actually managed to pin me with some stupid quest.
"The Empowering Ceremony for the Princess of Exterra..."
"Nope! Nope! Nope!" I shouted, "Can't hear you!"
I clasped my hands over my ears, frantically searching for a suitable clean body of water.
"Is tonight, and they have invited representatives from all nations, save for New Avalon!"
"Good! I wouldn't invite us either! I mean look at who our top three government reps are. Lady Thanatos the Bloodsucking Vampire, Mrs. Garibaldi the Necromancer Mafia Wife," make your own Don of the Dead joke here, "And you, the backstabbing, curse-spewing, kinslaying..."
"And they have officially banned devotees of Krygar and Arimus from the ceremony to give their blessings."
"No! Fuck you! I'm not going to do your Sleeping Beauty bullshit. You can go play Maleficent on your own fucking time!" I snarled. Dammit, mud puddle, pig pen, algae-infested swamp, somebody's dirty washtub.
Filthy ruin-scavenging peasants, why has nobody drawn a bath?
"So, will you let me in?"
"NO! Rose, if you pawn this shit off on me, I will fucking set you on fire and have Spark unleash an electrical hellstorm powered by three terabytes of unsolicited dick pics!"
"Then it seems I have no choice but to..."
"Your flesh charring, body wracked with convulsions while an uncountable plethora of badly photographed male genitalia flashing before your eyes!"
"...grant this sacred duty to one who can perform it, my lady Handmaiden."
I felt the bindings of the Quest slip over me, with a smug chuckle from the gauntlet grafted to my left arm.
"FUUUUUUUUUCK!" I roared as I stomped off into the bar, snatching a few things up, much to the bewilderment of my clientele.
"Here's your lunch and drink order," I snarled, shoving the bowl of peanut shells and the spittoon into her hands. "Thank you for choosing the Sapphire Shell Inn for all your dining needs, AND GO FUCK A RED HOT CACTUS YOU BUG-WINGED BITCHFLEA!"
"But fleas don't have wings?" the faerie said, completely baffled as I slammed the door into her face.
-o-
The King of the Crooked Way had slipped his niece the cosmic equivalent of a tenner to make sure that Exterra Castle was suffering from a suitably dramatic thunderstorm upon the naming day of their beloved daughter.
At least with the walk between carriage and castle the other partygoers would be soaking wet and approaching my own levels of misery.
I did not want to be there, and I was going to make absolutely sure that the other guests and the whole of the Exterran Royal Family would be equally as displeased that I was in attendance.
Which was probably the point of the whole thing.
Send an especially pissy diabolist slash necromancer to show the nobility why it was a bad idea to scorn the servants of the God of Death, Black Magic, Demons, Devils, Undeath, and Stringed Instruments.
I'd gone full out for the look as well, having the Hand of Arimus conjure me up a breastplate, boots, greaves, helmet, and a mirror of itself for my right arm. I'd coupled this with a pair of rather nice skull pauldrons that I strapped on over my Coat of Holding.
When a suitably bright bolt of lightning struck near the castle entrance with an accompanying clap of thunder that rattled windows, I made my entrance.
Just a little hop from the roof of the stable where I'd been watching to the very soggy red carpet that had been unrolled for the guests.
I smirked as I put a bit of a glow into my amber eyes.
Doing my best to look terrifying and sinister, I'd actually tested out something that Spark had come up with.
In the toolbox of your usual assortment of necromantic curses was, of course, the somewhat common Curse of Aging. Turn a mighty-thewed warrior into a geriatric grandpa suitable only for eating prunes and messing his pants.
But drop that same curse on a Dragonblood, who would only grow stronger as she aged, and you'd kick her forward a few decades in her draconic development.
I'd done it once or twice before, in emergencies, but I didn't rely upon it because it'd stunt my growth.
That and with my mixed draconic bloodline it kept popping up with different configurations of dragon-y bits every time, and they all felt wrong.
I marched up to the door on digitigrade legs (yes), with a pair of massive wings with the phalanges tipped with sharp bony claws (yes!) and top talons the size of my arm that could probably pierce through a tank (fuck yes!), with a pair of spiralling, ram-like horns growing from my temples (no!) and my tail tipped with a bony blade (GIVE ME BACK MY FLUFFTUFT, DAMMIT!).
The pair of spear-wielding soldiers serving as doormen looked up at me with wide, terrified eyes.
"Umm… we weren't expecting you until the blessing ceremony." one says, looking a bit embarrassed.
I scowled.
"The Devoted of Arimus were not invited, and yet I'm expected?"
"Yeah!" says the other one, "It's traditional! You don't invite the Dark One, and then they come storming in all angry that they weren't invited at just about the last moment, put a curse on the baby, and then storm out again cackling, and then the last cleric or faerie or whatever blunts the horrible curse with something romantic involving true love's kiss or something like that."
His partner nodded. "So romantic!"
I narrowed my eyes and shook my head.
"So wait, they're doing this on purpose, having their own daughter cursed so that some handsome prince is guaranteed to come into their daughter's life and be their one true love?"
The duo nodded.
"Or princess!" adds one.
"Or one of those weird elf-y gals that have both bits."
"Possibly a robot?"
"Oooh! The Queen would just love it if her daughter fell in love with a robot! None of the other kingdoms have a scion with a mechanical suitor!"
I just stared.
"Boy, they deserve each and everything that I'm going to do tonight."
The spears crossed, blocking my way.
"Sorry ma'am." says one guard.
"Can't let you go in with that great big honking sword."
"WHAAAAAT?!" shrieks my sword in her chain-smoking Jewish grandmother-esque voice. "Kid, I'll have you know I was attending Naming Ceremonies strapped to Lords and Ladies of Darkness when your seventeen times great grandfather was still mastering the ins and outs of not pissing himself."
"Look, if I leave her with you, can you like prop her up in a corner in the throne room or whatever with a stein of beer and a plate of sandwiches?"
"You… you want to give your sword a drink and some sandwiches?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know I can't eat and drink, but I can enjoy the smell."
The two looked at one another with baffled expressions.
"I… guess?"
"Awesome." I said as I unstrapped Auntie Fey's sheath and tossed her to the guards.
Of course, they promptly fell over, considering the Despoiler of All Faeriekind's big enough to make Cloud fucking Strife go "Hey, you know what? I think you're compensating for something."
With the guards suitably occupied I barged my way into the castle with a big kick that made the boom of the heavy wooden doors echo through the unfortunately empty hallway.
Dammit, nobody around to see my cool entrance.
Ah well.
I took the opportunity to link all the water on me with the puddle I was making on the floor, assuring that I would be nice and dry when I kicked open the throne room door.
So about five minutes later after having accidentally wandered into the kitchen and having to get directions from the cook, I finally managed to make it to the throne room.
After slipping a good quarter of the dessert course into the pockets of my Coat of Holding, of course.
I kicked the door open as Ursa the Raging Storm earned her divine tenner by accompanying my entrance with a suitably dramatic flash of lightning and clap of thunder.
"Who dares spurn the dark powers of New Avalon in their service to the Demonic Lord Arimus?" my voice booms, enhanced magically by the Hand of Arimus.
For once I can actually trust the damn thing to do what I want, magic wise, instead of say trying to heal a paper cut and ending up sucking the life force out of everybody within 10 feet to channel into the healing target, filling them with necromantic empowerment and granting them the capacity to raise the dead with the extra energy.
Because that's happened, and when it does it really sucks the life out of the room.
Literally and figuratively.
Because it's Official Death God Business, the Hand won't faff about with my spellcasting since having the dark and sinister magician surprised at the outcome of their own spells is bad for the image.
Anyway, my pronouncement had managed to startle the whole of the room.
The king and queen, of course, their guards, an assortment of lesser royalty and nobility from the other realms, their assorted hangers-on, a trio of staff-bearing smug looking asshats in white and gold, and…
Huh. I'd never seen a banquet with a kiddie table before.
Then again, I'd grown up in Dark Elven culture, where if you were invited to a banquet you were considered strong enough to fight off the assassin-waiter, clever enough to spot the poison in the soup, and smite the chef with a mighty fireball if they made your sandwich wrong.
Everyone was staring, and not in a good way.
"Umm… we weren't expecting you until the blessing ceremony?" said the queen, looking a little confused.
"It's traditional!" barked her husband, "Saves time for everyone. Forces of darkness being busy what with all the world ending and such. Just pop in at the end, lay down a quick curse, and be out the door again in five minutes."
I simply stood there at glared, letting the smoldering fiery glare of my gaze do the talking.
"Ooh. Ah… I don't think we have room for you at the main table and..."
The queen looked over to the three staff bearing magic users, off at their own table in the middle of the U shape main banquet table.
The lot of them scooted their chairs about, making absolutely sure there was no room to fit a fourth person.
The bastards.
Big viney staff with a sparky Jacob's Ladder on the end, meaning a Priestess of Laila, Goddess of Life, Nature, Herbs, Potions, Plants, Animals, and Mad Science.
Watery sphere with a glowy orb inside of it that looks like somebody's fishtank that they hadn't cleaned in a few months. That'd be a Priestess of Rarryk, Goddess of Light, Home, Hearth, Healing, Cooking, Alchemy, and Disease.
And of course, there's a big, stupid, shiny golden gear with an equally big, stupid, shiny ridiculously ostentatious crown. A disciple of Arimus' archnemesis, and elder sister by 2 minutes, Megatathion, Goddess of Benefic Magic, Order, Civilization, Technology, and Tyranny.
I hoped by the end of the evening he'd accidentally inhale his own ridiculously bushy beard.
Great, representatives of all the gods that most hate me and mine.
I smile, showing off my nice, pointy, draconic teeth.
"Oh, that's fine, I'll just seat myself."
I walked over to the children's table, where there was plenty of room, and placed my hand on the floor.
I made my hand glow and chanted "Rhubarb, watermelon" under my breath. I wanted to hide the fact that I was sporting a Coat of Holding, just in case things got violent.
And if they wanted to frisk me to discover pilfered deserts.
A throne of iron and bone rose up from beneath me. I'd gotten the thing at an evil overlord's garage sale. When your banshee wife says that it's time to clean out the mancave so that you can have another bedroom for the Children of the Night, well, the throne made of the skulls and bones of your enemies has got to go. Even if it has sentimental value, it's huge, heavy, and it never gets sat in any way.
Because the damn thing is uncomfortable as hell. You know when somebody with a bony ass sits on your lap, their un-bootilicious behind digging into your thigh? Yeah, it's like that, except on your butt.
I had the damned thing upholstered.
From there things were pretty boring until the food arrived.
The usual assortment of veggies and potatoes, meat and mushrooms, worryingly complete slow roasted animal carcasses.
I cut myself a slice of roast turkey and was quite proud of myself for not even making the slightest movement as if I were going to grab a child and eviscerate them on the table right then and there.
I'd never ACTUALLY do that, but I was tempted to at least pretend.
But even for a disciple of the God of Black Magic that was a bit over the top.
After everybody had filled their plates the king stood for a speech.
"Friends, honored guests, nobles, disciples of favored gods," he began, "Freeloading uninvited necromancers, we are gathered here to..."
Oi! Yes, I was definitely here early for the free food, but calling me out on it was dirty pool.
Well, two can play at that game.
With a smirk, I slipped my secret weapon out from a pocket of my Coat of Holding.
I would not be blamed for this horrific act, however. Turkey was such a dry meat.
And as such when I gave my ketchup bottle a bit of a squeeze it emitted a very loud, very definitive, very comedic noise.
Once again everyone was staring at me.
The king had paused in his speech, and I shrugged and motioned for him to continue.
"...the naming of my daughter, as well as to receive your gifts and blessings in the hopes of..."
Frrrrrrt.
"...in the hopes of..."
Frrrrrrrrt!
"...in the hopes of working together for a..."
FRRRRRRRRRRRT!
"...a bright and glorious..."
FRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
"...glorious..."
FRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
"ARE YOU QUITE DONE YET?!"
...frt.
"Yeah, I'm good. I've got enough ketchup now."
[TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONTH!]
Dick Devereaux.
Congratulations, you've nearly made it to the tippy top of the mountain here in DTW.
Of course being DTW our mountain is made out of shitty underpants, bits of cloth so stiff and encrusted with semen that you can cut yourself on them, stolen panties, bald heads, beards, and for some weird fuckin' reason punk rock albums.
First, we had an infestation of bald, beardy dudes, of which you're still one, there, Shouty Dwarf.
Now we've got an invasion of punk rockers.
Eric O'Flaherty can't achieve climax without picturing a Minnesota Vikings Super Bowl win while a Misfits album plays in the background.
Beloved Mascot Chan Masatake Kawamata is in a punk rock band, and he's picked up an evil doppelganger in the form of Silas SUBHUMAN.
And I know he's evil because that's how it works in the Japan! If your name is in all caps you're usually some kind of baddie!
Or if you're like SPIDER, stoned out of your gourd and the all caps make it a lot easier to see your name on the booking sheets 'n shit.
And now? Now we've got Johnny Vachon, who I was exceptionally disappointed to learn is not French-Canadian and thus a part of proper Vachon family.
I want to wrestle a member of a goddamn wrestling dynasty that isn't a bunch of egomaniacal, spotlight-stealing cockgoblins, goddess dammit!
And on the topic of the French, let's get back to Dick Devereaux and his last name filled with questionable silent letters, shall we?
Good ol DeeDee has been trying just so gosh darned hard to make waves here since he joined DTW.
And he got so close, too!
I mean he was right there on top of me when I dropped Claudia on top of Kawamata and pinned the both of them to earn the right for us, and also Riddick, to compete in the inaugural DTW World Championship match.
Dick wasn't the one who did the deed that won the match, but he was there too.
And then again in the three-way title match, despite pulling out some crazy shenanigans, Devereaux was the first one eliminated.
Just an afterthought.
And then once again in Deathmatch Demolition, he drove out and committed vehicular fucking homicide, and yet despite outright killing a dude still didn't win the match.
And hell, he didn't even get to actually permanently off a dude, since I managed to scrape up all of Kawamata's pieces, put them back together, and get them working again.
Mostly I'm just disappointed he didn't decide to fully embrace his undead nature and come out to "Move Your Dead Bones." You have brought shame upon your ridiculously family name, undead son of mine!
So again, basically, Dick Deveraux was once again just there, too.
You spent all of DTW's first tour getting your ass handed to you by Riddick in pretty every situation where the two of you faced off, and then on the last show of the year got yourself run off by an angry mob.
And this tour? Started it off with the biggest win of your DTW career by beating Riddick. Finally.
Kind of telling though, isn't it?
That you finally managed to beat Riddick, but only when he was at his absolute worst mentally. Gone are the days when he would merely avoid eye contact and go into violent tantrums, now he's gone into the two-fisting Hi-C juice boxes and energy drinks phase of "Stone Cold" Steve Autism, what with his newfound fetishes of whacking it with the blood of his enemies, outright murder, and self-mutilation.
A pause.
Oh. My. God.
I just realized that Riddick is cutting, and considering he mutilated his own junk last month, might be acting out on transgender tendencies.
Dick, our mutual arch-nemesis is turning into an emo-goth-lesbian bitch right before our eyes.
I'm not sure what to think.
I mean once he starts on hormone replacement therapy and her facial hair starts falling out that'll be one less beardy bald dude in favor of a non-beardy bald lady, so I guess that'll help clear up the one infestation in DTW.
But I'm terrified she's going to join in other the new DTW infestation and start a band. Probably screamo rather than punk, so she can have an excuse to work in the stereotypical autistic screeching just to be offensive and annoying.
Though what do we call She-Riddick?
I mean Riddick doesn't really lend itself to feminizing. Riddickette and Riddickina sound Riddickulous, and so do Ridvagina and Riddickless.
I don't mean to downplay you, dude, but the guy you beat at his worst could barely drag himself to a draw with me at his very best.
When it came right down to it, Riddick couldn't get a victory over me. The closest he came to victory was to put himself in the hospital in order to not lose.
And then I beat him to win the DTW World Championship.
Eleven months later I defended my belt against Teiji "The Terror" Shintaro.
After an emotionally distraught tendie-nomming jackass who damned near cut his own penis off and a coprophagic Japanese Tyler Durden, it's just… well…
You're basically a normal dude.
You're a violent, angry asshole who likes getting into fights, competing in deathmatches, bleeding all over the fucking place, and LARPing as an uruk hai.
You've got a World-class championship of your own that proves you can face other violent, angry assholes that like getting into fights, competing in deathmatches, and bleeding all over the fucking place.
And that's the problem with you, Dick.
You're just another guy.
There's nothing to you.
We could just cut you out of the picture and replace you with any one of a hundred other bald, angry dudes with facial hair.
The only real difference is that you've got a big red handprint on your face, and even that goes away after a few minutes once you start sweating.
And I've seen the crappy little minimovies you've made, DeeDee, so I know exactly how creative you're not.
You just… don't really register as a threat to me.
Riddick and Teiji are just so fucking bugnuts out there that I have no idea what to expect with them out there. Well, aside from getting my junk groped and literal crap all over the place.
I wouldn't put it past them to cut open somebody in the audience and attempt to strangle me with their warm, bleeding, still pulsating entrails.
But I also want to thank you for that. For being you. For not being some sort of unholy fucked in the head wankmonster that the optimal strategy on my part involves wearing a chastity belt, a hazmat suit, or both.
You're just a normal fuckin' deathmatch wrestler. That's your strength, and also your weakness.
Because to be perfectly honest, after that literal shitshow with Teiji last month you're just what I need to wash the bad taste out of my mouth.
It's been for fucking ever since I've had a night where I didn't have to wrestle one of those two jackwads.
I can just go out and have an actual goddamned professional wrestling match, and that's exactly what I need right now.
After all the lunacy the DTW World Championship needs a period of normalcy. Go back to some good old-fashioned mundane violence. Without all the sex and poop and murder and mayhem.
I need to show the world that DTW isn't just an edgy one trick pony, constantly trying to one-up itself with an endless cavalcade of shocking and disgusting acts. Because that way lies Vince Russo, and his is the way of madness, pointless swerves, and Viagra on a Pole matches.
So I want to apologize to you in advance, Dick, because you're not going to get the Kalinda that fought the Ultraviolence Union. I don't think it would be fair to you, and to the DTW fans.
That isn't to say that I'm not going to beat the fuck out of you, just that it's not going to be in the ruthless, tunnel vision, focused entirely on the win sort of way I had to adopt in order to overcome Teiji and Riddick.
And you're going to hate it.
Oh my lord, you are going to absolutely loathe every single moment you're in the ring with me.
I'm sure there are people out there who are going to call me smug, overconfident, egomaniacal. They're going to be screaming at their computer screens about the sanctity of the sport of professional wrestling and how dare I not give it my all.
Thing is I can't do that. I can never do that. And maybe that's the reason behind all the problems I've had in professional wrestling up to this point.
Because to the rest of you this is a life or death struggle. You come out to the ring every show and leave a little piece of yourself behind. With each match there's something that you lose that you'll never, ever get back.
You slowly erode yourselves out there day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.
You HAVE to do whatever shady, dickish, underhanded bullshit you have to in order to win matches and secure titles because your time is limited.
You never know if you're going to take a fall wrong and break your neck, or if somebody is going to kick you in the head in just the right way to make your brain explode and ensure that you suffer a stroke somewhere down the line.
Professional wrestling is, and always has been, a game to me, Devereaux.
A limiting set of rules that makes the game more fair for everyone.
You've killed people.
Teiji's killed people.
Riddick's killed people.
And I'm not impressed with any of it.
Because killing people is easy.
So very, very easy.
Murder and maiming are not cards that I can allow myself to play in this game out of fairness to the other players.
You've probably been beaten half to death over the head by the commentary team by now about how I can bite through steel.
Now, just think about how much softer and more pliable the flesh of your neck is.
How about your spinal column? You think it's sturdier than a length of rebar?
Now I want you to think, Deveraux, just think how close my teeth are to all the important bits in your neck during all sorts of routine wrestling moves.
Think of how little effort it would take to just turn my head, bite down, and take a three inch wide, two inch deep chunk out of key segments of your respiratory, circulatory, and nervous systems.
As much as you might think otherwise, Dick, you're not my opponent.
You're my toy.
You're an amusement.
You're a plaything.
People think that because I'm polite, because I'm pleased, because I'm nice that I'm inferior, that I'm a pushover, that I'm pathetic, that I'm beneath them.
They confuse kindness for weakness.
Even when there are no rules, I still have rules.
To level the playing field, to maintain the challenge, to keep things interesting for the hundreds in attendance and the thousands watching the streams on YouTube.
Because more than anybody else in DTW I have the capacity for murder at my fingertips.
But I can never actually act on it, because I know where it will end.
It'll end with me, all alone, atop a mountain of worthless corpses.
I don't want to break my toys, Dick.
But I will if I have to.
Being set on fire is pretty much the only way the lot of you have to actually do lasting damage to me, but you know what?
After being set on fire every fucking show it's starting to become a little bit annoying.
I mean how would you like it if every time you wrestled somebody came out and stuck a knife in your thigh worryingly close to your femoral artery? Oh, it hurts like hell, takes forever to recover from, and has you moving in achy, unpleasant ways for a while.
But eventually somebody's going to hit that artery, and you know that you're going to end up seriously wounded.
So I'll make a deal with you, Devereaux, you stop trying to set me on fire, and I'll continue playing nice and happy and not chewing off irreplaceable pieces of you, okay?
I'm going to take advantage of you being a not-so-nice, normal, relatively sane opponent to just go out there and have a nice, happy little wrestling match filled with us hitting one another with random shit, throwing each other off of ridiculously high places, and other assorted acts that would have the old time wrestlers tearing up their Cauliflower Alley membership cards, shaking their canes, and exclaiming "We didn't need to do that rubbish back in my day!"
I just want to wrestle for once and do wrestler-y things. I'm sick and tired of poop and murder and rape and masturbation.
I want to have fun, Devereaux.
And DTW needs fun.
DTW needs variety.
And so do I.
I need to relax, I need to unwind, I need a nice, normal title defense that doesn't involve me bringing out the Kryptonite hair conditioner so I can dye the burned blonde bits back to their normal color.
So leave the fire at home, DeeDee, and bring your A game instead.
Because I want to fight YOU.
If I wanted to fight fire, I'd be wearing a huge yellow, insulated suit, hanging off the end of a truck the color of my hair, and palling around with a large, spotty dog instead of a batshit insane clown.
Play the game by the rules, Dick.
Don't give me an excuse to start breaking my toys.
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