UWA Outbreak #2, Kalinda RP 1/1

"New log in found, user Kalinda Kriegsdottir, Maintenance Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean. Accessing profile..." chirped the computer with its obnoxious, Stepford Wife-esque secretary voice.

Three, two, one...

"Error. Your data file appears to be corrupted."

I sighed, "No, it's not. It's fine."

"Kriegsdottir is an awarded title of nobility to a dwarven child whose parents were slain in battle. A cursory inspection of you with my optical sensors indicates..."

"I'm an elf/kobold crossbreed and am also a dragonblood. My grandma's dwarven and she found my egg not far from a battlefield."

"According to protocol all elves are to be subjected to bloodline testing to determine proper House and Clan affiliations."

"No, it's fine. Really. Let's just ignore my file."

"A maintenance necronechnician is not authorized to provide such override functions. Forwarding clarification request from your supervisor and reporting your suspicious behavior to security. Error. My systems are currently unable to access any outside systems."

"Mmmhmm." I sighed and rolled my eyes. They kept sending me to do this every few months, just in case things turned out differently than it had the other dozen or so times. Definition of insanity, and all that.

"That's because the first time they tried this we blew out all the processing circuits in this half of the city."

"I do not have such an incident in my memory banks."

"That's to be expected, when said memory banks explode they don't tend to retain data."

"I appear to have been restored from last night's backup. Nine times."

"Mmmhmm. They make me do this ten times before they give up and let me move onto things that actually need to be doing. And you've insisted on performing a blood test for House and Clan affiliations, bloodlines gifts, and augmentations to add the data to my file. Nine times."

"My purpose is to ascertain the bloodlines of the Dark Elven Clans and Houses so as to inform an individual of the innate gifts that their heritage has granted them, and to use those gifts to further their position in their house, bring influence to their clan, to find optimal breeding partners, and to optimally serve the Carapaced Queen."

I let out an annoyed grunt, I think I'd done a bit too well reprogramming the Necrotech Sarcophag-OS several years back. Originally it was meant to service a bunch of necromancers and their undead servitors in the hidden underground temple-city dubbed Tomb-23.

The Dark Elven Matriarchy who took over the place after having found it abandoned aren't much for the whole "dying for the greater good of all" thing. At least when it's them personally becoming involved in the dying. But still, they end up dying just the same, although a few of them have become a bit more intimately acquainted with the dark rituals of undeath stored for the use and perusal of Senior Necrotech Administrators only.

Can't let the rank and file get their hands on the detailed rituals required to achieve true, sentient undeath whilst keeping your soul, after all. The peasants get stuck as wraiths, shadows, skeletons, and zombies. No sparkly fangs or shiny phylacteries for the unwashed masses, after all.

"Look, we can't do a blood test on me, because every time I get a blood test done, something blows up. It doesn't matter if it's a computer, a crystal ball, or a living, breathing being. I get confirmed as elf, confirmed as kobold, confirmed as dragonblood, but the moment a deeper scan is initiated something goes kablooey. After the first time we've always made sure that it's a device doing the looking." I shudder, I'd been washing bits of skull out of my hair for a week after that.

"Illogical. This equipment is capable of analyzing blood and tissues samples and determining bloodlines of the very gods. A diminutive creature like yourself whose standardized test scores limit her magical advancement to a mere Necrotechnician."

"I'm five feet tall!" I growl at the damned machine, "I'm not diminutive! You've insisted on performing a blood test for House and Clan affiliations, bloodlines gifts, and augmentations to confirm the data I have on file. Nine times!"

"You are four feet eleven inches, including your boots." the computer system adds smarmily.

"FIVE FEET!" I insisted. "And I am NOT limited by my standardized text scores! If you'll take a look at your memory banks you'll find that the Matriarchy did away with public magical education. If you don't have the bucks and the connections to get yourself a tutor or get invited to one of the guild schools, you've got to learn magic on your own."

And good luck getting said buckaroos and connections being a 20 year old adopted half-breed whose grandma is the combat arts instructor for a mid level Clan Matriarch's kids.

"I see." the computer says, sounding a teensy bit sorry, "Still, equipment that can process bloodlines of gods and high eidolons like dragons and angels should easily be up to the task of..."

"Computer, process bloodline record "Dragon Kitty."" I growl.

"Processing." the computer says pleasantly. A good fifteen seconds passes before a horrendous retching sound comes out of every speaker in the auxiliary blood work lab.

"I do not have a digestive system, but I somehow feel sick to my stomach. I have no mouth, but I must vomit." the computer whines.

I smirk, Dragon Kitty isn't really one. Tiny three year old Kalinda took a purring bundle of fuzz with pointy ears out of a bow wrapped box one Yuletide morning and confused the dragon-wolf pup for a kitten, gasped and said "It's a DRAGON kitty!" and the stupid, stubborn thing has refused to be called anything else since.

"Kitty's bloodline can be traced back to a black dragon, who had babies with a wolf, who had babies with that black dragon again. Then a wolf, then the black dragon again. Wolf, dragon, dragon, wolf, alligator, black dragon, tiger, rhinoceros, then grandma black dragon again."

I grin, "The hemomancer that tested kitty puked his guts out for three days. The guy's familiar thought it was the most incredible loop de loop and corkscrew rollercoaster ride and wanted to go again."

"I do not wish to experience that sensation ever again."

"You'll want to scan my blood even less. I don't know if it's a loop of terrible inbreeding, an ancestor who is one of those hideous to look upon, sanity shattering beasties from beyond time and space, or the bloodline equivalent of attempting to divide by zero, but there's something in there that just doesn't want to be looked at."

The computer is silent for a few moments. I murmur prayers to whatever god that will listen that the damned thing finally takes the hint.

"I will still need a blood sample for calibration purposes."

"GODDESS DAMMIT!" I growl, giving the computer console a kick. I swipe my fingers over the purple glowing sigils on the skin of my forearm, making a complex gesture and angrily humming a few notes, opening up my Personal Necrotech Poly-discipline Arcane Library. The PeN-PAL is a revolution tool of magic and technology that mixes the best aspects of many different sorts of magic- allowing for more frequent, more powerful, and more varied spellcasting.

I call up a cantrip, an exceptionally low powered, low effort spell that one can cast all day without experiencing the usual physically or mentally draining effects of using magic words and weird gestures to make the laws of physics your personal bitch.

The cantrip is System Interface, it allows me to get a direct linkup to Necrotech computer systems, or in this case get them directly linked up to me.

I pair that with an Arcane Eye, one of the "trainee" summoning spells. It's absolutely useless for combat, can't move more than 30 feet away from the caster, but will allow you to add its vision to your own. Mostly it's good for making sure you get your hair braided properly and checking your back for pimples.

For a Necrotechnician, however, it's good for getting a good look inside really awkward places where computer parts like to explode.

"Here, look! Look in here! This is your primary tower, do you see all the soot and the smoke stains? This was fine before I started. I've had to burn most of the magical power I've been able to muster today on pouring restorative energies into your exploded bits. Magical power that I was INTENDING to get my certification in Post-Mortum Resources so that I could animate myself a few skeletal minions to help cut down on all the mindless maintenance I'm expected to do!" I growl at the stupid machine.

"They won't let me into their stupid schools, so the only way I learn magic is through Necrotech Certification Courses, to which they haven't assigned an instructor for in the past two hundred years, so I have to search the entirety of Tomb-23 for the course textbooks, because they've deleted the damned things from the public terminal system, and the backup archives of them require administrative access!"

"I'm Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean because it means that I'm kept entirely in industrial sections, so I can't even so much as page through somebody's spellbook while I'm turning on their stupid monitor, or plugging in the crystal ball they didn't plug the base of into the mana outlets because the balls are "wireless." And on top of that, on top of being put on this shit detail, do you know what else they did?"

"They've removed the whole of my department. I'm Maintenance Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean because there isn't anybody else! I'm also Custodial Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean, Waste Disposal Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean, and after they found out I was using Animate Tools cantrips so I could get all my duties done, as of last week they've also made me Pest Control Officer Lead Subterranean."

"That means that I have to go around prowling the entirety of the sewers and catacombs and access tunnels and who knows what under the city complex, getting rid of the slimes and the giant rats, and all the other novice adventurer crap with the exception of the giant spiders and giant centipedes and giant scorpions. Those nasty, stingy, bitey buggers have to be humanely trapped and taken topside when they can be adopted by caring, loving dark elves."

"Goddess, if it weren't for the damned Metsuki Tahari Bloodgift, I'd probably be dead seventeen times over by now from nasty venomous bites. Half of them from carrying somebody's beloved familiar Pookie who had gotten loose. Not allowed to use cages or leashes or anything, it damaged the damned thing's sense of freedom and offended her sensibilities. So I had to carry the damned thing halfway across the city and up eight flights of stairs while the little shit did her damnedest to sink her fangs into my neck."

I just sat and stewed for awhile. If I'd been a proper, fully blooded Elven sorcerer there would probably be a miniature storm cloud hovering over my head right now.

"Processing." the computer said unexpectedly.

"Bwuh?" I added, rather stupidly.

"In light of the destructive nature of attempting to use the blood of the dispatched Necrotechnician, a deviation from standard protocol can be authorized and a complaint will be issued to Central Processing for the obvious waste of company time and resources, pending investigation." the computer said.

"You have been made to repeat this destructive testing how frequently?"

I grin, "Ten times every time I have to calibrate a blood testing lab. We've got six in Tomb-23, and they all get hit once a year. It'd have started when I got tested at my Age of Majority ceremony, and then being assigned to the nearest one as maintenance, so about..." I said.

"This has resulted in the detonation of vital Necrotech diagnostic property to date approximately 149 times?" The computer interjected.

"An even 150, nine today, and then the original testing. The Matriarchy doesn't like unknown factors."

"I will request the presence of a nearby registered dark elf to properly calibrate my diagnostic arrays. I am also putting in a request for confirmation of your unnecessary multitude of assignments and your automated evaluation of how they are carried out." the computer said.

"If your statements can be confirmed, you qualify for additional Necrotech certifications, and potentially a promotion that would grant the use of undead servitors to allow for optimal efficiency in carrying out your assigned duties."

"Woohoo! A promotion and proper minions! That'd be great!"

"The Automated Necrotech Oversight System is in place to assure that at least a minimum of competent personnel are placed in positions of power, even in the chaotic, corporate political structure that Carapaced Queen LLC seems to favor." the AI stated.

"Applied Necrotechnologies Incorporated thanks your and your corporation for licensing our product to aid in the expansion of your Evil Empire. Working together to bring the downfall of the Light."

That was followed by an implied trademark on the phrase, and a little, happy sounding musical tone.

"Please begin with the reintegration of my systems into the primary Tomb network. I have contacted a nearby representative of House Darkbolt to serve as the calibration target for the blood analysis system diagnostic."

My face fell. A nearby House Darkbolt elf? There wasn't anybody that ever came down here that didn't have to. All the items of interest had been looted from the storerooms in the five centuries since House Darkbolt and the like had discovered Tomb-23 and made it their own.

Most of what was down her were spare facilities in case the overcity had to be locked down in case of invasion (usually by dwarves or kobolds), more facilities that had been produced in modular components meant for adding an additional district to the city that had never happened, the main bulk of the utility and sanity systems, and of course the piles upon piles of low level elemental monsters and moderately enlarged critters that occurred in any area with enough open space close enough to a ley line.

Being the political, scheming, backstabby, survival of the fittest types that you expect Dark Elves to be, they actually had areas set aside to serve as clandestine meeting places. They were actually in the phone book.

You call up the proprietor go "I need a meeting to occur between myself and two others, near this location, from 3 to 5 pm."

Then he goes, "Ah, I have a secret room hidden in the trunk of a tree in Moldspire Park. Blue leafed tree in a fairy ring easily accessible by slipping through a loose board in the fence behind Lamentations of My Enemies' Bar and Grill. Your password for entry today will be Thermonuclear Fishsticks. Please leave payment in the form of currency on the table when you leave and don't forget to leave a tip for the maid."

So that left one elf of House Darkbolt down in the middle of nowhere, away from everybody. Probably brooding and full of angst.

"So what's she doing right now?"

"She attempts to be searching for a creature of some sort and cursing rather loudly that the creatures are weak, feeble disgraces to their species, fit only to be crushed underfoot."

I sigh.

Delilah Darkbolt.

Fuck.

-o-

I don't like tag team matches. And there's good reason for that.

For one, I've never been in a good tag team match. The IWC decided "Oh hey, we have a massive, agile, unique debuting wrestler who is blue, a woman, and a dragon. Let's recreate that animated classic by having the dragon and her term fight a guy with autism and his team, which includes a corporate jackass and a midget."

ULW decided to pair me with Silencer, fucking Silencer of all people. Who is like the biggest flakety flake in the history of flakedom. Some weird chemical interaction between the orange spray on tan he applies to his hideous, leathery hide and the lead in his authentic Victorian recipe makeup makes him pass out in the parking lot with Jackson Adams and the Funny Pizza Pals.

Because he's talking to the ham and pineapple on the pizza, he doesn't notice folks sneaking up on him and he gets his knees Nancy Kerrigan'd. And I put out a call for replacement partners, and they wouldn't let me.

I was booked for a tag team match, and they refused to give me a tag team match. I had two honest to goddess Hall of Famers ready, willing, and able to team with me. And it's not like ULW was focusing on some sort of new generation bullshit.

They fucking built Paranoia on the backs of part timers, one off matches, and unpacking Lethal fucking Weapon from his box of quaaludes, Guns 'n Ammo magazines, and a security system that keeps watch on his lawn at all times so no damn kids can be on it.

But no, I had to wrestle two members of New Eden, after which they attempted to cave my head in, and the only reason they didn't succeed is because I'm a gods-damned dragon with a magical elven bloodline.

So yeah, I've never had a good tag team match. But I would like to take this opportunity to remind New Eden and the Sinistry B Team exactly what happened the LAST time they tried to play the numbers game with me.

You see, what they did was put a steel folding chair underneath my head while I was laying prone on the ring mat, took another chair, and swung that chair with in an attempt to have the star-crossed seating device lovers meet somewhere in the middle of my brain.

If I were anybody else, that'd be Career Ending Injury Number One.

Now, for those of you who didn't watch ULW and to those who paid it no attention, I want you to guess how long I was out from that little stunt. How long it took me to recover, get the feeling back in my toes, feel right enough in the head to stand on my own, etc, etc.

The vicious attack that would be capable of ending careers and putting people in the hospital for months; what did it accomplish?

It put me down for less than five minutes.

I was pushing myself up and growling at New Eden before the copyright notice in the corner popped up to end the show.

Ask Adam how that turned out for him. If you can find him.

Apparently I used my mastery of the dark necromantic arts coupled with Kung Fu to inflict a dire curse upon him, the dreaded Quivering Palm, a killing blow where the victim is perfectly fine until the master of the martial arts wills him to die.

Except I did it with a brainbuster. Or a suplex. Or a jackhammer. Or something. One of those vertical suplex derived thingies I do. Except this one was off the top rope.

Adam was walking later that night, feeling good enough to play cheerleader. But to the best of my knowledge, he never wrestled again.

Because of my obscenely lethal Quivering Jackhammer. Which I'm sure is either a disgusting sex act as defined on Urban Dictionary, or a bit of purple prose used in the Jason King/Clay Colton slash fiction that rabid ULW fangirls used to write.

Well that or New Eden got pissed at him for being unable to actually take me out, and in the fashion of fashion of the usual insecure supervillain went "You have failed me for the last time" and fed him to the Sharkticons.

Well, no. They don't have Sharkticons, they are nowhere near that cool. They probably smothered him in Willow Wilkes' huge, flappy meat curtains.

Oh, that's something I'm probably going to have to explain to y'all, isn't it? Waaay back when ULW started ol' Willow stated that she found huge slabs of frozen meat hanging from the ceiling sexy.

So this was back during my Twitter Reign of Terror where I managed to make an entire faction of whiny, entitled shitlords up and quit ULW. So I couldn't let an opportunity go by.

I want you to remember that. Big scary Cindy Todd's pet she-bitch gets off on dead slabs of dead, cold meat, and was so embarrassed by my calling out of her meat curtain fetish that she went to der Vaart and tried to get me punished for my comments.

I'm glad she's here, to be perfectly honest. I spent a year trying to get her into a fair fight, and was denied each and every single time.

We've fought to a count out brawl, after interference and a suicidal ref that virtually leaped across the ring to get underneath me as I came off the top, she scampered up a ladder after a teleporting S&M fetishist with his own private sex dungeon interfered in every ULW main event for months, and made a ladder match for the Championship no different.

Then there's the handicap match, and our most recent outing where Jason King just up and showed up and ruined things right when I was just getting started.

Apparently Mr. King suffers from Pro Wrestler Derangement Syndrome. He can't call Willow, can't write her an e-mail, can't send her a DM on Twitter, can't say something on Instragram where Willow is posting shitty images of meat and random machine parts in black and white being all edgy and shit. Oh no.

He doesn't even have the common courtesy to stand outside on her lawn at three in the morning, boombox hoisted high over head, blaring Peter Gabriel. Nooo, he's a mental defective who HAS to milk every last drop of drama out of each and every moment by having the key points of his life happen on international television.

What a goober.

Which reminds me, thus far I've mentioned that I hate tag team matches because I've never had a good one and kind of hinted at reason number two with Silencer, but let me state it to be perfectly clear; your chances of victory rely almost entirely on the whim of another person.

See, according to Steiner math, you've got a 50/50 chance of winning a given match. But if you have a complete and utter goober as your tag team partner, as the meme goes, your chances of winning drastically go down.

We've all seen it, where the Dumbest People in Professional Wrestling have an old foe that's had a falling out with his buddies, and they go "Oh no, I've changed for real this time! I'm not going to stab you in the back!"

Then it's just like Charlie Brown, Lucy, and the goddess damned football. Captain Stupid goes in for the hot tag and of course his partner betrays him, dropping down off the apron, or jumping in the ring to beat the complete and utter peas out of the guy that ate too many paint chips as a kid.

That's worst case scenario, and one that I'm going to have to be on the lookout for while I'm out there. Because while Lilith Evans is my assigned tag team partner, she's also a member of a faction that I am decidedly at odds with.

Now, I'm not sure exactly how the corporate organization chart works, and I think the Sinistry surpassed Scientology somewhere along the line as the world's most confusing, twisted, scheming, isolating, mind, body, and soul rapingly awful organization sometime last year.

I'm not sure which of the sub-factions ol Lil belongs to, and where exactly New Eden fits in. If they're Sinistry's elite, their Sea Org where they subject you to so much drudgery and pain that they suck all the humanity out of you and make you a loyal little drone, or if they're Cindy Todd's personal girl scouts, shaking down people and breaking knee caps for cookie money.

But hey, we've all seen Last Stand, right? Danny Darko's been seeing to Lilith's salvation from Sinistry as his own personal pet project, and she was so conflicted and stuff, right? She stood up to Jessica Wilde a little bit by entering the Rumble, only to be betrayed and punished for her insolence by being eliminated by her evil overlord. Lady. Overlady?

So what we have here is an arc of heroic redemption, right?

Well, no. What we is the POSSIBILITY of an arc of heroic redemption. Trust me on this, I come from a world that basically runs on the power of drama and storylines and story arcs and shit. Remind me to tell you about the Band of Five concept and why my world stopping having army versus army type warfare centuries ago.

We have names for things like this, situations and scenarios that pop up time and time again in the history books. We call this one the Pitiful Thrall.

This doesn't work for your main baddie type, it's always a subordinate, a secondary person, someone that has a mid level role in the Hierarchy o' Evil. She is mistreated by her superiors, yet still serves them.

Along comes the hero, seeing the poor underling getting beaten up. Like watching a puppy getting kicked, emotion blossoms in the hero's heart and he ponders weakening the Dark by turning one of its servants to the Light.

The Thrall rebuffs the attempts at betraying her dark masters, but she does not strike out at the hero, to try and make a dire blow that will fell the hero. She will never take advantage of her position to severely wound or kill the hero, that's not her job.

Her job is to string him along, to get him believing in her, to slowly fool him into accepting her redemption.

And then when the time is right she stands beside the hero, valiant against the forces of darkness. A few battles with low stakes in order to prove her allegiance, to make her redemption seem real.

And then when the hero stands up to the dread lord with his new ally by his side, that is the moment when she slips the knife between his ribs. But it is seldom the destruction of the hero that the Dark has in mind. Usually what is on its mind is instead misery and corruption.

What the Thrall does is plant a seed of betrayal and doubt. If the Thrall, whom the hero considered a friend and ally, would betray the hero, so too might any one of the hero's other trusted companions.

But the most valued outcome is where the dynamic is inverted, instead of the Thrall being brought to light, she instead manages to convince the Hero to take up the powers of Darkness to use them against the dread lord, using Dark's power against itself.

Not to say that Lilith Evans intends on stringing along Danny Darko with the intent to eventually stab him in the back. It's just that if this were my world, it'd be the most likely outcome.

Let me tell you, Lil, about the last person I got my hands on that tried to ruin one of my matches. His name was Mr. Joshua, he was my opponent's bodyguard, and the pair of them decided that the rules didn't apply to them and that it was perfectly okay to have him attack me.

That, my dear, is most definitely not okay. I ended up impaling both his hands with some rebar to the ring barricade. He'll never play the piano again, but once he got out of the hospital he could use his hands as fleshlights.

You're a part of an organization that I am at odds with. One that attempts to augment its members positions in the sport by utilizing poor sportsmanship, blatant cheating, and the numbers game.

Now at some point in the span of the Triad, the Sinistry and its daughter organizations had a combined membership somewhat approaching that of the state of Utah. You might not even be in the same franchise location as the people I have issues with. You might be running the Sinistry equivalent of the neat, tidy, efficient McDonald's, while Cindy Todd and Willow Wilkes are across town spitting in hamburgers and putting snakes in the ball pit.

So I'm perfectly willing to let you go on being one of the Executioner's plural wives, or whatever the fuck it is that you do, so long as you don't get it into your head to try and get into L. Ron Hubbard's good graces by stabbing me in the back.

Honestly, I'd rather be teaming with either of our opponents then with you. Even if he sounds like a Roman desert, a Bath and Body Works candle scent, or a brand of novelty condom.

Because unlike some people in this business, Cassius DeLight actually has a sense of humor. He's not going to stomp off, pitch a shit fit, and demand that I be fired because I stated that his chosen moniker would be perfect astride the wrapper of a French tickler.

Kathryn Pearson seems like somebody I would get along with. She looks like a lot of people that went through my tavern back home, and honestly, I'd love to have tattoos like that.

But they don't make enchanted tattoo needles for piercing dragon hide. At least not ones you ought to feel comfortable having used on you if you know the first thing about blood born diseases and curses.

And I'm pretty sure that my body would basically eat the ink. Dragons are infamous for being able to consume, digest, and derive nutrition from basically anything. Some dragons eat metals, some eat rocks, I know one that liked to eat porcelain vases, the older the better.

Me, I mostly eat orange. Not oranges, orange. If it's colored orange, it's pretty likely that it's something that I consider rather tasty. Though I don't go around salivating at the thought of traffic cones or anything. It's cheese puffs, and cheap spaghetti sauce that stains your tupperware, and circus peanuts, and those packs of eye searingly bright peanut butter crackers. I think I eat my weight in those every month.

Anyway, I don't think any of us have met before. We were all in IWC at some point, but I don't think we crossed paths since I got dumped into the Mentally Incompetent division with Mr. Ridiculous, Mr. Hush, Leviticus, and Percy fucking Whitman.

And also a midget.

So I don't have much of a tolerance for in-ring silliness or backside based offense.

Kath, if I even get the slightest hint that you're even THINKING about backing that ass up, I'm going to bite a chunk out of your leg.

Keep in mind that I am a seven foot tall fire breathing monstrosity of a woman whose tail weighs more than your entire body. It doesn't matter what diseases made the painful, hot sensation that your ex-husband brought home for you right before the divorce, your burning bush is not flame-y enough to damage a creature of elemental cold.

No bronco busters. It is absolutely ridiculous and all it's going to do is piss me off.

If you HAVE to get it out of your system, do it to Lilith. I will fucking hold her there in the corner so that you can satisfy whatever stupid urge overtakes you to go out and perform that decidedly ineffective move.

Then I'll come back in the ring and kick your fucking head off because, hey, I still want to win on top of making the darkity dark batshit dungeon fuck brigade look like a bunch of goobers in the process.

My time in IWC and ULW have taught me one thing: it's that I'm not going to be given a title shot out of nowhere. Any chance I want at holding a championship will have to come purely through my own efforts. Jason King and Willow Wilkes got a best of infinity series against one another for the ULW championship.

We don't have fighting champions anymore, we have helicopter promoters who refuse to give World title matches on free television. They make the fans shell out the bucks for pay per views and streaming services in order to be given the merest chance at a glimpse of a title changing hands.

Every little detail about every little title is so ruthlessly micromanaged, except where they're basically ignored. Titles handed out on a whim, titles that are never defended, empty, meaningless divisions that exist solely on paper to further somebody's credentials.

Titles are objects of prestige and renown, they are symbols of a company and what it stands for. In ULW titles were not treated with respect, they were not treated as things to be respected. They were treated as toys for the connected and the powerful, as playthings for the spoiled, entitled brats that demanded they be given to them on a silver platter.

Lenore Price-Mason lost two consecutive contests to me, after months of interfering in my matches. For her failure she was rewarded a title shot. A title held by her sister-cousin-wife Cassandra Mason. Who was simply given a match because she pranced out and demanded it, having never wrestled a single solitary match in ULW before.

It's not going to happen here. I will not stand idly by and allow another wrestling federation to drown in a reeking quagmire of its own festering shit, neglected and mistreated by those that want to milk it for everything that it's worth. A bunch of parasites sucking the blood from a host until there is no more blood to have.

Then they move onto another wrestling federation. And another. And another. Like a swarm of locusts devouring everything in their path. How long do you think this is sustainable? How long do you all imagine that the gravy train is going to last, hmm?

There can only be so many rich idiots in this world that will endlessly throw money down a hole to support the ambition of running a pro wrestling federation. They're not a renewable resource, especially in this day and age. An age where the old forms of media have begun to decline and new forms are rising up to take their place, only to experience decline anew.

Just think about how this time say 15 years ago everybody had a MySpace page, and now nobody does. They've abandoned that neon hued hellhole full of tiled gif backgrounds to its grave and moved on.

When somebody with money, sense, and a backbone starts up a wrestling promotion, one that is destined to stay the course, to last for a decade or two, you all will have no chance of taking part in it. Ten years down the road your bodies will have begun to break down from all the abuse you've sufferred, from being on the road hundreds of days out of the year, only seldom resting your head upon your own pillow in your own bedroom in your own home.

Hell, most of you are women. The moment you get a little bit out of shape, the moment the first wrinkle sets in, the moment a line shows up on your face, that's when the fun is going to start. That's when your opponents will start tearing you down, start talking about your looks, talking about how old and ancient and decrepit you are.

The lot of you are so terribly, terribly fragile. One wrong step today can mean the end of your career tomorrow. Today's diving headbutt off the top rope becomes tomorrow's cranial trauma encephalopathy.

That day is going to come for each and every one of you. Sooner or later you're not going to be able to wrestle anymore, you're not going to be able to coast by on your looks, you'll end up broken down old women sucking dick for...

No, actually. I don't think so. The lesbian pollen has pretty much fucking saturated the Triad. I don't think there's an honest to goddess straight woman signed to a contract anywhere in this fucking place.

No, no sucking dick for crack money for the lot of you. These days you'll be whoring yourself out on webcams and having 20 somethings paying you a hundred bucks an hour to type dirty to them on Skype because they rubbed one out to you when you were younger.

That's what a lot of you will end up being, nothing more than nostalgia fucks by text messanger.

Me? I'm stuck on this shitty rock without a way to go home until I manage to get hold of something with enough oomph to pull back the dimensional curtain.

But there's my advantage, I'm not from here. I'm not like you. I'm a fucking DRAGON. I don't suffer your human frailties. When I get hurt, my body builds itself back up stronger. I don't hit my peak in my twenties and begin the long, declining road into rest homes and senility. The older I get the bigger I get, the stronger I get, the smarter I get.

You think I'm terrifying now? Just imagine what I'm going to be like in ten years. In twenty. In thirty when I have my wings grown in.

When each and every wrestler on the UWA roster today lies moldering in their grave, I'll still be here, still alive, still kicking, still trying to find a way to get my big blue ass home.

I'll probably be a good eight feet tall by then. Hell, with the wings I might actually clock in at the half ton the IWC announcers billed me as at Last Stand.

And you wonder why I didn't sign with you, ya bunch of ignorant fucks.

So what I'm trying to say is STOP FUCKING UP WRESTLING FEDERATION AFTER WRESTLING FEDERATION PEOPLE! Because SOME of us are going to be having long storied careers here.

Because that's the only way my story ends, is with me going home and deciding to never come back. You can't end my career with an injury. I'm not going to break down from wear and tear. And I sure as hell am not going give any one of you little pink midgets the satisfaction of running me off.

I've decided that the UWA belongs to me and that it is my job to care for it, nurture it, and watch it grow.

And if that means cutting off a few rotting branches that produce no fruit, only entitlement, then so be it.

It's time for some slash and burn agriculture.