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“The universe did not invent justice. Man did. Unfortunately, man must reside in the universe.”
― Roger Zelazny, The Dream Master
Ambers Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
22.11.2017
10:41pm
It seemed almost macabre in an odd sort of way how ones life, or at least a snap shot of it, could be laid out so… easily. Papers strewn across a bed spread that wouldn’t wrinkle across weary bones, pillows that wouldn’t yet ease the weight of tired eyes, sheets that wouldn’t tangle around a body roiling in the eerie captivation of a dreamless sleep.
Amber mused quietly, each piece of paper like a tiny moment of her life memorialized and published in black and white, existence broken into blurry fragments and ink blotches from an aging printer.
All the complexities of the human form nulled just long enough for the pieces to align into something remotely meaningful yet entirely inhumane.
She’d seen the pictures a thousand times, seeing them etched into the back of her eyelids and reliving each passing one like a tiny flip book stuck on a never-ending loop. Each word she could repeat verbatim knowing the faint inflection of the man who wrote them couldn’t be replicated on cheap paper with the last dregs of ink in a machine long since passed its usefulness.
A puzzle she’d solved over and over and yet somehow it remained a mystery, as though the pieces didn’t quite fit the same puzzle- maybe it was just her mind, that seemed to be the case most of the time these days.
No longer could she blame the world around her for evils brought down on her own head, trying to justify a karma that she believed never meant for her while unable to comprehend the idea that maybe her future evils somehow influenced the past events.
Almost five and half years since she bundle the papers together, manila folders stacked thick with photos peeking out the edges handed over with a clinical smile that only came from being empathetically dead inside.
Even now, words that held no voice still cut to the bone. She didn’t need to lay the paper out any more, to go through them page by page and picture by picture to recall the grisly details or even to throw up and clear the taste of bile from the back of her throat.
It was ritual, familiar and raw. Catharsis that only tore open the wounds and poured a shot of tequila over them for good measure- no salt or lemon though, she saved that shit for a special occasion.
Cross legged, Amber scanned the photograph between her fingers- black and white, the colour copy somehow lost amid the bureaucratic paper shuffling. A car rested on its roof beneath glaring streetlights, even to this day she wondered if the wheels were still spinning and whether it captured the way the rain seemed to tear through everything it touched, metal bent and twisted as though a childs toy simply discarded when it failed to capture the fickle imagination.
She wasn’t in this one, maybe that was a good thing.
Those were the hardest photos, like looking in a mirror and not recognizing the person staring back- more plastic tubes and bandages than flesh and bone. A promising young star honing her craft, a happy go lucky high flyer with a mean set of hands and the world at her feet- no one would look back and recognize that girl now… The one who threw herself off a 25 foot platform as an act of vengeance, who stood among the elite of her company at age 22 and held her own, the one who smiled and slapped fans hands when they rushed the barriers in support before tearing herself to pieces at their behest.
Bright eyes, bright future. A perfect little angel with a mean streak a mile wide, in a very imperfect industry.
A little lead foot who jack-knifed on slick roads and rolled her car four and a half times with an airbag that only deployed once the car had come to a sickening halt.
Amber Ryan. Jane Doe.
Dead on arrival.
Justice didn’t prevail that night though and karma allowed her through its grasp, a thousand people who deserved to live and never made it home and the little redhead with nothing left to give somehow dragged back from clutches of the bright light.
Seemed almost anti-climatic in truth, nothing like the TV shows or so she was told… just a group of medical professions trying to work a miracle on someone who hadn’t earned the effort.
Just a bunch of relieved sighs as the beeping sings like music to their ears.
No one came to visit, no one remembered what she’d given. Those fans that bequeathed their love and adoration now seemed to forget she’d ever crossed their paths, those diehard and bloodthirsty heathens who celebrated in success and failure now focused on someone else who could quench their perpetual thirsts.
Out of sight, out of mind never seemed to ring more fucking true.
Amber took death defiance to a new level, slipping through the bony fingers of the reaper and waltzing her way back among the living as though she could just slip back into the folds of society- no one ever talked about that part though, it was always bright lights and pearly gates but no one talked about the fitting back in, the way people would stare through as though they agreed with that internal judgement.
No one who ever came back was the same person when they left- they didn’t speak the same way even though their voice hadn’t changed, they didn’t eat the same even as their appetite hadn’t seemed to wane, hell they didn’t even sleep the same if it ever came at all.
They didn’t talk about the cold sweats and headaches, the burning in her chest that dissipated the moment she tore her eyes open and heaved breaths through parted lips. Screams dying before they ever danced across her tongue- people only cared about the survival story, the heroic dance with death and subsequent return. Everyone wanted to hear of happy endings, before moving on just when the horrors bubbled to the surface- PTSD became a catch phrase tossed about like confetti and phantom pains were something that you’d just ‘get over’.
People didn’t want the horror, the grit in their skin and blood in their mouth. They wanted sob stories to bawl their eyes out for, charity cases to throw money at and headlines to share and gossip cause these things never happened to people like them.
They wanted all the feel good bits, the parts that somehow made them feel apart of it without having to suffer for the effort- everyone wanted to be a survivor without ever having to leave their couch.
It was overrated in all honesty, Amber had spent years since trying to correct the mistake made. Setting right a wrong that the universe had apparently missed in hopes that maybe she’d finally mean something- even if it were a second chance for someone else.
For death in one comes life in another.
Yet here she was with a proverbial two bites of the cherry and a sublimated death wish on her to-do list.
Jack had tried his best admittedly, trying to convince her that Paragon would miss her if she were gone- they wouldn’t, and he’d never admit he was wrong. Christy wouldn’t, too busy with her own dysfunctional family and company to run while Paragon held the walls up around her. Ceno wouldn’t, but that’s because he was a dumb bald motherfucker who couldn’t decide which side of the line he wanted to be on. Leon wouldn’t, perfect strangers in unity over tag gold- he’d find someone much more successful to take over the mantle before her corpse would even get cold.
Jack wouldn’t.
Amber was a pet project, she’d become a minor failure on an otherwise stellar record and as quickly wiped from the memory as it took to find another delinquent with a hot streak and authority issues. He'd deny it, always would because he couldn’t admit that maybe her over analysis was spot on and that he was funnelling time and resources into someone who could never quite reach expectation.
It was a dim way to view things, however the view was always better from the bottom looking up than the top looking down.
Now it seemed everyone wanted to play ‘sole survivor’ just because someone they didn’t like was throwing their name in to oppose someone else. Everyone wanted the Cinderella without having to scrape coal, a god damn fucking crown while bypassing the trenches.
Few to none could claim they’d ever survived anything worse than a hangnail, no doubt there would be stories and exaggerations out the wazoo- everyone with a sad tale to tell about why they should be considered more than a placeholder and warm body.
Ultraviolence and death matches were one thing, that wasn’t survival though- that was stupidity and trying to prove a point. No one ever wondered if they were going to walk away, just what state they’d be in when they did- there’s never been concern about someone’s pulse when they stumbled back through the curtain a bloody mess.
No one has ever dropped dead cause they lost a fucking match which is a pity really.
Uncrossing her legs and ruffling the bed spread beneath her, Amber allowed the pent up breath to finally escape in a loud sigh, for the first time in awhile she found herself unwilling to complete the ritual and roughly gathered the papers together into messy stacks whilst interspersing them with photos. Flopping back onto the bed, Amber traced the cracks in her ceiling where the shadows would soon come out and skip double-dutch in her mind.
She didn’t need the photos to remind herself where she’d come from, the accident reports and pages of medical notes to understand what she’d done. All she needed to do was close her eyes…
Everyone wanted their survivor story, but it seemed no one was willing to die for it.
Amber didn’t need to this time though, cause she already had.
******
“Everyone’s got a sob story, a real charity case waiting for the world to finally give them the break they so rightfully deserve.
I mean they don’t wanna do anything for it cause they think its overdue, just waiting on ole karma to come and pay her bills before they turn the lights out.
I wish I could say that’s how it works, if only so the bullshit stops flowing for only a little while…
Everyones a god damn fucking survivor right, hardship after hardship and they’ve endured cause they’re special…
Yeah, licking the windows of the short bus kinda special but no ones admitting that out loud.
Few of us in this industry have had an easy ride so when someone starts spouting that they’ve gone through so much, everyone rolls their eyes almost simultaneously and immediately start comparing stories in their mind… Memory is a funny thing though, it has a way of exaggerating things and twisting certain details until they fit the narrative you crave.
I could sit here all night and describe the horrific things I’ve done and my surprise that someone hasn’t blown my head off just for being a smart ass motherfucker to the wrong person, I could spout the stupidly dangerous matches I signed on for cause I just wanted to be someone in this fucking business. All the times I’ve stood in front of the light and asked myself why I hadn’t stepped on through and never looked back…
Death is an interesting creature though, it creates the illusion that you get to pick and choose your time, your destiny and the way you’ll be remembered for all the awful things you’ve done.
It’s lying, because of course it fucking is.
Taking everything you thought you ever wanted and waiting until you’ve embraced the idea of this being the end before crushing it and blowing it into the breeze- by then of course its too late, you’re stuck usually.
On occasion though, someone slips through the cracks and they come back much to the dismay of the masses.
Hi, that’s me.
I wish I could say that’s my main qualification for this absurdity, but truth be told its more than that. Just like every match I’ve ever had, and every one I’ve still got left- its about having something to prove, showing the world that I’ve earned the fear and curses that my name still invokes, taking the idea that I’m just a Paragon lackey without a spine and nasally lobotomizing morons with their own arguments.
With or without Paragon, I’m still the same person.
James Ceno can’t say that, Maya Jensen can’t say that.
People like Eli Goode and Roller X won’t say that cause they’re too busy pretending to be relevant but in reality are floundering in the shallows like children waiting to be acknowledged cause they haven’t quite gone face down yet.
Don’t worry kiddies, that’s why I’m here… Just stay still while I plant my converse on the back of your head.
Why am I wearing my converses in water?
Turns out it doesn’t take much water for someone to drown.
Ask guys like Jaiden Rishel and Jace Valentine.
Hi guys, didn’t think I’d see you there huh, cocky as fuck on your own turf but lurking in the background when the home field advantage got left behind.
Don’t worry, I remember you both even after all the hits to the head I’ve taken, you’re both surprisingly memorable if only for all the wrong reasons.
Jaiden, daddy’s precious little boy- you were still getting your feet wet in this industry last I saw you, barely able to prepare yourself for a match let alone a hostile takeover. Some said you were the heir apparent, but most of us in the know knew there would always have to be someone tugging on your strings to make you dance.
Can’t say I’m all that surprised that the mastermind himself didn’t step out, I suppose he’d probably disintegrate in the sunlight- or sparkle if that’s much more your flavour.
I suppose it doesn’t matter, Piss-boy Sahn will always tell you how things are cause free will and independent thought is just really fucking hard sometimes right?
Jace would know all about it- the world greatest advice that no one ever asked for. World greatest advice that’s only ever gotten the stupid bastard up to his neck and rising fast, right?
Can’t say we ever really crossed paths in a meaningful way, I mean you were a douchebag back then and clearly little has changed on that front- I mean I’d compare you to Ripper if you were remotely worth calling a cunt.
That’s gotta sting, even Danny B has more heat than you and that’s just cause he’s breathing Jace- you have to put on a three ring circus and dance on fire before people even remember your name. Who knew though, that a lack of personality could qualify someone as mentally disabled… I suppose I’d better take a step back, my momma always told me not to hit the retards… at least when the teacher was looking.
Speaking of retards- I guess that brings me to James Ceno.
Shouldn’t say that about stablemates and yet I can’t help but wonder where the loyalty stands- see I get the whole ‘family’ thing, I really do but maybe you should have considered that before you jumped on the Paragon bandwagon.
Priorities Ceno are just that, you don’t get to flip-flop between ideals just because you’re feeling a little more fatherly on one day over another.
Paragon is not a second option, it’s the only fucking option.
In or out, I suppose we know which you should have chosen to save us all some trouble huh?
Stupid bald motherfucker… God I’ve wanted to say that for awhile.
So now lets scrape the bottom of the talent barrel before we all need to come back up for air shall we? Jobbers and Moxleys- six of one and half dozen of the other. Two branches of the idiot tree in two different places, swap them out for each other and nobodies gonna even notice- unless they’re some big motherfucker like Gunnar and then its just a little more effort for the exact same result or a Paul Blair that still doesn’t get that getting a three count against him is actually a loss and not a challenge to see who can lie down the longest.
Fuck even little Yokai got people running scared more than those jokers.
Maybe Kelsi can teach them something, if only how to be incredibly mediocre and still win a few matches. At least her win loss record isn’t in negatives… scary how that’s suddenly a fucing achievement around here.
Call it the Paragon effect- something Kris Chaos and TJ Adams will learn soon enough… One built for the legacy and shunning it, another out of the blue striving to be more than just another no name.
It’s a shame almost that they both have to lose for a point to be proven, but children never do learn when they’re simply given everything they desire…
Do they #18… You’d know all about right? Spare the rod and spoil the child- who knows, maybe if you’d done more than Mizore would have learned better than to play in deeper waters than her talent levels could allow. Maybe if you’d done more Mizore might have realized the danger she allowed herself to get into before she found herself flat on her back drowning in a mixture of her own vomit and drool.
But you’re here now, and that makes everything better right?
Mother of dragons here to save her flailing offspring from those nasty paragon knights, put them in their places and send them on their way minus their dignity while trying to preserve the last of her daughters pathetic legacy.
Lets be real here, you know Mizore can’t win and that’s why you entered the match- cause this is the only way you think you can get at Jack cause even you don’t believe Mizore stands a fucking chance. I suppose you’re her mother so you have to at least pretend as you have done throughout her career though.
So you try win sole survivor, which you won’t, and you try get a shot at Jack cause the inevitable takes place. You try and relieve him of the gold, and you won’t, but you’ll do better than your daughter but you’ll never admit the reason why- its got nothing to do with protecting or helping, you have less faith in your own blood than any of us.
Go on, tell me different #18 and prove that you’re a washed up liar.
Keep this in mind kiddies, it doesn’t matter if I’m first in, last in or somewhere in between… I’m the woman to beat, fuck lets be honest I’m the person to beat- odds on favourite by a country mile and then some. Call my odds 1:1 cause I don’t plan on losing…
So I guess that leaves a question doesn’t it…
What happens next?
Jack Michaels beats Mizore to no ones surprise, Amber Ryan wins Sole Survivor to the surprise of even less.
Paragon vs Paragon.
The Blast vs The Distorted Angel.
The proverbial old guard still going strong vs the modern main event killer.
I guess the answer is real simple actually…
I give Jack fucking Michaels the fight of his god damn life.
Everything else before that though?
Inconsequential and inevitable.”
― Roger Zelazny, The Dream Master
Ambers Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
22.11.2017
10:41pm
It seemed almost macabre in an odd sort of way how ones life, or at least a snap shot of it, could be laid out so… easily. Papers strewn across a bed spread that wouldn’t wrinkle across weary bones, pillows that wouldn’t yet ease the weight of tired eyes, sheets that wouldn’t tangle around a body roiling in the eerie captivation of a dreamless sleep.
Amber mused quietly, each piece of paper like a tiny moment of her life memorialized and published in black and white, existence broken into blurry fragments and ink blotches from an aging printer.
All the complexities of the human form nulled just long enough for the pieces to align into something remotely meaningful yet entirely inhumane.
She’d seen the pictures a thousand times, seeing them etched into the back of her eyelids and reliving each passing one like a tiny flip book stuck on a never-ending loop. Each word she could repeat verbatim knowing the faint inflection of the man who wrote them couldn’t be replicated on cheap paper with the last dregs of ink in a machine long since passed its usefulness.
A puzzle she’d solved over and over and yet somehow it remained a mystery, as though the pieces didn’t quite fit the same puzzle- maybe it was just her mind, that seemed to be the case most of the time these days.
No longer could she blame the world around her for evils brought down on her own head, trying to justify a karma that she believed never meant for her while unable to comprehend the idea that maybe her future evils somehow influenced the past events.
Almost five and half years since she bundle the papers together, manila folders stacked thick with photos peeking out the edges handed over with a clinical smile that only came from being empathetically dead inside.
Even now, words that held no voice still cut to the bone. She didn’t need to lay the paper out any more, to go through them page by page and picture by picture to recall the grisly details or even to throw up and clear the taste of bile from the back of her throat.
It was ritual, familiar and raw. Catharsis that only tore open the wounds and poured a shot of tequila over them for good measure- no salt or lemon though, she saved that shit for a special occasion.
Cross legged, Amber scanned the photograph between her fingers- black and white, the colour copy somehow lost amid the bureaucratic paper shuffling. A car rested on its roof beneath glaring streetlights, even to this day she wondered if the wheels were still spinning and whether it captured the way the rain seemed to tear through everything it touched, metal bent and twisted as though a childs toy simply discarded when it failed to capture the fickle imagination.
She wasn’t in this one, maybe that was a good thing.
Those were the hardest photos, like looking in a mirror and not recognizing the person staring back- more plastic tubes and bandages than flesh and bone. A promising young star honing her craft, a happy go lucky high flyer with a mean set of hands and the world at her feet- no one would look back and recognize that girl now… The one who threw herself off a 25 foot platform as an act of vengeance, who stood among the elite of her company at age 22 and held her own, the one who smiled and slapped fans hands when they rushed the barriers in support before tearing herself to pieces at their behest.
Bright eyes, bright future. A perfect little angel with a mean streak a mile wide, in a very imperfect industry.
A little lead foot who jack-knifed on slick roads and rolled her car four and a half times with an airbag that only deployed once the car had come to a sickening halt.
Amber Ryan. Jane Doe.
Dead on arrival.
Justice didn’t prevail that night though and karma allowed her through its grasp, a thousand people who deserved to live and never made it home and the little redhead with nothing left to give somehow dragged back from clutches of the bright light.
Seemed almost anti-climatic in truth, nothing like the TV shows or so she was told… just a group of medical professions trying to work a miracle on someone who hadn’t earned the effort.
Just a bunch of relieved sighs as the beeping sings like music to their ears.
No one came to visit, no one remembered what she’d given. Those fans that bequeathed their love and adoration now seemed to forget she’d ever crossed their paths, those diehard and bloodthirsty heathens who celebrated in success and failure now focused on someone else who could quench their perpetual thirsts.
Out of sight, out of mind never seemed to ring more fucking true.
Amber took death defiance to a new level, slipping through the bony fingers of the reaper and waltzing her way back among the living as though she could just slip back into the folds of society- no one ever talked about that part though, it was always bright lights and pearly gates but no one talked about the fitting back in, the way people would stare through as though they agreed with that internal judgement.
No one who ever came back was the same person when they left- they didn’t speak the same way even though their voice hadn’t changed, they didn’t eat the same even as their appetite hadn’t seemed to wane, hell they didn’t even sleep the same if it ever came at all.
They didn’t talk about the cold sweats and headaches, the burning in her chest that dissipated the moment she tore her eyes open and heaved breaths through parted lips. Screams dying before they ever danced across her tongue- people only cared about the survival story, the heroic dance with death and subsequent return. Everyone wanted to hear of happy endings, before moving on just when the horrors bubbled to the surface- PTSD became a catch phrase tossed about like confetti and phantom pains were something that you’d just ‘get over’.
People didn’t want the horror, the grit in their skin and blood in their mouth. They wanted sob stories to bawl their eyes out for, charity cases to throw money at and headlines to share and gossip cause these things never happened to people like them.
They wanted all the feel good bits, the parts that somehow made them feel apart of it without having to suffer for the effort- everyone wanted to be a survivor without ever having to leave their couch.
It was overrated in all honesty, Amber had spent years since trying to correct the mistake made. Setting right a wrong that the universe had apparently missed in hopes that maybe she’d finally mean something- even if it were a second chance for someone else.
For death in one comes life in another.
Yet here she was with a proverbial two bites of the cherry and a sublimated death wish on her to-do list.
Jack had tried his best admittedly, trying to convince her that Paragon would miss her if she were gone- they wouldn’t, and he’d never admit he was wrong. Christy wouldn’t, too busy with her own dysfunctional family and company to run while Paragon held the walls up around her. Ceno wouldn’t, but that’s because he was a dumb bald motherfucker who couldn’t decide which side of the line he wanted to be on. Leon wouldn’t, perfect strangers in unity over tag gold- he’d find someone much more successful to take over the mantle before her corpse would even get cold.
Jack wouldn’t.
Amber was a pet project, she’d become a minor failure on an otherwise stellar record and as quickly wiped from the memory as it took to find another delinquent with a hot streak and authority issues. He'd deny it, always would because he couldn’t admit that maybe her over analysis was spot on and that he was funnelling time and resources into someone who could never quite reach expectation.
It was a dim way to view things, however the view was always better from the bottom looking up than the top looking down.
Now it seemed everyone wanted to play ‘sole survivor’ just because someone they didn’t like was throwing their name in to oppose someone else. Everyone wanted the Cinderella without having to scrape coal, a god damn fucking crown while bypassing the trenches.
Few to none could claim they’d ever survived anything worse than a hangnail, no doubt there would be stories and exaggerations out the wazoo- everyone with a sad tale to tell about why they should be considered more than a placeholder and warm body.
Ultraviolence and death matches were one thing, that wasn’t survival though- that was stupidity and trying to prove a point. No one ever wondered if they were going to walk away, just what state they’d be in when they did- there’s never been concern about someone’s pulse when they stumbled back through the curtain a bloody mess.
No one has ever dropped dead cause they lost a fucking match which is a pity really.
Uncrossing her legs and ruffling the bed spread beneath her, Amber allowed the pent up breath to finally escape in a loud sigh, for the first time in awhile she found herself unwilling to complete the ritual and roughly gathered the papers together into messy stacks whilst interspersing them with photos. Flopping back onto the bed, Amber traced the cracks in her ceiling where the shadows would soon come out and skip double-dutch in her mind.
She didn’t need the photos to remind herself where she’d come from, the accident reports and pages of medical notes to understand what she’d done. All she needed to do was close her eyes…
Everyone wanted their survivor story, but it seemed no one was willing to die for it.
Amber didn’t need to this time though, cause she already had.
******
“Everyone’s got a sob story, a real charity case waiting for the world to finally give them the break they so rightfully deserve.
I mean they don’t wanna do anything for it cause they think its overdue, just waiting on ole karma to come and pay her bills before they turn the lights out.
I wish I could say that’s how it works, if only so the bullshit stops flowing for only a little while…
Everyones a god damn fucking survivor right, hardship after hardship and they’ve endured cause they’re special…
Yeah, licking the windows of the short bus kinda special but no ones admitting that out loud.
Few of us in this industry have had an easy ride so when someone starts spouting that they’ve gone through so much, everyone rolls their eyes almost simultaneously and immediately start comparing stories in their mind… Memory is a funny thing though, it has a way of exaggerating things and twisting certain details until they fit the narrative you crave.
I could sit here all night and describe the horrific things I’ve done and my surprise that someone hasn’t blown my head off just for being a smart ass motherfucker to the wrong person, I could spout the stupidly dangerous matches I signed on for cause I just wanted to be someone in this fucking business. All the times I’ve stood in front of the light and asked myself why I hadn’t stepped on through and never looked back…
Death is an interesting creature though, it creates the illusion that you get to pick and choose your time, your destiny and the way you’ll be remembered for all the awful things you’ve done.
It’s lying, because of course it fucking is.
Taking everything you thought you ever wanted and waiting until you’ve embraced the idea of this being the end before crushing it and blowing it into the breeze- by then of course its too late, you’re stuck usually.
On occasion though, someone slips through the cracks and they come back much to the dismay of the masses.
Hi, that’s me.
I wish I could say that’s my main qualification for this absurdity, but truth be told its more than that. Just like every match I’ve ever had, and every one I’ve still got left- its about having something to prove, showing the world that I’ve earned the fear and curses that my name still invokes, taking the idea that I’m just a Paragon lackey without a spine and nasally lobotomizing morons with their own arguments.
With or without Paragon, I’m still the same person.
James Ceno can’t say that, Maya Jensen can’t say that.
People like Eli Goode and Roller X won’t say that cause they’re too busy pretending to be relevant but in reality are floundering in the shallows like children waiting to be acknowledged cause they haven’t quite gone face down yet.
Don’t worry kiddies, that’s why I’m here… Just stay still while I plant my converse on the back of your head.
Why am I wearing my converses in water?
Turns out it doesn’t take much water for someone to drown.
Ask guys like Jaiden Rishel and Jace Valentine.
Hi guys, didn’t think I’d see you there huh, cocky as fuck on your own turf but lurking in the background when the home field advantage got left behind.
Don’t worry, I remember you both even after all the hits to the head I’ve taken, you’re both surprisingly memorable if only for all the wrong reasons.
Jaiden, daddy’s precious little boy- you were still getting your feet wet in this industry last I saw you, barely able to prepare yourself for a match let alone a hostile takeover. Some said you were the heir apparent, but most of us in the know knew there would always have to be someone tugging on your strings to make you dance.
Can’t say I’m all that surprised that the mastermind himself didn’t step out, I suppose he’d probably disintegrate in the sunlight- or sparkle if that’s much more your flavour.
I suppose it doesn’t matter, Piss-boy Sahn will always tell you how things are cause free will and independent thought is just really fucking hard sometimes right?
Jace would know all about it- the world greatest advice that no one ever asked for. World greatest advice that’s only ever gotten the stupid bastard up to his neck and rising fast, right?
Can’t say we ever really crossed paths in a meaningful way, I mean you were a douchebag back then and clearly little has changed on that front- I mean I’d compare you to Ripper if you were remotely worth calling a cunt.
That’s gotta sting, even Danny B has more heat than you and that’s just cause he’s breathing Jace- you have to put on a three ring circus and dance on fire before people even remember your name. Who knew though, that a lack of personality could qualify someone as mentally disabled… I suppose I’d better take a step back, my momma always told me not to hit the retards… at least when the teacher was looking.
Speaking of retards- I guess that brings me to James Ceno.
Shouldn’t say that about stablemates and yet I can’t help but wonder where the loyalty stands- see I get the whole ‘family’ thing, I really do but maybe you should have considered that before you jumped on the Paragon bandwagon.
Priorities Ceno are just that, you don’t get to flip-flop between ideals just because you’re feeling a little more fatherly on one day over another.
Paragon is not a second option, it’s the only fucking option.
In or out, I suppose we know which you should have chosen to save us all some trouble huh?
Stupid bald motherfucker… God I’ve wanted to say that for awhile.
So now lets scrape the bottom of the talent barrel before we all need to come back up for air shall we? Jobbers and Moxleys- six of one and half dozen of the other. Two branches of the idiot tree in two different places, swap them out for each other and nobodies gonna even notice- unless they’re some big motherfucker like Gunnar and then its just a little more effort for the exact same result or a Paul Blair that still doesn’t get that getting a three count against him is actually a loss and not a challenge to see who can lie down the longest.
Fuck even little Yokai got people running scared more than those jokers.
Maybe Kelsi can teach them something, if only how to be incredibly mediocre and still win a few matches. At least her win loss record isn’t in negatives… scary how that’s suddenly a fucing achievement around here.
Call it the Paragon effect- something Kris Chaos and TJ Adams will learn soon enough… One built for the legacy and shunning it, another out of the blue striving to be more than just another no name.
It’s a shame almost that they both have to lose for a point to be proven, but children never do learn when they’re simply given everything they desire…
Do they #18… You’d know all about right? Spare the rod and spoil the child- who knows, maybe if you’d done more than Mizore would have learned better than to play in deeper waters than her talent levels could allow. Maybe if you’d done more Mizore might have realized the danger she allowed herself to get into before she found herself flat on her back drowning in a mixture of her own vomit and drool.
But you’re here now, and that makes everything better right?
Mother of dragons here to save her flailing offspring from those nasty paragon knights, put them in their places and send them on their way minus their dignity while trying to preserve the last of her daughters pathetic legacy.
Lets be real here, you know Mizore can’t win and that’s why you entered the match- cause this is the only way you think you can get at Jack cause even you don’t believe Mizore stands a fucking chance. I suppose you’re her mother so you have to at least pretend as you have done throughout her career though.
So you try win sole survivor, which you won’t, and you try get a shot at Jack cause the inevitable takes place. You try and relieve him of the gold, and you won’t, but you’ll do better than your daughter but you’ll never admit the reason why- its got nothing to do with protecting or helping, you have less faith in your own blood than any of us.
Go on, tell me different #18 and prove that you’re a washed up liar.
Keep this in mind kiddies, it doesn’t matter if I’m first in, last in or somewhere in between… I’m the woman to beat, fuck lets be honest I’m the person to beat- odds on favourite by a country mile and then some. Call my odds 1:1 cause I don’t plan on losing…
So I guess that leaves a question doesn’t it…
What happens next?
Jack Michaels beats Mizore to no ones surprise, Amber Ryan wins Sole Survivor to the surprise of even less.
Paragon vs Paragon.
The Blast vs The Distorted Angel.
The proverbial old guard still going strong vs the modern main event killer.
I guess the answer is real simple actually…
I give Jack fucking Michaels the fight of his god damn life.
Everything else before that though?
Inconsequential and inevitable.”
