EPISODE 44: Insomnia

Friday September 17, 2010
The Nest- Master Bedroom
Indianapolis, Indiana
2:27 AM Local Time

Two-thirty in the morning, and still sleep eluded him.

Terrence Thompson stared at the dark ceiling of the Nest’s master bedroom, listening to the soft, rhythmic breathing of his wife lying beside him. For the hundredth time in the past three hours, he tried closing his eyes again, willing himself to slip into the nothingness of oblivion.

Nothing.

He almost groaned in frustration as he glanced at the clock, and discovered only a couple of minutes had passed since his last glance. He needed to get SOME shuteye soon- Wendy had booked their local gym’s ring at 8:00- and he wanted to get in all the training time he could tomorrow.

Terrence glanced to his right, at Wendy, curled up, facing him, her face pouty in sleep. Smiling softly at his wife, he kissed her on the cheek, and slowly rolled away from her, setting his feet on the floor, and standing up.

Hearing a soft groan, Terrence cringed, turning slowly and hoping that he hadn’t woken Wendy up, but the redhead merely pulled the blankets around her tighter, and became still save for her soft rhythmic breathing. Sighing with relief, Terrence picked up a white t-shirt from the ground, slipping it on, and tucking it into the bright red pair of basketball shorts he customarily slept in.

Stepping lightly, and avoiding where he could best remember the squeaky floorboards lay, Terrence crept out of the room, into the hallway. Taking a quick peek in at his daughter, Terrence softly walked to the stairs, heading down, keeping a careful eye out for Chaunticleer. The Thompson family cat often slept on the stairs, and the last thing Terrence wanted to do was step on that irritable feline.

Safely completing his trip down the stairs, he walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge, pouring himself a coffee cup full of milk, then sliding it into the microwave. He smiled as the low whirring sound of the machine came to life.

Terrence quickly stopped the microwave with a second to go, lest the sound of the beep carry upstairs, and pulled the milk from the fridge. He slowly walked out to the living room, and sat down on the couch, flipping on the television.

Unfortunately, little was on. Fox News and CNN were replaying their evening shows, the talking heads screaming at each other over the upcoming elections and other various news events of the day. Every other channel seemed to be either a crappy syndicated re-run, or an infomercial.

An idea coming to him, Terrence rose from his chair, and walked over to a shelf that sat to the right of the television. Ignoring the countless Disney DVD’s, and XBOX 360 games, Terrence knelt down, looking at the bottom shelf, where the Thompson family’s collection of wrestling DVD’s sat.

Pulling out the DVD entitled “BWA”, Terrence quickly inserted it into the player, and sat down. It wasn’t an official DVD, but rather a burned mix of matches he had found on the internet of the old Louisiana based federation. He smiled as the television immediately cut to a massive cage surrounding two rings, thirty-five men and women all locked inside, brawling as soon as the bell rang.

Terrence always wondered who’s bright idea it had been to decide the BWA Heavyweight championship by sticking the entire roster in the cage, and fighting under last man standing rules, but he supposed given the end result, it wasn’t such a horrid idea after all. The match had served as his first as an official member of the BWA roster, although, considering he was the one who had walked out the winner, it had became one of his most memorable as well.

Terrence smiled in reminiscence as the match played out, For so much of his WfWA tenure, Terrence had come to be regarded as a choke artist. He and his wife were one of the best tag teams to ever grace the alliance, and Terrence was one of just two wrestlers to win all four major belts the Alliance had offered. But the big matches, they had always been a problem for him. It had taken him nearly a year to win his first region’s heavyweight championship, and three years to win the top belt in the alliance. Too long on both counts for someone of his talent, he felt.

The one exception was the night now being relived on the television in front of him. For one night, Terrence had overcome his ‘choke-artist’ curse, and stunned the world by winning the BWA title. Even then, it had ended up being his only reign. When he had gotten another chance at the belt, against Mandrake in July, he had put the big man down in the middle of that ring, then passed out from blood loss before he could make the cover, ending the match in a no contest. Another choke.

Terrence winced as his televised counterpart had his head rammed into the cage over and over again by a man named SyNn. He sighed and took another sip of his milk. He had hoped that his return to wrestling wouldn’t have stuck him in the same rut, but so far, it had. He had flopped the final Summer Games, just as he had every Summer Games before. And even here in PWX, his first shot at the Grand Prix title had ended in failure as well.

He wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking that winning at Civil War would completely erase his stigmata of shortcomings over the course of his career, but it sure as heck would be a step in the right direction, that’s for sure. And how many opportunities did one get to get a title like the PWX Grand Prix? Not that many, by his count.

Maybe he was putting too much pressure on himself. After all, he was the one sitting here, wide awake at two forty-five in the morning, watching a five and a half year old wrestling match. Just relax, and treat it just like another match. Whatever happens, happens, right?

But that wasn’t how Terrence worked. Most of the time, Terrence considered himself a fairly laid back person. Some would even go so far as considering him a goofball. But the moment that carrot dangled, and he became aware of the high stakes in a match, that nonchalance went away, and he became as intense as anyone. It had been the same for his auto racing career as well as his wrestling one.

Terrence chuckled softly as he watched his wife drive another wrestler’s head into the mat with her Vortexinator, and back away quickly, while the referee counted the man out.

“Daddy?”

Terrence nearly jumped out of his skin as the inquisitive voice of his daughter floated to him from the staircase. Looking over, he saw a tiny moving shadow filter into the room.

“Whachoo doing up?” Theresa asked as she slowly crept into the living room.

Terrence couldn’t help but chuckle. “I could ask the same to you, Terr-Bear,” he said, patting the seat beside him, inviting her to hop up on the couch. Theresa complied, and nestled against her father’s side, turning her attention to the television.

“Why you watchin’ wrestling this late?” the four year old asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Terrence responded simply. “Daddy’s got a lot on his mind.”

“About your match?” Theresa asked sofly.

“Mmm-hmm.” Terrence answered nodding, although he didn’t feel the need to elaborate his concerns with his daughter.

The two watched the match in silence for a while, as various wrestlers were eliminated, dragged by the harried officials out of the cage to make more room for the remaining combatants. There were about twenty left now, he figured.

“Are you afraid?” Theresa’s question surprised him.

“Of course not, don’t be silly,” Terrence responded sharply, before he even remembered who he was talking to. As an apology, he ruffled his daughter’s hair.

“I think mommy’s afraid,” the little girl said candidly.

Terrence paused, looking down at his daughter, and amazed by her astuteness. For a few seconds he debated with himself on the best way to respond. Finally, he smiled grimly and nodded.

“You’re right, Theresa. Mommy is a bit afraid of her match. She’s competing in a match type she absolutely hates and despises, and it’s a match where people can get very, very hurt. But you know what, Terr-Bear? There’s no one in the world that’s tougher than your mother. She’s going to be okay.”

“If she hates the match so much, why does she enter?”

Terrence squeezed his daughter close. “Because sometimes, Theresa, you have to do the right thing, even if you’re afraid. I think Wendy feels that this is one of those times.”

Theresa nodded, taking it all in, and Terrence smiled as he looked down at her. Then Theresa turned her face upward, looking at him. “Is that why you’re facing Jer’miah? To do the right thing?”

Terrence laughed softly, and shook his head. “No. Jeremiah’s a good person, although I think he’s a very angry man. But Theresa, the winner of this match is the Grand Prix champion, and that means they get to call themselves the best wrestler in the company. I want to be the best wrestler in the company. But so does Jeremiah. That’s what makes this such a great match.”

“I think you’re the best wrestler anyways!” Theresa said brightly, and that drew another laugh out of Terrence, although he quickly quieted himself, lest he wake his wife.

“Thanks, Terr-Bear,” Terrence said, grinning. “But I think I better win this match, just to make sure everybody knows it.”

Theresa nodded, and she looked back to the television. Terrence snickered as he hit a Last Lap on poor Malik Johnson, effectively ending his night as well.

He looked down and saw his daughter, and she was frowning. “What is it, Theresa?” Terrence asked gently.

“If you win, I’m going to be happy. But if you lose, I’m going to be sad.”

Terrence sighed, and smiled gently. “I’ll be sad if I lose too, Theresa.”

Theresa wasn’t done though. “Is it the same for Chloe? Will she be sad if Jer’Miah loses?”

“Yeah, she will be,” Terrence said, surprised at Theresa’s line of thinking, considering she’d never actually met the Belmont’s daughter before. “But that’s the way it is, sometimes. One side has to win and be happy, and the other side has to lose and be sad.”

Theresa nodded quietly, although, from the expression on her face, it was obvious she didn’t really like what Terrence had told her. With a reassuring smile, Terrence hugged his daughter close. “Look at it this way, Theresa. Twice now, Chloe’s been made very happy, because Jeremiah already won. Don’t you think it’s *our* turn to be happy?”

Theresa nodded, and giggled, and Terrence again tousled her hair. Again, the living room fell quiet as father and daughter turned their attention back to the television. For a long time, they watched in silence as one-by-one, the wrestlers were knocked out of the match.

“Uh oh...” Terrence muttered as a large main named Rayne grabbed Wendy. Knowing what was going to happen, for the first time, Terrence had reservations about letting his daughter watch this match. He and Wendy were both concerned about letting Theresa watch their matches- if either of them got injured, who knows what effect it would have on her? It was a fairly safe assumption that Theresa wasn’t going to be watching either match at Civil War, at least until afterwards, when it was certain that both he and Wendy were okay.

“Don’t look, Theresa,” Terrence said warningly as Rayne perched himself on a turnbuckle, and prepared to powerbomb his wife. When the expected protest didn’t come, he glanced down, and saw his daughter fast asleep, her head nestled against his side, and her thumb in her mouth. Terrence looked back at the screen, and immediately closed his eyes. Considering the kind of match Wendy was walking into in just a couple days, the last thing he needed to watch was her getting hurt from a long-ago encounter.

This time, as his eyelids shut, the drowsiness that had eluded all night had finally come. By the time Rayne threw his wife off the turnbuckle, Terrence was already nodding off, and by the time the referee finished counting to ten, the Mechanical Mayhem was asleep.




=======================================
Friday September 17, 2010
The Nest- Living Room
Indianapolis, Indiana
4:10 PM Local Time

“So, I’m overrated, eh?”

[Low chuckle]

“Oh, Jeremiah. You have no clue what you”re getting into...”

[Now, wasn’t that a Kodak moment? Terrence Thompson and his daughter asleep on the couch? Wendy sure thought so, as she came down the stairs the next morning, and found her husband sleeping in a sitting position, her daughter using him as a pillow. In her mind, it was just too adorable to not get the camera over, and that picture now adorns the Thompson family Facebook page. For the record, 628 people (and counting!) ‘like this’]

[Terrence isn’t particularily happy about that.]

[So, once again we’re in the Nest’s living room, Terrence Thompson sitting on the couch. The Mechanical Mayhem is dressed in the usual attire for him, a bright red Indiana Hoosiers t-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans. He’s sitting on the living room couch, the camera perched on a tripod a few feet away. One thing is different, though- Terrence doesn’t look as nearly relaxed as he normally does. He’s not exactly stiff-as-a-board like Wendy normally is for her promos, and he’s certainly TRYING to pull off the relaxed look, but he seems a bit... fidgety.]

[Considering the upcoming match he has, its probably understandable.]

“Four months ago, I stood in almost the exact same position I do now. For all intents and purposes, I was the challenger going into Full Throttle. But when all was said and done- I came up short. Jacob Wright, showing an amount of adaptability I hadn’t seen coming, managed to drive me face first into that mat with the Epic Finish, and rolled me over for the one-two-three. It was truly a humbling experience.”

[Terrence shakes his head, still disgusted with himself for letting that match get away from him.]

“I think everybody’s figured out by now that humility really isn’t my thing.”

[Shrug]

“Looking back, it was too much success for me, too soon. After a five year sabbatical, I returned to wrestling, and in my third match, I win the Next Generation title off of Valerie Belmont, who was the hottest wrestler in the company at the time. In my fourth, I defeated my wife in one of the most emotionally and physically draining matches I’d ever been in. In my fifth, I beat the man who now holds the Grand Prix title, and in my sixth, I defeated Valerie Belmont yet again.”

[Terrence smiles in reminiscence over those victories, although he finishes with a sigh.]

“I thought I was unbeatable. I thought Full Throttle was my coronation, and I came into that match thumping my chest, my nose in the air. I left that night licking my wounds and dragging my feet.”

[Terrence lowers his head, nodding somberly, accepting the fate he had endured that night.]

“Throughout the summer, I’ve had to watch Wright and Belmont trade that belt back and forth. I watched Brian Hollywood hand himself a title shot time and again simply because he held a controlling interest in the company. I watched Jacob Wright dancing on a table like a child in the middle of a match. I watched Jeremiah and his wife parade around, proclaiming the themselves the ‘first family of PWX’. “

[Scoff]

“And all the while, I kept my head down, and I kept plowing through every obstacle that got put in my path. I won the tag titles with my wife. I beat back every single attempt by John Pariah to reclaim those same belts, with every partner he could imagine. I mowed through every single person who was put in my way, whether they were Cartel, Resistance, or Dean McDaniel.”

[Remember him? No one really blames you if you don’t!]

“All that, and this is my reward. Once again, the checkered flag, the Grand Prix championship, awaits just ahead, I’ve waited four months for this moment.”

[Terrence sits up a little bit straighter, and his eyes get just a little bit more intense.]

“I’m not waiting any longer.”

“You know what its like, don’t you, Jeremiah? To come so close, only for that prize to slip from your grasp at the last second? How many tries did this take? Three? Four?”

[Small shrug]

“So I think you can well imagine the amount of pressure I’m feeling right now. I screw this up, and it will be what? Another four months? Six? A year? It’s enough to get even the cockiest of wrestlers a butterfly in their gut. But I don’t think I’m the only one who’s feeling the pressure of this match, am I? I mean, that was quite the little tantrum you pulled back there on Adrenaline last week.”

[Terrence pauses just a second, as his face melts from that of intensity to one of confusion. He blinks several times, as if trying to figure something out, then looks back at the camera.]

“So let me get this straight... you’re pissed at the fans, because they cheered when I beat Hollywood, and didn’t coddle you when you lost to Ojeda? Is that honestly what you’re trying to say?”

[A chuckle. Not so much of a malicious one, but rather the helpless kind one makes in an uncomfortable situation, when words completely fail them.]

[Well, maybe not COMPLETELY...]

“Okay, first of all, you’re supposedly, what? A hundred, hundred-fifty years old? And you’re not mature enough to get over THAT? Second of all, that wasn’t even on the same show. You lost to Ojeda at No Limits, and I beat Hollywood three days earlier at Adrenaline Forty-Two. And third of all, you could stick Justin Beiber in the ring with Brian Hollywood, and the fans would cheer for him.”

[Note: Book. That. Match.]

[For his part, Terrence shrugs, giving another helpless chuckle]

“Ah, well. Whatever gets you pissed enough to where the fangs drop down and you go into Super Mega Vampire Rage Mode, right?”

[Pause, and Terrence cringes in an exaggerated fashion, as if he had just made a tremendous mistake]

“Oh wait, sorry. Don’t make Jer angry. I won’t like Jeremiah when he’s angry.”

[Grin]

“All joking aside, I know damn well what you’re capable of. I saw it first hand back at Adrenaline Thirty-One, in our strap match. I saw it at Do or Die, and I certainly saw it two weeks ago, when you went through hell and high water to climb that ladder and earn your second reign.”

[A respectful nod towards the camera]

“You’re tough, and your talented, Jer. And both times you wrapped that belt around your waist, it was after well-deserved victories. But just as I was overconfident going into my match with Wright, perhaps you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself this time? I mean, you’ve already got that mark on your mask, don’t you? Tell you what. If I win, bring that thing by Thompson Auto here in Indy, and we’ll see if we can buff that out for you.”

[Another grin. Terrence definitely seems a bit more relaxed now than he did at the start of the promo, and some, although certainly not all, of his normal swagger seems to be back.]

“It’ll be free of charge, of course. I think you’ll be paying enough for your ignorance on Tuesday night.”

[Smirk]

“See, unfortunately for you, Jeremiah, I doubt you know too much about my days in the RWF and REV, the tiny Boston-based indy feds I began my career in. Every single match was no disqualification, and they sometimes got to be brutal as fuck. I have more than my fair share of scars from those days, as does my wife. So don’t think for a second this is my first time around the block.”

“Like I said earlier, you really have no idea what you’re actually in for, do you?”

[Terrence shrugs. So much the better for him then.]

“Because you’re right. The nature of this match is that anything goes, and there will be a winner. So you can thwack me with a chair, and punch me with brass knuckles. But I can do it right back to you. Trust me when I say, I know my way around one of these matches. Hell, I could even bring a Supersoaker filled with holy water down to the ring. Then we could put that ‘are they really or not?’ debate to rest once and for all.”

[Terrence flashes a smile. He’s kidding, of course. Terrence is way too prideful to win in such a cheap fashion. Besides, if it didn’t work, and Terrence ended up just spraying his opponent with a squirt gun, in one of the biggest matches of his career, he’d end up looking like a freakin’ idiot.]

“Whatever you are, Jeremiah, mortal or immortal, the fact remains, you ARE beatable. I proved that. Wright proved that. Ojeda proved that. Hell, even Brian Hollywood proved that.”

[Ooooh... low blow...]

“Just remember that. You can pretend you’re Super ‘Miah all you want, and strut around with this ‘I cannot be stopped’ bullshit, but I’ve been in this sport way too long to not know better. ANYONE can be stopped. And that does include you. A Sparkstarter, a Last Lap, a Black Flag, and you’re done. Just like I could very well be should you connect with The Rapture.”

[A shrug]

“But I know you’re just as stubborn as I am, Jeremiah, and you’re not going to listen to me. So go on, think you have this match in the bag. Think that you’re the only man in the PWX who can wrestle in a no-disqualification match. So much the better for me.”

[A pause, and one final smirk]

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

[Fade]

EPISODE 43: Luck O' The Irish

Saturday September 11, 2010
The RV- Main Cabin
South Bend, Indiana
2:17 PM Local Time

“How in the fuck is Minnesota losing to SOUTH DAKOTA!” Pollaski grumbled as the box score flashed on the RV’s television.

“Sorry, man,” Terrence said, struggling to keep a straight face as his manager glowered at him.

“Fuggin’ Gophers,” Pollaski huffed again, flipping off the television. Considering that they were in the stadium parking lot, awaiting the kickoff of the Michigan-Notre Dame game, he was probably going to get all the football he wanted this afternoon. “So,” he said, changing the subject. “See Pariah’s promo yet?”

Terrence nodded, his jaw clenched angrily. “That fucking son of a bitch,” he growled. “Using September 11th for shock value?”

“Yeah, well, no one ever accused Pariah of being tasteful, that’s for sure,” Pollaski said, hopping out of the chair. “Ah well, fucker’s gonna get what’s coming to him soon enough.”

Terrence nodded, then turned to Pollaski. “Speaking of which... is Wendy really going to go through with the Civil War match?”

Pollaski shot an incredulous look at Terrence. “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she?”

Terrence grimaced. “You know what kind of match it is...” he said darkly.

Pollaski paused, thinking. Terrence spoke the truth- the match was a Seventh Circle Death Match, a type of match that Wendy detested... and feared. Pollaski almost shuddered as he thought back to what had happened when Ojeda and Szatkowski went through the last one, several months ago at High Stakes. Finally, he turned to Terrence. “She’ll be okay, dude.”

Terrence nodded, although he remained unconvinced. “I just want my wife to remain in one piece.”

Before Pollaski could respond, the door opened, and out stepped the ladies of the WhirlyBirdz entourage. Wendy had pulled out all the stops for the Michigan game, dressing herself up in a dark green dress that ended just above her knees. Her flaming red hair was tied back, pinned by clip that was adorned with a large green shamrock. In addition, Wendy had managed to convince Cassie to paint another shamrock on her left cheek. While Theresa didn’t quite wear her mother’s garb, she too had a shamrock painted on her cheek, Cassie, being sensible, had settled for borrowing one of Wendy’s old Notre Dame T-Shirts.

“Well, how do I look?” Wendy asked, holding her arms out and giving a quick twirl. Theresa, seeing her mother, twirled around twice herself for good measure, drawing a chuckle from Pollaski.

Terrence grinned. “You look positively Irish,” he said, reaching out and hugging her in close, kissing her on the lips. “Makes me wish EVERY day was Saint Patrick’s day.”

Wendy giggled, then broke away from her husband. “We should get going, the game’s in less than forty minutes,” she said. “What were you talking about?”

Terrence shrugged. “Just PWX stuff. John Pariah’s promo in particular.”

Wendy paused, then scowled. “I saw that,” she said darkly. “I was planning on cutting mine after the game. I’ve got a lot on my mind about him..”

“I can imagine,” Terrence said, grabbing a small bag that contained sunscreen, bottles of water, and other odds and ends to help his family survive four hours in a stadium.

“Alright, let’s go,” Terrence said, taking a quick glance around to make sure he had everything. “Theresa, you gonna walk or ride?”

“Walk!” the little four-year old proclaimed.

“Alright,” Terrence said, smiling, reaching his hand out, which Theresa eagerly grabbbed. “Don’t let go, Terr-Bear, I’d hate to lose you, and you spend the rest of your life living in the stadium.”

“Terrence!” Wendy scolded, although she remained smiling, as she, Cassie, and Pollaski followed her husband out the door.



==========================================
Sunday September 12, 2010
The RV- Main Cabin
Crown Point, Indiana
11:31 AM Local Time

[Well, if football games were fifty-nine minutes, thirty seconds long, the Irish would still be undefeated]

[But alas, Michigan scored with 27 seconds left to go, thus breaking Notre Dame’s (and Wendy’s) heart with a 28-24 victory. Needless to say, the normally even-tempered redhead was rather disappointed by the loss. Figuring she was in too bad a mood to cut a promo that night, Wendy elected to wait until the next morning, when she would have gotten over the game, and been in a much better mood]

[Eh... not so much.]

[Scene opens in, as usual, the main cabin of the WhirlyBirdz RV. Wendy is sitting alone in the cabin, on the hideabed, sitting as rigid as normal. Actually, probably even more rigid than normal, and Wendy’s emerald eyes glare at the camera.]

“Its been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.”

[pause]

“I can’t think of a better word to describe John Pariah.”

[Wendy shakes her head in disgust, almost looking as if saying John Pariah’s very name has instilled in her a sudden urge to vomit.]

“For the third time, John Pariah, and a partner of his choosing, will step into the ring to do battle against the WhirlyBirdz with the tag team titles on the line. And for the third time, John Pariah approaches the match with the exact same mentality.”

[Eye-roll]

“We get it, John. You’re awesome. You’re dominant. You’re the greatest thing to ever happen to Pro Wrestling X. You’re the grand puppetmaster, the mastermind of every thing. All bow down to the great Pariah!”

[Needless to say, Wendy’s voice is fairly sarcastic. Just as sarcastic is her pose, as she looks as if she’s trying hard to recollect something.]

“What is it again that you’ve done? What has made so great?”

[Shrug]

“Because, I’m sorry. I must have blinked and missed it.”

[Yeah, it goes without saying that Wendy’s definitely not in the best of moods this morning.]

“You’re a failure, John. You can deny it all you want, but the proof is in the pudding. You failed with the Hierarchy. You failed on your own. You failed as Chicago’s Finest. You failed as the Kings Among Men. And you are nine days away from failing with the Cartel.”

[Pause]

“That’s a lot of failure. Especially for a man with an ego as big as yours.”

[Wendy snorts in derision, and shifts slightly in her chair.]

“The problem is, you don’t learn. Every time I’m set to face you in a match, all I hear, over, and over, and over, is about how great you are. But once that bell rings, all that talk, it doesn’t matter anymore. In the ring, you need to let your ability, your strength, and your skill do the talking.”

[Blink]

“You’ve been pretty quiet in the ring, John.”

[Wendy rolls her eyes, as if Pariah’s an irritating gnat who needs to be swatted.]

“Have you ever even considered that maybe if you pulled your head out of your rear, found some humility, and learned from your mistakes, you wouldn’t keep losing to us?”

[Wendy snorts with derision again, and shakes her head in disgust]

“That’s not the John Pariah way though, is it? Who cares about winning, or losing, or even just putting on a good wrestling match? Worn out catch-phrases, witless snide remarks, and delusions of grandeur are much more self-gratifying, right?”

[Wendy shifts again in her seat, and glares full on into the camera.]

“And every time you talk, it reveals more and more just how little you really know. And I’m not talking about your warped perceptions of tragic events that occurred nine years ago.”

[Wendy pauses for just a second to collect herself, her eyes blazing with fury. Its understandable- Wendy was born on Manhattan Island, and spent much of her childhood in the shadows of the towers. While she no longer considers NYC her home... obviously the comparison of the Cartel to the masterminds has clearly upset her. Fortunately, she mnages to keep her cool, and move on.]

“Like how Terrence and I are outsiders, come to the PWX to steal spots from the real workers of this company? You really should try thinking things through before you open your mouth.”

[Another blaze of anger crosses Wendy’s mind, but again, it’s fleeting. ]

“You might remember, John, that the PWX WILLINGLY entered into an agreement with the WfWA. And when Terrence and I returned to wrestling, we CHOSE the PWX, because it was the best fit for us. It was close to home, and we knew, looking at the talent level in here, that we would find good opponents to put on matches with.”

[Slight pause]

“And for the most part, Terry and I have not been disappointed. Whatever you consider us, John, Terrence and I are PWX wrestlers, just as much as you, the Belmonts, John Ojeda, anyone is. From the moment we signed our contracts in April, we considered Pro-Wrestling X our home, and we will continue to do so, Alliance or no Alliance. And I myself was HONORED to carry the PWX banner at Tag Wars, Summer Games, and CWC’s Infamy, and I will be proud to do so again in just under two weeks, at CWC’s Episode 11.”

[A short, grim smile]

“But let’s flip things around for a second, Pariah. Why is it that you, the apparent epitome of PWX loyalty, can’t go thirty seconds without mentioning another wrestling company?”

[Wendy holds up four fingers, the expression on her face as sour as ever.]

“There were four such references in your last promo alone. What’s your obsession, John? Is PWX not enough for you? Do you secretly wish you belonged to a different promotion? “

[Pause]

“Or are you just trying to be ‘cutting edge’ and ‘cool’?”

[Wendy scoffs, as if the idea of Pariah ever being ‘cool’ is laughable.]

“Because if that’s it, you’re failing miserably. To get into the vernacular, you look more second-rate and lame than anything else.”

[Wendy swings her hand out in a gesture that is akin to someone showing another pesron the exit]

“If you’re so obsessed John, by all means, join them, and leave the PWX to those of us who want to make it the best wrestling company on the planet, regardless of what our geographic influence, fanbase, and marketing potential is.”

[The unblinking gaze is back, as Wendy leans forward.]

“And that’s why you don’t deserve these titles, John. There is no substance about you. You’re little more than a doll with a pullstring that says a couple of phrases that may appear witty at first, but become older, and more stale, with each passing day.”

[Crouton, anyone?”]

“Of course, I would be remiss if I failed to mention Pariah’s partner, Lillith Morgan.”

[Wendy smiles humorlessly, the intensity never leaving her eyes.]

“Lillith, ever since you jumped me from behind, pulled my hair, and fed me to your husband for his Broken Dreams, I’ve been hoping for a match with you. You’ve laid pretty low over the past few months, content to stand on the sideline while watching the rest of the Cartel do all the work”

[Small shrug]

“Ah, but you’re a clever one too, aren’t you? Making insinuations about me and JPO, simply because I felt that he was the rightful owner of the company. You know, that’s the first time in my life I’ve EVER been forced to listen to an outlandish claim of infidelity.”

[Wendy’s voice is absolutely dripping with sarcasm.]

“I don’t think the dedication to my marriage needs to be called into question. After all, not everyone can be as... ‘free spirited’ as you are, Lillith.”

[Another disdainful snort.]

“We are nine days from the biggest night in PWX’s history. Nine days from ending the three month nightmare that is Brian Hollywood’s ownership. John, you have to feel the foundation crumbling under your feet. Everything you’ve done to me and my husband has failed. We’re still standing strong. There is nothing you have done, or can do, that will change that.”

[Wendy gazes one more time into the camera, the expression on her face hard, her eyes still blazing. Finally, she gives a small, grim, determined smile.]

“We will not break.”

[And fade]