CALAMITY XV // MIRACLE

By: Dickie Watson

Writing Prompt: Yes

Date: 29th Apr 2022

CALAMITY XV // MIRACLE

ONE LOOK AT YOUR EYES AND I CAVE IN
ONE TASTE OF THE LIFE NOW I CRAVE IT
IT’S NOT TOO LATE TO DIE FOR A REASON
FALL DOWN ON THE SWORD YOU WERE SWINGING

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This is what they wanted, right?

This is what they sought for so long…or perhaps, it was only sought after by one of them, embedded in every promotional video that had been displayed for nearly two years. Nearly two years of following, of missed opportunities, and second chances. This is what everyone else sought after and came to the concussion of, what they talked about in the corners whether they wanted to or not. Heaven forbid that it be talked about. Heaven forbid that it be mentioned. This was at the forefront of everyone’s minds…perhaps, save the people who walked away from this company. And maybe even still.

Because how dare someone fucking win an opportunity. How dare someone earn it?

From the moment that they stood and faced one another at the end of Blood Money 2, this was all that they had focused on. Oh, certainly, the curtain jerkers on the ends complained about how this happened. They complained that Shawn Warstein should have had the same requirements as everyone else. Pay for it upfront. Be forced to use that money just like everyone else did, forced to borrow money from their peers to make ends meet.

But as a reminder…was it not the same event that Dickie won to begin with that gave him the championship – that he continues to hold just under three hundred days later – the very same event that Shawn won? Blood Money’s result bequeathed unto him the Empire Championship, and it was a celebrated event when he won it…despite the anger that the rest of the roster felt. Perhaps the rest of the company was simply mad because it seemed like no one of their own kind could put a bullet in the brain of a kid who fought like hell no matter how many places he ended up, but yet one of his own kind was able to reach the zenith and be held as an equal.

Equal friendship.

Equal rivalry.

Fuck, they even had the same Blood Money amount. Fifty thousand. They had the most money in the company, and they would want for nothing. Any championship either one of them could go after, and the Islands Championships? Eventually, they would fall into New Status Quo’s hands one more time.

Shawn Warstein versus Dickie Watson was a marquee event that they’d been selling since the day Warstein walked into the company Dickie was a leader in. Chris Page sold it. The rest of the company sold it. The day they stood across from one another sold it as the event of the Spring. This was what the public wanted, and what they finally got.

But as much of a sell as it was, it was so much more of a problem for The Calamity than anyone could have expected.

The story has been rehashed and played many times, but it’s a critical moment in his life. One that shaped his behavior afterwards. The day that Elena DeDraca, his very own sister, the woman that Dickie loved like his own mother, slid broken glass across Dickie’s healing wrists from a drunken suicide attempt in an effort to humilate and destroy him in front of thousands of people and throw him to the curb like a piece of trash after she defeated him with a shit-eating grin was the day that Dickie’s trust in anyone shattered. The day that she destroyed him was the day that Dimitri Mikhail Watson ceased to exist, and was the day that broke his trust in the person he married, the persons that he surrounded himself with, the persons that cared for him, and the persons that he relied on. No one was safe.

That mentality was what carried him out of his previous company, carried him out of his marriage, carried him out of his friendships. He was tired of giving his all for people that would be more than willing to destroy him for a hit of the fame that he’d gained. When he’d stepped into FIGHT, all he wanted was to succeed on his own. All he wanted was to be a viable fighter that didn’t need anything or anyone to support him.

Except that he did.

Look at the records of the previous moments in FIGHT history, and you’ll see it all. Dickie Watson won Blood Money. He won Ascension. He won Countdown. He won Blood Money 2. Anyone could argue that it was really because of New Status Quo that he won any of them, but in reality? Except for Ascension, no one but Dickie was responsible for his own success. He was thirteen wins, two losses. Fifteen matches. And not because anyone had to jump anyone for him. Not because anyone had to do anything for him.

He earned his shit.

Shawn earned his shit.

How about you?

Over and over, it was a recurring theme. Something that Dickie and Shawn did. They proved their place. Proved their worth, proved who they were, no matter who decided to come at them and tear them down. Whether it was on Twitter, in a promotional video, on a podcast, predictions, it didn’t matter. They did what they knew best. Destroy their competition. And when they didn’t? They breathed in satisfaction that they would forever be on the minds of those who somehow were able to win, knowing that the next step they would take would be another to further their career and bury the rest.

But now it was friends.

They weren’t aquaintances. They weren’t merely colleagues. You didn’t fight hand in hand with someone and just turn on them on a dime. But friends…they had the worst of wars.

The Thrill and the Agony…The Molotov versus The Vessel. The Calamity versus The Tyrant. The marquee talent that FIGHT had, whether anyone wanted to truly recognize it.

But who would carry which attribute and the other in the end?

⬈⬋⬈⬋⬈⬋

I WANTED TO DRESS A BLADE UP IN RED
WITH THE BOTH OF OUR NECKS
BUT I WASN’T ABLE
AND I WASN’T STABLE, I GUESS
BUT NEVERTHELESS, I’M FUCKING DEPRESSED
I HIDE IT WITH SEX AND DRINK TIL IT’S FATAL
IT’S SO FUCKING PAINFUL
IT’S A MESS

⬈⬋⬈⬋⬈⬋

The gratuitous tweeting of a little cockatiel issued from outside the window. His eyelids felt so heavy, but regardless, he opened them. He frowned, eyes narrowing as he ascertained his surroundings. With a couple of blinks, he was able to realize that he was in his room.

Or at least, what he thought was his room.

Some things seemed a little out of place, a little blurry. But he assumed that it was just a symptom of waking up. He heard sizzling coming from outside his bedroom door, and a clanking of dishes and happy sounds. With a yawn, he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. God, he still felt so tired. Why was he so tired?

He flung the covers from his legs and set his bare feet upon the floor. With a sigh, he went to run his hand through his tousled hair, comping it out with at least the hope that he could flatten it before he stepped outside of his room. But he found that his hair…it wasn’t long. Or at least, it didn’t feel long. With a frown, he stepped upwards and then headed to the armoire in the corner that he couldn’t particularly remember having. Flinging the door open, he pulled it back just enough to look at himself in the wardrobe’s mirror.

What the fu–” His mouth formed the words, but he wasn’t sure how.

His hair was shorter, and there was a significant absence of his tattoos. In fact, they were mostly gone, save for the ones on his arm. Similar, but absolutely not the same. His eyes didn’t seem so sunken in and tired, and when he glanced away from the mirror and down to his body, he noted that he was in a barely rumpled set of pajama pants that he couldn’t even remember buying, much less wearing. Maybe Hannah…no, who the fuck was Hannah?

Dimitri! Завтрак!

His ears perked up. It’d been a long time since he’d heard Russian like that, and an even longer time since he’d used it himself. He felt like he hadn’t heard that voice in a long time, but that couldn’t be right. He shut it slowly, but not before glancing at every single clothing item that he could make out. A lot of polo shirts, a few long sleeved collarless shirts and a lot of jeans that didn’t seem to have one hole in them hung up neatly with not a piece out of place. He realized that his sight was off.

Weird.

With a hesitant step, he walked back to the bed and grabbed a pair of black rimmed glasses and stuck them onto his nose. The world was certainly clearer then, and he could see what seemed like a cigarette pack sitting next to where the glasses did. Except it wasn’t cigarettes. A couple pens were hooked on the side, along with a piece of gum and a handkerchief.

Who the fuck’s room did he sleep in?

He moved towards the bedroom door, realizing that he didn’t even really recognize the interior either. And who the fuck called him Dimitri anymore? Did he get so drunk that he didn’t remember breaking into someone’s house? Did Aiden fucking shave his hair off? Fucking twat if he did. Nevertheless, he moved out into the hallway and walked down the steps of the abode, narrowly dodging the top portion of the staircase ceiling as it came up to clunk him in the head.

The delicious scent of eggs and bacon wafted across his nostrils and he turned his head, looking towards the kitchen that seemed to be placed in the back of the house. He could hear talking, laughing. The house seemed opulent, nothing like he was used to, and from the architecture, looked like it came from the early seventies. The ceilings were much lower, but that didn’t change all of the fancy furniture and decorations.

Dimitri, hurry up!

He turned the corner and poked his head around it, looking at the kitchen in curiosity. The pit of his stomach fell right out of his body when he realized who actually stood in front of him, in this kitchen. She had his eyes. She had his smile. She was Anastasya Modrolov, and that was significant because she was a very important person in his own personal development. “Mum?” He questioned.

She raised her head, looking with her hazel eyes at her son. Her hair was greying now, but she looked in perfect health and spirits. She set a plate on the table and leaned upwards, cocking her head to the side with a smile, “There you are. I made eggs and bacon for you. Toast is coming out soon.

I–

Morning, champ!

Dickie turned his head to get a look at the man that entered from just behind him. This was even more of a shock. Michael Watson, adjusting his tie as he walked into the kitchen, moved past him and right to the coffee pot, grabbing a mug and pouring himself a large cup of the black liquid. Dickie’s eyes must have enlarged in size because Anastasya continued to look at him curiously. “Дорогой,” she said to him, calling him a sweetheart, “did you sleep okay? I know you’ve been awfully worried…

I…yeah.” He was confused. Dickie was confused. This woman was one hundred percent dead. This man had no knowledge of his existence. And yet here they both were. And his hair was short, did he mention that?

Got that exam today, don’t you?” Michael Watson’s voice was just as cockney sounding as his own, and when he turned to look at his son, Dickie could see the similarities in their facial structure quickly. The man took a large sip of his coffee as he leaned against the counter. It burned his tongue. “Dia dhiamhair!” He swore in Irish.

Oh, Mikhail,” she sighed.

He wanted to ask what was going on. He wanted to see what the fuck this was all about. But all he could do was step into the kitchen as Anastasya shook her head, grabbed a towel and dabbed the side of Michael’s mouth.

Mum, Daniel is being a twatwaffle again–

Mikayla, I told you not to say those words.

Two young adults of his same age appeared in the kitchen next. One had longer hair and looked at Dickie with an annoyed glance before grabbing a piece of bread and storming out the door. The younger one, a female, crossed her arms as she sat down at the table. “Ugh, he’s awful.

I…

Which exam was it, Dimitri?” Anastasya ignored his feeble statement one more time. Dickie opened his mouth, about to say he had no fucking clue, but that absolutely wasn’t what came out.

Alternate Energy Technology. We’re looking at fossil fuels and other methods that might be more functional and applicable for lifestyle changes instead of petrol. It’s a practicum assessment, though.

…w-what the fuck did he just say?!

As long as this whole fuel situation stops raising the Euro, I’ll be happy. I’ve got to scoot, though. Mikayla, good luck on your maths final. Dimitri, change the world please.

Of course, Dad.

…w…what the fuck?! Part of him sat astonished. Or maybe the part that felt that he was an outsider looking into this situation. Was…was this some type of sick dream he had? A wish for normalcy? I wish to be fucking normal? Is this the life that he led as a normal human being? Clearly, he has aspirations, but he also carried a fucking pocket protector and wore fucking glasses. Is this the life he would have had if his mother had never passed, if she’d found her husband, if he’d truly had a family?

Ooooh, how’s your girlfriend?” Mikayla questioned, helping herself to some of the bacon and shoving it on her plate.

Dickie was about to, again, say he didn’t have one, but that’s also not what came out. “Amelia is fine.

I very much like her,” Anastasya sat down at the table with a few packets of butter that she set in the center with some toast. “I think she’ll be a wonderful addition to the family. Of course…if you didn’t hang out with Aiden so much…

Mum,” Mikayla sighed. “Aiden’s his best friend.

But he just…” she pursed her lips, “honey, he’s a wrestler. No one with aspirations or drive does that.

I think he does a pretty good job. And I saw Dimitri messing around with him the other day. Dimi’s good at it too.

Honey–

Mum, I wouldn’t worry,” Dickie’s…Dimitri-self stated, shaking his head, “I’m not corruptible. It’s merely fun to watch.

Maybe if you did it though you wouldn’t look like a nerdy bean. And besides, Mum, it’s not like Aiden’s a stripper dancing to Ginuwine.” Mikayla chuckled to herself with her bad joke. “I guess though that you’re gonna be tied to him for the rest of your life when you marry his sister…

Dickie snapped awake as the door shut next to him. He blinked wildly, and then looked to his left, realizing that he was sitting in a parked car and nowhere near the…weird alternate universe in which he’d somehow become a graduate applied physics student and was…marrying Aiden’s sister? He smacked himself lightly on the side of the face, snorting slightly and sniffing in.

Mate, there’s a sausage shop a block away. Why didn’ ya tell me?” Aiden questioned, doublefisting two sausages in buns with heaps of condiments on them. “Fuckin’ sittin’ here on me ass for a few hours now, I couldn’t help but get hungry. Only so much Pokemon Go I can play from ‘ere.

Yeah…yeah, sorry. Forgot.” Dickie shook his head.

Any sign?

Nah…” Another shake of his head and he sighed. He didn’t know why he was doing this. It wasn’t the best idea, that he knew, but he couldn’t shake it. He couldn’t shake not knowing who his father was, what he did, what he was like. It didn’t help that Kei was constantly prodding him. Nevertheless, here he was. Parked a block away from his father’s brownstone with an Australian who’s ADHD levels were off the charts and an empty stomach filled with Monster Energy drinks and a bad attitude.

Maybe this was fruitless. Maybe there was no point to this. It was obvious that his father had no clue who he was, or what he was doing here. And besides, the man was a MI:6 agent, and probably had the best security in his house. All that Dickie could know, he had him surrounded with weapons everywhere. He wondered if agents were like the ones he saw on movies and television, how they had special cameras and weapons everywhere in order to protect their families and homes. Besides, he should have been spending more time in America at Wolfslair training for this match coming up. Shawn was no push over, and here he was, wasting probably every bit of time that he had left to train so that he could retain his championship.

Although it was weird to say that now too with the uber scientific response that came out of his mouth during his dream. Was that really how he would have come out if he’d been normal? Not a wrestler, trying to search for fame with his sister and brother? Not even near Journalism? Fuckin’ Applied Physics? What kind of braniac was he actually?

There was a moment of silence that was only punctuated by Aiden eating. Dickie stared straight ahead, watching as a black car pulled up into the driveway ahead of them. He sat up slightly, wondering if he could see the man he could have called his father exit and head into the doorway. But he did no such thing. Or at least, he didn’t do it initially. A second later, he stepped out of his vehicle and looked around. Dickie slid down a little bit in the chair so that he wasn’t visible.

Mate, you really gotta have one.

Dickie turned his head to look at Aiden with his eyes stating to shut the fuck up. Aiden stared back at him and then nodded, understanding what his friend was saying. When he looked back, he realized that Mr. Watson had already gone inside. “Fuckin’ell, Aiden.

Sorry! I didn’t realize he’d gotten in to the garage yet.

I get it, but now I don’t know if he saw us.

I bet he did.” Aiden looked at him with widened eyes. “We’ve been sittin’ here for a while. Probably bets were casein’ his house and that’s why we’re here. Fuck. I don’t want to go to jail, mate. I’m too pretty for that.

Dickie snorted, shaking his head. He prepared to pull the car out of park, because Aiden actually did have a point. He would have to come back the following day when he did. However, when he went to shift the car and turn the wheel, he heard the distinct sound of a pin being pulled back on a gun extremely close to his ear.

Step out of the vehicle and tell me who the fuck you are.” The man’s voice was posh British, and he seemed vehemently angry. Dickie turned his head slightly, slowly, just to make sure he knew whoit was. And he was not disappointed. Michael Watson stood at his vehicle window, gun pointed straight at Dickie’s head with no hesitation. Aiden threw his sausages in the air in fright and scrambled back to the opposite doorway. He had no indications that he wanted to be shot.

Neither of them did.

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YOU’RE JUST THE COMPANY YOU KEEP
AND TROUBLE TENDS TO FOLLOW ME
I DIDN’T CARE
NOW I’M FUCKING SCARED AND IF YOU’RE NOT
YOU’RE GONNA BE

⬈⬋⬈⬋⬈⬋

Shawn,

I wanted to come at you like I do everyone. A chip on my shoulder, needing to prove myself because someone wants to dig as hard as they can into the ground to absolutely want to make sure they can topple me. I wanted to come at you with a glare and a growl and do my usual one-two-step, fuck you and your little dog too. It would be easy. It would be a better murder than the previous ones, and it would be sublime.

But every time I opened up the camera app on my phone and set up the whole set and tried to come up with something to say. But every time I did, I realized it wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t venomous, it wasn’t respectful. It was monotone Dickie bullshit and it wasn’t what this deserved. I think that’s the thing that happens when you face people you respect. Everything that you want to say, you find so extraneously rude and unbecoming that you can’t say it. Not because it isn’t true, but more so because you don’t want to fuck it up so royally.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice. I have to find the flaws. I have to tear you apart.

But this it.

This is the moment you and I have been waiting for.

The moment that you and I knew would happen eventually. Through so many trials and tribulations, so many false starts, so many people betraying both of us, we ended up here. Our candor, our desire, our need to decimate and destroy…it sits on the precipice of us. No matter what we’ve ever said, it’s been you and I leading New Status Quo. It’s been us taking every situation that we’ve been handed and making something gold out of it entirely, and sometimes literally. As much as we said that everyone was a leader, we’ve been pulling the strings.

I guess it’s safe to say that we’re at a point of no return.

But the fact of the matter is that I do have great respect for you, Shawn. I know the level of effort you throw into everything, from Legacy, to the Sick Cunts, to UGWC, Project: Honor, GCWF, XWF…you have been across the gamut and you’ve done everything. You’ve held multiple championships, you’ve held world championships, and there are people across every walk of life that either hate you or enjoy you. It doesn’t really matter what the outside world says, it doesn’t really matter what people say you are…you know the truth, and the truth speaks for you.

But it wasn’t enough for you, was it? That’s what you told Tyler Bradford a few weeks ago. That you wanted to be the best in the world, not just the best in FIGHT. Not just take the Empire Championship. Not just do what you’ve done in every company you’ve come across. You wanted that to be your truth. Wanted that to be your fire and your desire.

You’re right, Shawn. I pay attention. I pay attention to every word, every detail. And by doing me a solid in “protecting” me from being jumped, you’ve also tried to prove to the rest of FIGHT and the universe that I’m a little fuckin’ bitch that needs protecting. Hazard to say I didn’t need you, no matter if you thought it or not. I didn’t need New Status Quo. We all know that we were forced into that situation by the powers that be above us, and while that happened, and while we took FIGHT by storm between all of us, everyone began to want us dead because we did the thing that they all wanted. We won. Because we’re all that fucking good. And if we weren’t alone, we were better together. As a team. If that isn’t truth, then I don’t know what is.

The truth speaks for all of us if we let it. People are going to believe whatever the fuck they want whether they have proof of something or not, but you know what? It’s one of those times where we have to look at what’s in front of us and move forward. Be better. Rise above.

Because that’s what both of us have done, isn’t it?

We’ve risen above the hate and the bulllshit. The slander and the lies. It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that people want to destroy your name – of course, you’ve gained notoriety again and your best buddy, the one you came out of retirement for, the one you wanted to work with, the one you didn’t need, is using everyone else to slander you. It’s obvious. Quite, actually. But you’ve risen above all of it, haven’t you?

You rose when other people faltered. You rose to my challenge. You watched my back, but I was going to make damn sure you’re ready for this. That you’re ready for everything that could be tossed at you, even the people that you hated. It’s easier to break someone than to buy someone, but that wasn’t my intention either. It was only for the challenge. How would you do if you had someone that you got along with across from you, someone that you’ve only spoken about facing, someone I’ve beaten time and time again for this championship, and someone we both hate…for lack of a better comment.

Michelle, you dominated. As was expected. You went out there and you did what you needed to do. Michelle Moore-Riggs-Montouri ended up at the bottom of the pile one more time.

Tyler Bradford? Same situation. Decimated, and not one person could have thought a different outcome could be made.

But let’s pause here. What was it that you said? There are people out there questioning whether or not we deserve to be the main event. Whether or not I BELONG in the same breath as Dickie. Can you believe that? Me? The one everyone flocks towards. But is that truly the case, Shawn? Does your ego make you believe that it’s you that they’re following? That they want to face someone who has been in FIGHT since the beginning of its inception, brought in as a huge name, has never held anything but a tag championship and hasn’t moved forward until this moment…they’re following you?

I’m not even ballsy enough to say they’re coming in to face me…like you did, so long ago. You remember that, right? Every promotional video, pandering for clout by mentioning my name when you were relatively unknown in the sphere of wrestling that wasn’t somewhere you’d tread before, or somewhere you knew someone. Mighty tall order to state and hold yourself to. But that’s the ego that you carry, Fuzz. Sorry. Shawn. Because you’ve done so many things, of course, it’s hard not to think that way.

But I don’t see it that way. If anything, Shawn, they’re following the movement. They’re following the show and seeing the amazing opportunities for good fucking matches that lay before them. They’re watching a product, and they’re watching what’s done with it. Sure, names that have clout carry more energy, but once upon a time, we saw that energy and wanted to be a part of it. We wanted to join the Blacks and the Stratfords, the Moores and the Preston’s. We wanted to be a part of it to the best of our ability because we needed our outlet adjusted.

We needed to become more.

And that’s the drive that so many people in this company lack. The Montouris believe their shit doesn’t stink. Just because they walked the hallowed halls once upon a time didn’t mean they were going to walk them now. But how often has that lent to their success? Just two Venoms ago, I faced Joe in what he was so certain was going to destroy me and be the upset of the fucking century. Where did he end up except at the bottom of my boot?

Speaking of Montuori…this was your only loss since Blood Money 2. Paul has been on a mean streak, and maybe he’s figured it out. But still…as much as he wants to fuck around and find out with me over and over again…he held his own with you. You, the self-proclaimed reason that everyone wants to walk into FIGHT and face this, that and the other. No, you’ve never been a mild egotist, but an egotist all the same. Just because you talk the talk doesn’t mean you always walk it, and that night? The night that you had the chance to prove that you were ready for me?

You blew it.

Talk about disappointment.

I was expecting more from you, Warstein. I was expecting you to come out of left field with the guns you blared against Sahara the following week. Do you know what that would have done? It would have set the tone. It would have set the moment in which you truly put in the work and the time. The man who failed to defeat me…defeated you. After everything you’ve said. After everything you’ve done.

Oh, no. No Shawn, I don’t expect you to be kind and nice to me just because we’re friends. Gold does something to people. It changes their minds, it corrupts them. Hell, I half expect you to become Fuzz on the low down because you know that facing me requires more than just the bare minimum. You’ll have to dig down deep within your psyche and pull out every stop, because I don’t stop. I don’t quit. I don’t let down. I don’t end it until it’s done.

And here’s where you can say to me that you’ve done what I couldn’t do. That you became the Legacy Champion when everyone and their fucking mother knows that Elena DeDraca was backstage sucking the board members dicks and ensuring her place on the totem pole was sublime against someone like me. Me, the person who she once said she’d never hurt. The one person she said she would never treat with disrespect and disdain. The one person that she cherished above all.

I told her the truth. I told everyone the truth. That when she lost her championship and that she wasn’t looked at as the greatest thing to fuck backstage that she would walk. She would walk right out the door, claiming she needed to find herself or that she just needed a small break, but she would disappear and never return unless there was someone else willing to lick her clit. She betrayed me for gold just like she betrayed her own husbands five times over. The company I helped to put on the fucking map betrayed me because someone was willing to suck cock.

But you did it. You defeated her.

I hate to admit it, but when I saw you standing across from me, I knew what it would eventually lead to. It would lead to this. The one opportunity where we would have to tear into each other no matter what bond of brotherhood we had, and we would have to make the other one finally look like the trash that everyone else thinks we are. Part of me distanced myself from you, from NSQ, and the fractures were so highly built because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to handle betrayal again.

Because that’s what this is, Shawn.

No matter how we look at this, how you want to throw hands, how we want to be the best in the company and we’re better as friends…friends don’t make enemies, and you coming for my title? That makes you my fucking enemy. This industry has no use for friends, because friends can turn their back within three seconds. There’s no fucking thing known as loyalty. Look at the blood of the Montuoris. Look at Finn and I. Look at Aiden and I. For two months, all I wanted to do was rip off his fucking head.

As much as I respect you, Shawn, I don’t trust you. I haven’t trusted you since day one, and I don’t trust you now. I don’t trust you to be the bigger man if I defeat you and let me walk out of the ring with the championship. But most of all, I don’t trust me to be the bigger man if you win. I doubt I can be. And I hate that. I hate all of this because as much as I want the ending of this match to be a shake of the hands no matter the outcome, I just reflect back to Elena cutting my wounds open and exposing me to the world and leaving me in the dirt to pick myself back up. That’s what I expect from you. I dread this because of the fact that I am a fucking trauma-driven individual who has had to pick himself up over and over again.

I came to FIGHT to stop that cycle. I didn’t need to keep proving to my family and my friends that I relied on them far too much. I stepped into the foray, and I decimated the people around me. I did it over and over against because I never wanted to feel like I was trash ever again. I never wanted to feel the betrayal that Elena left me.

You came to FIGHT to follow me. That’s the end of it. Like a little puppy, you walked right along beside me and I watched you do so with every step along the way. Blood Money One, you were taken out by me. And it may have been different with Toxic Tag, and I’m not even going to go there because that was fucked from the start. We’re one and one. We are equal.

But we are not the same.

I have to win this, Shawn.

I have to come out the winner.

You have proven everything you needed to when you took out your most vocal detractor. Sahara thought she had everything in her pocket, but she didn’t. She didn’t even have the best in her pocket. You are one of the best wrestlers in the past two decades, and you have nothing left to prove. The desire that brought you here…it’s not enough. It’s not enough to try and erase everything that you’ve done with this one opportunity to still stand tall. It’s not enough to just want to beat me, beat the best, beat what I stand for. It’s not enough. None of this has ever been enough when it comes to me.

I fought every person in front of me with death at my doorstep, and I will do it again. Over and over and over again until there is no one left to try and take it from me. This is my Legacy. It’s not tainted by you, by Raven, by Reynolds, by Granger, by Winterborn. It’s mine. It’s my own. I retained every time and I didn’t need anyone to support me in that. I took it to Montuori thrice. I defeated Dane Preston. I defeated Joe Montuori. I have defeated this roster twice in the ten months it’s lived. It is going to take more than you going through therapy sessions to try and destroy me, mate.

You have everything to gain.

Me? I have everything to lose, no matter the outcome of this match. I lose New Status Quo. I lose the only thing that I have ever fought for in FIGHT. The Empire Championship isn’t just another accolade to add to a list of accomplishments, it is the accomplishment. It’s worth it if you decide that I’m not worth your time.

And no matter now many times you try to fuck the system over, karma will catch up with you in the end. It already has, if you look at it. Everyone hates you for the way this happened, and they all advocated for you to be out of it time and time against because you played a system that was imperfect from the start like a cheap bitch.

I disagree…mostly. I think you’ve earned it. But I think you’ve underestimated me. Oh I’m sure you have pamphlets and gizmos on me a-plenty. I’m sure you’ve written down every detail. But just like that, Shawn, I remember them all too. Every insulting name – Lord Dickie, being one of them – every time you’ve mentioned me just for your own fucking clout. I aligned with the unbeatable Empire Championand now I have a shot to take him to the ground.

No.

I refuse to let it happen.

I accept the consequences of our match. I accept that neither one of us will be easily able to brush off a loss. Losing to me, though, won’t be as painful as losing to Montuori. And me losing to you? A repetition of memories, but at least I know it won’t be someone who’s next choice is to talk about their sexcapades for the next three weeks and running.

The Empire Championship is mine. It’s part of me, it’s part of my identity, and now? Forever more will it be a part of me.

You will not take it from me.

I would say Good Luck, Shawn. I would say all the things that I need to in order to assuage you and make sure that you understand this world for the best that it is. We are not friends, Shawn. Not at The Thrill and the Agony. We’re not even stablemates. We’ve killed NSQ until this is over, and that’s only if all of us want to rise from the ashes of our own rubble.

A miracle is needed. A miracle to allow us to come out of this clean and back to normal.

Otherwise, we die out and they win.

…I can’t let that happen.

I won’t let that happen.

I will retain this championship. It will continue to be mine. And you? At least you’ll be the one competitor facing me for my championship that I can say that I respect as a competitor. You’ve got your stripes.

Now let me get mine.

⬈⬋⬈⬋⬈⬋

SO GIVE ME SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
SO GIVE ME SOMETHING ELSE
I NEED A FUCKING MIRACLE
I NEED SOME FUCKING HELP