... is this real, or ... ?

[Murdoc]

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Eeeeeeeeeveryone wants a story.

You need someone to hold you by the hand.  Explain to you in great detail what's happening and what you're supposed to be seeing.  Set the mood and stir the imagination, because you can't do it yourself.  College theses require, generally, a unifying theme.  A way to tie everything together and make a pretty package.  Look at me.  I care enough about this that I'm going to condense it into just a few short words so you can grasp what is going on.

I'm not giving you that tonight.  

I'm not going to insult your intelligence and claim that this is a part of some story, a chapter or a continuation of some great work.  I'm going to do the only thing that I know how to do right now, something that no one else seems to be comfortable doing.  Everybody else is so concerned about presentation.  Me?  

I'm going to tell you the truth.  

I'm going to tell you how it's happening.  What's REALLY happening at this exact moment.  Truth of the matter is, it's 1 a.m. and I'm looking at a pair of glasses in front of me.  The light tends to hurt my eyes late at night and the glare is particularly rough, so I don't wear them.  I'm staring and I'm spacing out, a general feeling of restlessness hanging over my head like some wicked Sword of Damocles.  And as I'm staring at those glasses ...

... my face is slowly disappearing.

Looking in the reflection of the glass ... I don’t recognize the shape staring back at me. Is it a trick of the light? My own perception? I can’t tell. All that I can discern is the slow onset of a shadow. A shadow blacker than the Morningstar’s eyes. Definition erased. The outline ... and nothing more. No innards, no topography ... nothing to signal that I am indeed looking at myself.

As I stare at the void that is Me, I feel my jaw clench. My blinking slows to a crawl, my breathing is careful and measured. I find myself angry. From where this well-spring of anger rises, I can't be sure. I could mark reasons off left and right; none of them would be wrong. A multitude of reasons given from inside, all in an instant and all of them are howling.

Screaming.

Bellowing from the pit of fire deep within that spectre that fills my vision. Ragged and raw, naked rage and these reasons provide more fuel. More gasoline to dump on the fire. There’s no need to count them. I feel every single last one of them. Slicing into the fabric of my soul with the sting of a thousand razor blades. Precise. Surgical. All aimed in order to maximize the pain.

I find my anger leading me by the hand. A familiar and warm grip, it knows me inside and out and it knows where I sleep. It knows where to take me to hurt me. To provoke me. To push that extra little bit in order to get a reaction. I can feel it. I am fully aware, in complete control of all the faculties available to me ... and I WELCOME it. I WANT to be angry. Being angry at this particular point on the timeline is where I want to be.  Why?  I don’t know why and I can’t explain what feeling this hatred will do for me in the long run, but god help me ... I ENJOY THIS.

I find myself considering Dan. Dan’s a good guy. A respectable man, a hard-working man and a loving partner. I know the man well. He deserves every good thing coming his way. I will be the absolute first to admit it; the man is good at what he does. He knows what he’s doing and if I were a smart man? I’d be sweating bullets right about now. Believe me, I have been. I’ve been absolutely stymied. Stuck. At every step of the way, Dan has been able to elude me.

And no matter what I want to say, no matter what words that come out of my mouth ... or my fingers ... or whatever thoughts come to the hedge-maze of a brain I possess ... none of it’s good enough. None of it encompasses what should be said. None of it accurately expresses what I FEEL right now. Sweet jesus, what I feel right now. I enjoy competition ... I enjoy a close match. And Dan is about as good a match as I’ll get. For all our differences, for our differences in perspective ... I fear that I will fail.

Again.

... I’m tense. I can feel every muscle aching. Throbbing. I want to be done with this, I want to have this pressure lifted from me. I'm chafin at the yoke affixed to my neck. I can feel it choking the very life out of me. It’s only the anger that keeps my lungs pumping right now. Angry that I feel this fear, angry that Dan has inspired this fear of failure in me. I’ve gone nose to nose with some true titans in PCW’s past, present and future. Gods amongst men. I’ve journeyed Beyond Greatness and come out the other side with nothing but charred fists and ash in my hair.

Slithering snakes and fork-tongued men. Silent Machines and crazy boys. Rock stars and pests. And none, NONE has vexed me quite like Dan. I’ve built a place for Dan inside my own psyche and he’s become a monolith. I have done this to myself, and I have none to blame BUT myself.

... and through the fog of anger, that red red haze ... a faint beam of light presents itself to me. The light of awareness. I realize what I have done. I own it. I take responsibility for what I have done to myself. And in that singular moment of self-awareness, I find myself breathing easier. The anger is still there, but now ... now that anger is for one person.

One idol.

One monolith.

And eschewing the pagentry of a setting, the scenery ... hiding behind a pretentious vocabulary or a unifying theme  ... I’m done worrying about it.  I'm done worrying about you.  Right now, though, I have just one thing to say to YOU, Dan.  And I say this with all the respect in the world.

FUCK YOU.

It’s my turn. It’s my turn, and I don’t care about you. In this particular moment, in this situation, I DO NOT GIVE ONE GOD DAMN ABOUT YOU. You are a fine person, deserving and honorable ... but I'm not and I DON’T CARE. I just can’t bring myself to give you the time of day for one fucking second longer.

But before you cry foul, before you yell at the top of your fop lungs about intimidation and bullying and throwing temper tantrums, I want you to know that it’s not ALL doom and gloom.  It's not all blah blah blah, I’m better than you or I’m going to do X, Y, and Z to you.

There is NO ONE who will deny that you’ve done a fantastic job in getting to where you are. Working your way up the ladder and earning the respect of your peers and your critics alike. But it’s not your turn. I have been here, a part of Pure Class Wrestling, for OVER A DECADE. I DESERVE MY WORLD TITLE. I deserve it. Me. No one else. No one else in this god-forsaken place deserves this more than me. And you yourself have to admit that. You KNOW in your heart of hearts that I deserve this final respect more than ANY MAN OR WOMAN HERE.

I don’t like it.  I truly and sincerely am not looking forward to what’s going to go down. But I can guarantee: you’ll like it even less.

You understand, though.  You understand that this is how things go sometimes and this is how business works and that there's always another chance.

You’ll lose and you’ll go back a step or two. Then once I’m done, you’ll claim the World Title for yourself. You’re that good. You will win the World Title eventually.  Now I’m not going to cut some Fierce Promo, give some hackneyed interview that everyone knows is clearly fake ... and I sure as hell am not going to waste anyone’s time by shoe-horning in some vapid talking-head fluff that tells everyone what they already know. We’ve got a date, you and I, at Return to Glory. For a shot at the World Championship. And that’s all that matters, right?

Fuck the story.

Fuck your Lisa Frank rainbow bullshit.

And FUCK YOUR SPOT ON THE LADDER. 

I’m about to break your rungs, you puff-paint bitch. 




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