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Death Rider · **07-31-2015, 07:53 PM**

I

I find myself at a loss for words, thinking about the myriad of opponents I'm set to face Saturday night. And considering the complete silence of quite a few in this match, it would seem I'm not the only one. However, on the opposite end of the spectrum, we have the ferociously confident. Those beating their chests and proclaiming to the world that there's no other way this match can end, than with them walking out with their hands held high in victory.

Needless to say, I don't agree.

However, I'm not going to take that same stance. How could anyone who's thought it through at all? There are way too many variables in place during any wrestling match to proclaim with absolute certainty that victory will be achieved. Add in partners,the presence of seven teams, the fact that this is a ladder match which in and of itself introduces and strengthens the odds that certain pre-established variables will come into play and…. I'm laying it on a little thick, aren't I?

You get the point.

This isn't to say I'm not confident in my own abilities, as at least one of my opponents will likely claim should they feel the need to respond to my words. However, I'm not blinded by egomania. There are threats everywhere in a match with this many competitors.

But, enough with the generalities. It's time for specifics.

Michael McBride in particular seems to think he has this in the bag, going so far as to call every other team worthless and also avoided mentioning me by name. I must say, it's actually pretty funny that a man who's been absent since March and doesn't even have a single victory to his name this calendar year is standing on a soapbox, preaching about others being worthless. Though, considering his harsh, harsh words to the team he felt was most pathetic, I think he realizes just how hypocritical he's being. After all, we hate most in others what we dislike in ourselves.

Please Michael, save your inflated ego for someone who might be intimidated, should such a gullible soul exist.

Dustin Diamond Drake likes to repeat things everybody already knows like he's making some kind of in depth analysis or, whatever else have you. Though, that's nowhere near as egregious as McBride's puffed out chest routine. I like the guy. I do. He's got his reasons for fighting, and they aren't for any form of self-gratification or glory seeking. That's respectable. However, in an environment where that is the pervading mindset, especially when a shot quenching the thirst for glory is literally hanging right above us. Not questioning the strength of his resolve, but the allure of a more tangible and readily available goal will no doubt bolster the resolve of everyone else.

Time will tell how that plays out for Mr. Drake.

And, yes, I say everyone else. Myself included. As much as I wish I could say my reasons for fighting are completely pure and without selfish motivations, that simply is not the case. I feel I must admit something to you all: I'm something of a sadist. Though I'm guessing that isn't an earth shattering revelation.

So, when I saw the match I was booked in here, I felt it was almost too good to be true. No disqualifications, as well as twelve opponents to subject to as horrific of punishment as I can wrap my little head around, and, considering the track records of most people employed by the XWF, more than likely deserving of whatever I throw at them? Almost too good to be true. Seriously, I actually pinched myself because I thought I was dreaming.

But here we are.

Now, Punk, where, in any of what I just said, was there any mention, indirect or otherwise about a belief in anything mystical? Or, broadening our train of thought a little, about any alliegences of mine? I'm, as you said and I quote, "a part of a group of believers in some mystical shit". Yet, I'm not part of a group, nor do I believe in anything mystical. What I actually am right now is curious as to how you came up with any of that. Though I'm willing to bet you just threw darts at a dartboard and went with whatever stuck. Much too busy hyping yourself up to really too much attention to who you're actually facing instead of what you imagine you're facing.

So, the question stands. Why should I bother to really put much thought into anything he says when he obviously doesn't know anything about me?

The answer's simple. I'm not going to bother.

There are others involved with this match, who I definitely could mention. However, I won't. Simply because, they either haven't said anything at all, or anything worth responding to or addressing. Which isn't a slight at them, by any means. I wish all of you, yes even you McBride, the best of luck and I sincerely hope you all give it your best effort.

Don't hold anything back, because I won't.

II

July 25 -- 2:47 AM -- Chicago, Illinois

BLAM!

My eyes snap open and I can see again. Though I sort of wish I couldn't. There's a smoking gun in my hand that was pointed to my head last I remember. The man who pointed it there is laying on the ground in front of me, rapidly bleeding out from a bullet in the chest. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what just happened.

I take a step towards the fallen man and turn around to face his two friends, who both stare at me like deer in the headlights, unsure of how to react. Both frozen with dumbfounded expressions on their faces. This isn't the first time a thug has been taken aback by something I've done and were the situation a little lighter, I'd likely be laughing at them. Now, however, I'm just as shocked as them.

He's dead. Or dying. Definitely dying, he was shot point blank in the chest after all and the blood on the ground is a pretty clear indication that he wasn't wearing a vest.

This, this is wrong.

I don't even remember pulling the trigger. Hell, I don't even remember how I ended up with the gun in my hand. How? How did I just forget that? One second I'm expecting to die at any second, hoping for any brief opportunity to escape the situation, despite being a little glad I could emasculate the man who I figured would be responsible for my death by showing him just how little he mattered in the grand scheme of things, and the next the tables have turned in the most drastic of ways.

I'm here.

He's dead.

I'm going to throw up. I feel it in my throat, rising. I swallow, choking it down before staring at both men in front of me, both of whom seem to be snapping back to reality. Both sets of eyes meet with mine, from my perspective at least.

Then I run.

III

July 27 -- 2:35 AM -- Chicago, Illinois

Ungh…. where am I?

She awakens, her hands tied, lying in the backseat of a car. The two small dots on her throat, where the darts were removed, itch intensely, making her wish she could do something about it. The car isn't moving, nor is the engine turned on. Her vision is hazy, as is her memory she finds as she tries to retrace her steps. Just to figure out how she got in this situation.

Were you dreaming about me, hun?

The faceless man, seated in the passenger's seat, looks behind his seat at her.

Of course you're here.

Don't sound so excited to see me.

What do you want from me?

Oh god not this shit again.

The driver finally pipes up.

A definite stranger. She'd never seen him before in her life. He was a younger man, mid twenties maybe, with an average, unremarkable face except for his eyes which shone a strikingly bright grey.

He smiles at her, before undoing his seatbelt and reaching one hand for the door.

Nice to meet ya. I'm Desmond.

What's going on?

Desmond pulls on the door handle and pushes the door open, stepping out of the car. He grabs onto the roof and twists his back until he hears a slight pop, then approaches the door to the back seat. He pulls the door open and reaches in, only to get a kick to the shoulder from his captive.

Should've figured this'd be an issue.

He backpedals a couple of steps, brandishing the dart gun.

Don't make me use this again.

Her heart pounds in her chest. The blood in her veins feels like lava pumping through her body. She thinks back to the man she killed, and for a moment contemplates what it'd be like to do it again. Knowingly.

And she yields.

Better.

Desmond reaches in again and helps her out of the car. As he pushes the door shut behind her, she finally asks the most important question.

Where are you taking me?

The Mad King wants to have a chat with you.

Behind the mask, her eyes widen with a mix of surprise and elation.

Well then, I'd hate to keep him waiting.

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