Chris is sat, rubbing his hair up and down while covering his face. He exhales hard, and puts his hands down.

Why am I not more excited? I'm only 2 matches into my XWF career, and I'm about to face the TV Champion for their title. I'm on the cusp of etching my name in history. I'm so fucking close to being someone, to being a winner. But I'm not excited. Could it possibly be because I've been called out by such a wonderfully gifted mind that I feel inferior now? Maybe it's that, I haven't learned how to win yet, even though I've beaten 2 people and came out of it not only completely unharmed, but $2500 richer.

Chris looks up with his mouth slightly open as if he's about to speak.

Or maybe it's because of the fact that I've heard all of this drivel before.

Chris’ posture immediately changes, as if he's now a chipper TV salesman. He waves with an ear-to-ear grin.

Hello, Neville. If that even is your real name. I'm Chris, or am I? I live in Seattle, which is usually represented by Vancouver in movies. I'm a pro wrestler, meaning that I just play one on TV. I have a history of anti-social behavior, and currently suffer from Histrionic Personality Disorder. I know this, because I looked it up on WebMD, and it seemed to fit the vibe of what I wanted for my character. My Uncle Gary lives on a houseboat in a lake that's supposed to represent Puget Sound, apparently. He's sagely, but he also has a history of problems of his own, because me and my writing team thought it was such a heartwarming character to put alongside me and my cruel, nihilistic worldview. That's my story! Hope that it draws in sweet, sweet television ratings.

Chris stops smiling.

I would love to be able to tell you that all this is just a story made to draw in viewers, but that's simply not the case. I've only been here for two matches, but you seem to have expected every little detail of my life as soon as I set foot in this company. Well, as much as you want to do your research so you can demean me, I don't need to tell you jack-fucking-shit.

He emphasizes his last words by pointing at the camera three times. He sits up straight with his hands in the air as if he's about to pitch a grand idea.

I see you going to all sorts different, beautiful locales just to be able to film in a nice location. Just in the other promo, you were on a boat out in a pristine looking body of water. You did that for your own enjoyment, right? For your own, personal purposes. No one would fault you for that.

Chris waves his finger to say no, but he curls it down into a fist, which he starts to stare at.

But...not when I do it. Because, I went to Frieda to get help with my leg. I wanted to get it in a better condition so I could be able to possibly win my next match. Instead, I had to go through hippie-dippie bullshit which didn't even help in the end, because Gary likes to play jokes on me. I spent $80 bucks. $80 bucks of the cash that I earned myself and can use however I damn well please. I'm a grown adult with a job, if I make money, I can spend it.

Not only that, but I spent it on something that I was dragged into, something I was lead to believe would help me medically. I just thought it was going to be some kind of reflexology, but nope, I ended up with incense filling my lungs and some dingbat trying to cleanse my aura by using oil and shit while reading incantations and dancing around me, occasionally stepping on my feet just to make it worse. All to cleanse an aura, which, I know doesn't exist. I never said I believe in auras, you lying jackass.

Speaking of lies, you seem to think that there's no such thing as medication for mental disorders, or therapy to help get better. If I have sociopathy, or any sort of mental condition, that's it. I have to show every single condition or else I'm a faker. That reminds me.

Chris pulls out a pill bottle, takes out a small, mint green capsule-shaped tablet. He bites down on it, cringing at the bitter taste, but through the disgust, he smiles. He swallows and points at the bottle with a smug expression.

Man, I sure do love Tic-Tacs!

Chris flings all of the pills out of the bottle at the camera, his smile immediately becoming a look of disdain.

I'm constantly uncomfortable, Sinclair. Not a single waking moment of my life feels safe. I have nothing to feel when I'm going out and putting on the most gruesome matches I can. I feel nothing for Ravenwolf, Catchall, or Mika. I barely remember what it feels like to acknowledge the well-being of the people around me. And, as much as every teenage wannabe in America might try to glorify such emotional emptiness, it's Hell. It's Hell on Earth, Neville. And this is my escape. If I lose, fine. If I win, better. But either way, as soon as that final bell rings, I start counting the days to my next match. This is for my own good. If that means endangering the good of others around me, I really don't give a damn.

Chris pauses and looks down to gather his thoughts.

It must be real fucking easy to look at someone who's gone through more in the past 3 years than the cumulative amount of problems in your whole life, and spew lies about them. And claim that they're faking every little thing about themselves. What the hell would I possibly gain from that? It's not like my “performance” as a sociopath is suddenly going to get me monthly welfare checks.

And I know you want me to reply, you're just frothing at the mouth waiting to call me a sophomoric buffoon, but I hate to tell you this. This match won't be determined on what I say here. I know you don't think enough of me to let me get into your head, so what's the point in doing this, other than to just stand up for myself? Nothing. This, talking, doesn't matter. What matters is who walks out of that arena with more teeth left in their mouth.

My bio is legitimately all you targeted. That, and my spending habits, which are clearly less flamboyant and excessive than yours. What exactly is there to be gained in attacking the raw essence of a person? That's my bio. I'm a borderline sociopath, anyways. The only reason I put that there is because I don't have to have any reservations in the ring. I can let out whatever mad, carnal actions my brain screams at me to do. When I'm outside of the ring, I'm on enough meds to knock out an elephant, but when I'm in there, I'm whatever my brain wants me to be, and I get to be paid for it.

But you know, I really could've just lied to everyone and called myself a sociopath, and went full steam ahead in acting crazy. I could make it my nickname! The Sociopath, Chris Valerius. I could immediately warn people to what I can do to them, no, what I will do to them just by calling myself a sociopath. I could advertise myself to the legions of American teens who fancy themselves sociopaths, even though they haven't even ever attempted to get a grasp of what sociopathy is, let alone get diagnosed! I could do that tomorrow, Neville. But I don't want to stoop to your level.

You lied about me, about my uncle, about that crazy bitch that flung oil into my eyes. You lied. Made up falsehoods to fit your narrative of nothing being wrong with me, of being a faker, but you're the biggest fucking faker in the XWF! You took the facts and twisted them beyond belief, as if you were a politician making up lies about their opposition. It's fucking pathetic that you had to do that. I might not be educated, but at least I'm not a lying piece of shit who puts himself above everyone else! You haven't fucking earned talking down to people! You never will either! Even if I lose, I'm going to come after you in such a way that no one will ever respect you or your shitty, contemptuous opinions again.

There is something wrong with me, Neville. It's not sociopathy, but it's there.

You just wish that there wasn't, because when all is said and done, you don't know how to deal with it. What a thought. Neville Sinclair not knowing something.

D minus. See me after class.

The camera cuts out with a glitchy screech.