"I am become death, the destroyer of worlds" - The Bhagavad Gita, translated by J. Robert Oppenheimer

Shall I start from the beginning? Do I even remember where to start anymore? Why am I asking you these questions, it isn't like you can answer them. You're a piece of paper for Christ's sake! Screw it, I need to start from as far back as I can remember...

My name is Jessica Marie Diaz, but I don't really go by that anymore. People just call me Jessie really. But I doubt anyone reading really cares, it's all full names that are recorded in history. That is, unless you have some kind of badass nickname like "Stonewall" or something. Then people forget just how much of a sociopath you are and how you led people to inevitable death that you saw coming for an army with backward ass ideas. Alas, I'm getting way too off topic.

Anyway, the first real milestone of my adult life was getting busted for drunk driving on my 21st birthday. A real kick in the ass to welcome me to the real world, right? Oh well, it's not like I could go back and change it now, so I'm stuck with that little blemish on my record. No amount of batting your eyelashes at the judge can get you out of that, at least not that judge...

The next five years passed by in the blink of an eye without anything of interest happening. Seriously, how sad is it that I can't remember anything I did when I was 22 or 23? Two straight years where the most I knew was that I was still working at the shitty call center with a bunch of college kids who thought I was just as pathetic as they were.

The difference, I wasn't working for beer money. I was foolish enough to try having a damn part time job could earn me a living. Three simultaneous jobs later, I learned just how foolish I was. Minimum wage sucks, just for the record.

Oh shit! I should probably wrap this up, I don't want to be late for my first interview! Today is the day I stop being Jessica Marie Diaz, call center employee and star being Jessie Diaz, professional wrestler.

I'm a fucking moron.

The last paragraph and closing statement were written in a noticeably sloppier way than the rest of the writing. It's obvious that she rushed through them, but if she was in such a hurry why were they even written? Seems like it was unnecessary...


I'm running at this point, trying desperately to get to the Space Needle, where I was supposed to meet the interviewer. I really don't want to be late to my first appearance, what kind of first impression would that make? I see a man with a microphone and another with a camera, that has to be them! As I approach however, I hear the man with the mic begin to talk...

"Hello! As always, I'm Steve Sayors! I'm currently waiting for the arrival of-"

Just in time! I slide on my feet and run my body into his, almost knocking us both over. Maybe I'm not as smooth as I once thought...

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Sayors."

He straightens his jacket a bit and that's when I realize how dressed up he is and how casual I look. Still rocking the Grunge Era flannel and jeans. Maybe I just should've been fashionably late...

"You're very much forgiven, Ms. Diaz. Now, this is the first time the XWF viewers have seen you at all! Is there anything you want to say to them?"

Come on Jessie, here's your chance to say something interesting. Time to make people care!

"I um, it's an honor to be here...?"

Mission failed. Horrendously. I'm a fucking moron. Steve looks over at me, just as confused as I am. Quickly, he regains his composure and returns his eyes to the camera.

"Well Ms. Diaz, it's being told to me at this time that you do indeed have a match on Monday!"

I can't help but think as he touches his finger to an earpiece to hear the message better, is this guy as unprepared as I am? You get what you put out, I guess... I wait patiently as hear him say shit I already know for the sake of the idiots who think he's an actual interviewer. No fucking wonder people make fun of this guy...

"Yes, you have a match against Hunter Payne, Jack Killborn-"

I honestly would not be able to stand hearing his voice list off every name, so I cut him off right there.

"Harold Davis and Swift Ion. My partners are Lightning, Traymore Nichols, and The C Plus. It's dubbed a 'Roster vs. Rookies' match."

Something about the look on Steve's face tells me that he's used to being cut off. He clears his throat and starts talking again, I spend the entirety of his spiel about how it's rude to interrupt wondering how stupid my teammates' names are. I mean Jessie Diaz isn't much better, but come on!

"Honestly Steve, I thought you wanted to ask me about my match, not go back and forth with me about what I want to say to the fans. I'd prefer to let myself come out in the ring, if it's all the same with you."

He actually smiles at me. Well, if you can call that dorky look on his face a smile. I can't help but think he's eyeing me up or something. Then again, he's probably a pedophile, and doesn't want anything to do with me in that way...

"Well then Ms. Diaz, I thought I was the interviewer. Turns out you're going to dictate how this is going."

Jeez, how much of a pussy is this guy?

"I bet you're used to women taking control over you, Mr. Sayors."

Did I just say that aloud? What should I do now? I see the camera man's laughing, but Steve looks pissed!

"Oh come on! It was only a joke..."

No it wasn't.

"Anyway, what do you wanna say about your match, Ms. Bossy Lady?"

Is every word I say going to offend this guy? At least I know this now, when I'm still getting my bearings here...

"Well, I've been studying their work. They all seem impressive, but they all have holes in their offense that can easily be exploited..."

Okay, now Sayors is really confused. He's just glaring at me. Not out of anger or frustration or shame or any other emotions with which I've been glared at before. He's lost...

"Can you close your mouth? I don't need to see your drool, Mr. Too Whipped to Stand Up for Himself."

Oh snap, I really need to start thinking before I talk, don't I? He closes his mouth, but not before shooting me a dirty look. Fitting, I feel dirty with the way he's looking at me. Rape is definitely on this guy's mind.

Maybe I'm taking everything out of context and there's a little girl crossing the street or something. I look to my left, and no such luck. He's definitely in the mood to rape me.

"For example, the most obvious of all weaknesses I see comes from Jack Killborn. Yes, likely the biggest person in this match, so dependent on his strength to toss around opponents like ragdolls in a hurricane. However, you lift with your legs, and by the time I'm done darting around him and picking my spots, he'll be lucky to be able to lift me one inch off the ground, let alone toss me about.

Power really is overrated, and I'm going to prove that in my debut. Is Jack Killborn even considered anything special? Are any of my team's opponents? If they were, they wouldn't be facing rookies in a tag match, would they? I think I'm going to tear the ligaments of Jack Killborn's knees to the point of no surgical repair. Then I'll make him tap the mat like weakling he really is under his muscular frame.

Because just like Kurt Cobain and sobriety, Jack Killborn and actual strength only belong in the same sentence if the words 'will never attain' are in between them. Rest in peace Kurt."

Kurt Cobain reference? Check. I can't help but smile as I mention twenty five percent of my opponents as if they were common street trash. Maybe I can do this to the rest of them...

I snatch the microphone out of Sayors' hand instead of letting him hold it for me. My legs are getting way too restless to stay in this position for any longer.

"Hunter Payne, a man who has a Crossface submission hold that he calls 'Crippling Payne' as if throwing his last name into the move because it sounds like the actual word 'pain' is clever. Do you know what he uses to lock in the hold, Mr. Sayors?"

Steve looks at me and jolts in surprise. I assume he wasn't expecting me to ask him a question because of the whole mic stealing thing. Oh well, he looks happy that he's involved. That, or he just saw a little boy behind me. Sometimes my mind is so repetitive and stuck in the gutter...

"Uh, I don't know..."

Good God this guy's a dumb fuck!

"His arms, Steve. Just the thing I'll go after on him. If he can't get his arms to do anything without hurting himself more than he would hurt me, then there's a small chance of him being able to win. Even with his other finishing maneuver, he still has to put his arm around me. I will tear him apart, limb by useless limb as he tries desperately to pull something out of his ass in an attempt to fight back. However, in the end he'll have to tap just like Killborn would if it were he who got caught in my grasp."

Good work Jessie. Two down, two more to go...

"Harold Davis, there's so much this man can't do if it hurts for him to fall back and land on his midsection. Nothing much he can do healthy sure, but even less when he's hurt. I promise I'll make him hurt all over if we meet in the ring. Fuck it, I may not stick to his midsection. I may go all over the place! Stomping the air out of his lungs, following it up by ripping his arm out of its damn socket. Maybe I'll break his ankles and see if he can stand. I'd want to take my time with him if we were to meet. Really make it special, y'know?"

Sayors face equals terror right now. He deals with crazy people on a daily basis, what makes me so special that he's staring at me with his big dopey eyes about to bulge out of his oversized skull? How about I focus on that later, I still have one more person to talk about.

"And let's not forget about 'Swift' Ion. The man with the glaring weakness if there ever were one. His little concussion will be exactly what I'm going to go for if we're to meet in the ring. Maybe with enough kicks I'll cause enough damage to his brain to render him unable to continue and he can forget even more about himself. Maybe if I drop him on his already injured head enough I can send a loud enough message to the Madness locker room.

That message is...

Don't fuck with Jessie Diaz.

Thank you for your time, Mr. Pedophile."

Dammit, I really need to learn to cool my jets. I walk off, wondering just how many people I pissed off with that interview.

My guess is five.