"Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well."

-Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus"

---

And they were running. Running like they'd never run before in their bodies -- the twilight at their heels. And the funny thing was, she wasn't sure why they were running. There was nothing chasing them. They had fled the scene, but none had followed. No one had even known they were there. It was the workings of a smooth criminal, stealing in and out like a wraith in the night. But still, they ran through the brush of the woods, the steely razor-edges of the leaves of tree branches slashing their faces, and the dewy hands of the tall grass grabbing at their ankles.

In the midst of their shared stride, she looked over to him, stealing a quick glance before he disappeared and reappeared behind a line of trees separating them. He was a number of years older than her, but he still moved with all the grace and speed of someone her age. He was fast; much faster than she would have ever expected. Quick on his feet, and sharp in mind. She could match him in wit, she knew, but he had that killer instinct she lacked: that confidence, burning like the lightning bugs all around their heads. At last, they ceased their sprint, and came to rest at a small clearing in the forest.

Immediately, their collective gasps and pants for breath following the exercise flowed like a river into the air. The gnats began to swarm around their sweat-drenched, heat-enveloped heads. Then, from the climax of a deep intake of air, she heard him laugh into the dark of the night. It was a laugh of pure victory -- like a Spartan returned from war, to find his helots awaiting his rest and recovery. In his hand, he clutched a dark object close to his steadily rising and falling chest, as though it were his own child, and he sought to protect it from the cruelty of the world.

"A-ha, yes!" he cried in the blackness, "here, my dear Lady Lazarus, we have found something most endearing!"

Between gasps, she found the breath to answer his odd declaration.

"Running for no good reason is hardly endearing."

"No, my dear!" he replied with vigor. "The flight is not the joy of life! But through your wisdom, you've brought me unto something most valuable."


"Cut the high-speak," she shot into the night. "I may as well have just lost my job, helping you steal XWF property!"

He fired a glare at her across the curtain of darkness between them. It was difficult to see, but she could tell he was staring at her, thinking. She could feel his oceanic eyes on her, like insects crawling in her skin. She shivered, sending a soft gasp of visible breath into the near-morning's aether.

"It belonged to me first," he replied with a calm voice, gently running his fingers along the object in his right hand. "And rightfully so. You, having assisted me, deserve a reward, yes? I mean, I stole your maidenhood!"

"Can you stop with that metaphor?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I've never done anything bad until now, but you make it sound so stupidly sensual."

"That's the idea of a metaphor, girl," he sighed, thumbing the side of his nose. "But you're afraid of losing your job, yes? How about if I gave you an exclusive? Something you could put on your resume that would guarantee you a job anywhere in the journalism market."

"Listening," she replied curtly.

"Pull out that silly little camera of yours. I'm going to do something I rarely ever do in the XWF..."

---

[REC]

He waved casually at the camera, trying his hardest not to laugh. This was something with which he was utterly unfamiliar. Talking right to a camera. Speaking to his opponents, his fans, his critics. It was not his style. He hated interaction. The public mask everyone needs to wear. He hated the disguise; the false smiles and seedy words. But if there was one thing he could take out of this, it was the joy of firing back after so, so long.

"Trios Title, yes? I never would have thought it, you know. Me, teaming up with two others to try to win some leather and gold. It's odd, really. I never thought of myself as someone who would put trust in others. But here we are. I can't explain it away. Sometimes, friends in low places make for high places to attain. But there's always the detractors. Those who despise, or think they have some sort of wit about them. In reality, they're all drier than Oscar Wilde's Christmas turkey. And not in the clever way. They don't have the capacity for dry wit. They're more of an eggheaded type of wit. To be said plainly, pathetic.

Let's get the two-thousand pound elephant out of the room first. Peter Gilmour. A man whose sophomoric attempts at degradation fall flatter than a Mormon Pamphlet under my car's wheels. The man has no air about him. His best insult is to imply I fellate Eli James on a near-daily basis. Very clever. Gay jokes. And here I thought we had progressed. See, Gilmour's attempting to make a sort of dark irony between the Congregation's quasi-religious behavior and the antithesis of such, being said homosexual behavior. See, I don't think Gilmour knows what irony is, let alone how to spell it or properly utilize it. His logic starts off at 60 miles per hour, and then, it reaches a pot hole, where it swerves violently, smacks into the center divider of the highway, and bursts into flames. Despite the implication of my apparently deviant sexual behavior with Eli, Gilmour goes on to speak of my lack of sexual prowess with Miss Callaway. So what am I, Peter? Gay or straight? Make up your goddamn mind. Unless you want me to be gay for you. Come on over to The Village sometime. I'm sure we could find someone to fuck you in the ass as hard as I will tonight, in the ring. See, there's wit, Peter. Ring. Understand? No? Didn't think so.

So, what of Cam Lang, then? Last I heard, he had fallen off some scaffold or some malarkey like that. What's odd, then, is how vividly he can recall David's flirtation and involvement with Miss Callaway. He seems to remember every little detail of the boy's love affair. But he has amnesia? Sorry, Cam. Not buying it. Stick to your own story a bit more fluidly, would you? Jesus, if you're going to fake amnesia, at least bother to fucking remember what you're not supposed to remember! But I can't blame you if you did throw yourself off a roof. I'd do the same thing if I was teamed up with Peter Gilmour. Heck, if I knew I was going into a match there was no doubt I'd lose, if I were in the body of Cam Lang, I'd try to end my own life, too. Because that's his mentality. He's on the out-ramp, like trash being carried out of a mental hospital. Down the chute you go, Lang. Be sure to tell me when you actually win a match. I'll buy you a cup of tea to celebrate your high-school record.

There's really nothing that needs to be said about Duke. If anything, his refusal to assist Gilmour and Lang shows me how little he cares. Maybe now that he's lost to Madison, he can go sulk with his band of moronic Masons or Illuminati or whatever idiotic pseudo-cult he's leading. Maybe it'd be best for him to just stay home.

And then we have Team Wildcard. See, interesting thing about the term "wildcard." It's meant to say that the "wildcard" of a particular event hasn't qualified for such an honour. And these three haven't qualified in the slightest.

Egyptian Snow Pharaoh? Hasn't done a thing. Nothing. Not a damned thing. And she gets handed this opportunity. Are you kidding? Who is running this damn asylum, letting a blatant psychopath like that into this match? For fuck's sake, she basically had Duke ritualistically murdered Monday night! But what is she without her servants? Another half-king, claiming some sort of royalty. I don't think I've ever been so bored watching a person assault another human being. Personality? None to speak of. Just another lunatic in the Hall of Fame for Lunatics that is the XWF. Laughable.

And her partner, Tri Bute. See, this fellow at least knows how to use wit and humor. Though I don't think he's intending for anyone to laugh. That's his life. His ridiculous, sad little life. Couldn't quite make it in the future, mate? Is that why you've come around to plague Warfare with your obnoxious overuse of the fact you're from the future? Or your insistence on doing everything in a rolling fashion? Just cartwheel your way down to the ring. Maybe you'll slip and knock yourself out or something. Save yourself the embarrassment of taking my foot to your future face. Or whatever. Now you have future me future saying it. And it's future fucking painful.

And finally, Jessie Diaz. Yes, miss, you did beat me. Clean. Good on you. But that's one match. You might be able to beat me. You can beat any of Team Gilmour, that's for damn sure. But can you really beat Eli? The man's an unstoppable monster. See, you, and almost everyone else mentioned, like to just categorize me into the giant, collective safety phrase, of the Congregation. I am more than the Congregation, luv. I barely contact the rest of them. I don't need to reassure you that I have my own life, and my own identity. It's a lot more than I can say for you. You get too damn bored with your own pathetic life that you just make up a new name and act differently. You love some logic, right? Then let's get down to brass tacks, as cliche as that sounds. You called me a woman. Wow. Isn't that clever? You're using your own gender as an insult. Sorry, what kind of sense does that make? If I took offense to that, I'd be as fucking misogynistic as Peter Gilmour. And I will not give you that honor. Stick to the idea that you can't make up your damn mind about who you want to be, and then we can talk about gender. Maybe you could try being a man in your next fantasy."

With an intake of breath, he gave a smile to the girl behind the camera.

"This ought to get you any job you want."

He kept the childish smile as his eyes tired, and fell back to the camera. He took on a rather calm demeanor.

"But even if I don't win...I've still won in the long run."

He finally lifted his hand into frame, revealing the object he had been holding all this time -- a bloodstained journal, leatherbound, with two initials engraved in gold on the cover: "N.D."

"I've gotten the greatest prize of them all."

[End of recording.]

Achievements

• 1x Tag Team Champion
  
• August 2013 Superstar of the Month (Thank you all so much!)
  
• 1x US Champion
  
• 1x X-treme Champion