Hey Maverick.

I gotta say, after last Shove-it went off the air, I felt this five hundred pound weight just lift off my shoulders. Like, poof. Gone. Vanished immediately. I think you know what the weight was, don't you?

Gotta admit, you hurt my neck a little. Poor placement, whatever. I'm done carrying you, done watching you sink right to the fucking bottom despite my semi-concerned efforts at keeping you afloat.

I'm gonna knock you the fuck out.

Oh, I'm sure you've developed some bravado watching upstart sensation Nicolas Legume beat me on Warfare. I'm sure you smiled wide as you saw me hit the fire. Got a fucking stiffy at the thought of all the ways you could "get" Luca when you finally decided to say something. Anything. I get it, it's an easy target. Something to lob a softball at and fall back, knowing you got at least one zinger in.

Tell me, Maverick. How are you gonna use that loss to dig deep into my psyche? To make me quiver and shake with fear while you verbally dissect me. Pick apart my personality, air my insecurities to the entire world, and then prove all of them well-placed?

Come on, Maverick.

Hit me with that #hotfire.

Tell me how this match is going to take no effort whatsoever. How you're gonna fucking murk me and take me out behind the woodshed.

Tell me to look at the fuckin' flowers.

Just like you did with Peter Gilmour on Warfare. Guess what. No, really, guess. I want you to.

You lost to Gilly.

Ahem.

Hahahahahahaha!

Oh, in before he tries to reiterate that I lost to Nick Lasagna again. In before he tries to drive that point into the fucking ground like me with the final nail in this fuccboi's career.

See, Maverick lacks even the most basic self-awareness to realize when something's a problem. So he just keeps repeating shit and falling into the same traps with every step.

Ain't that right, Title Shitter?

Oh, please go on another long-ass rant about how you didn't do it again, like a fucking idiot. It doesn't fucking matter how many times you scream up at the heavens that you're not a title shitter, it's gonna keep on being said.

Over and over and over again.

Because that's what makes you tick, Mav. That's what pops the fucking balloon that is your self-confidence. See, you do a real good job of spewing bullshit, trying your damndest to build yourself up as a credible threat.

Then all it takes is one asshole to step right up and stab all that hard work with a fucking thumbtack.

Two words.

Title shitter.

Then you slip off your pedestal, noose around your neck, and hang. Kicking your legs because we didn't get the length right to just snap your neck. Struggling to escape the noose but deep down, you know there isn't an escape. There never has been. There never will be.

You're trapped in the shadow of shit.

And it's all because of you.

No amount of delusions of grandeur, where you actually come close to winning this match will change the fact that at the end of the day, you're just a stunted, emotionally immature manchild who projects a veneer of smug confidence but in reality is so scarred by being called a "title shitter" so much, he's actually started to believe it.

Or, at least believe he has to defend himself against it.

Me? I embrace my failures. I lost to Nikolai Lassiter like a fuckin man. I don't give a fuck. Let him hold onto that, I'll be back to smear the mat with his fucking guts soon enough.

You?

Well, we all know how you react to your failures.

Title shitter.

---

"You want to do what, Luca?"

---

You thought I was gonna quit this shit that soon. Nah man, I still got a second match to talk about since I'm gonna Maverick's face as a mop to wipe up his fucking blood once I'm finished with him because yeah, that makes sense. Let's talk about Tush and Dick E. I mean holy shit, can you get a bigger collection of in one match? And yeah, that includes me because I am confirmed the biggest in the federation. I mean, isn't that the gist of most of these closeted homos trash talk anyway?

Ayyyy Luca's a because he's capable of having a healthy platonic relationship with a member of the same sex!

Ayyyy you know Luca sucks dick on the regular because he can look at another man and not immediately feel the need to puff out his chest and prove himself manlier-than-thou.

Ayyyy Luca's such a guys-- why doesn't he want me?

Because that's what it's all about, isn't it? They're all so insecure with themselves, trapped so far in the fucking closet that they're in Narnia, that they think the only way out is to try and shove a poor, ambiguously heterosexual male in the closet to take their place.

Newsflash it doesn't fucking work like that you idiots. No matter how much you try and project your pussy ass insecurities onto me, they don't leave you. Nah, they just get embedded deeper onto you, fuccbois. That scarlet letter F is burnt into your fucking foreheads by this point but please, by all means keep on doing it.

It's funny.

I mean, calling people in "new and creative" ways is kind of Tush's whole gimmick so it's obvious how far in the closet he is. Let me tell you all a story about a dear friend of mine, Zane Kingsley III. See, Zane wanted to let Tush know that he was being watched by forces far greater than himself. The first thing Tush said back?

Something about his dick.

Just talking about his dick to another guy like all them straight people do.

What the fuck is this? Come on, Tush. I expected more from you (no I didn't).

I mean, you're the Intercontinental Champion. A feat you gained by beating Ginger Snaps, which isn't much of an accomplishment when you remember that life beat Ginger Snaps the day she was born. There was never any doubt that she's lose to you, man. You have the slightest modicum of talent that she lacks. Does that make you a bigshot?

Fuck no.

That Intercontinental Title?

That's your legacy, Lounge Lizard.

Mine?

Well, I talk a lot about legacies for someone who doesn't really care about them, right (HEY ASSHOLES CALL ME ON THIS PLEASE)?

My list of accolades dwarfs you more than the shadow of repressed homosexuality dwarfs anything you actually do to downplay that shit.

Tag champ. X-Treme champ. European Champ. 24/7 Briefcase Holder. Shit fuck uper.

We aren't on the same wavelength, fuccboi.

And then there's Dick.

Dick E. Tickler. What's he gonna do in this match? There isn't a Frodo Smackins to beat down. There's a Tush, sure but despite being an advanced fuccboi , Tush has too much talent for Dick E. to best on his own so I repeat, what is gonna do?

Muster up his best Drill Sargent voice and call Tush and I ?

Woah shit dude edgy as fuck you're sure straight man for sure.

Gimme a fucking break.

---

"You want to do what, Luca?"

Smile, check.

Friendly, vaguely empty eyes, check.

Cocked head, check.

Slight chuckle, check.

Luca glares at me with the same look he always has; that distrustful, unblinking stare. Like he's afraid that if he takes his eyes off me, I'll cut his throat or something. Given his track record, I should be the one giving him that look, but if he wants to play the wary, genre savvy hero, I'll play the shifty, ever-so-slightly off-putting villain.

After all, it's a role I'm used to playing.

My clients don't see it, but they're all a part of something bigger. Of course they don't see it, it's beyond their perception. They couldn't even begin to comprehend what I have in store for them. All of them.

Which reminds me, I need to pay Amy a visit in the near future.

"You don't just come at these things willy-nilly, Luca. What brought this on?"

I lean back in my recliner, eyes still locked on Luca's as he takes a sip from whatever energy drink he's slurping down.

"Do you really care why or is this a trick to get me to open up?"

Is there a difference between the two?

"I just want to know. If you're so adamant that I don't care about you, then take it as curiosity."

He looks at me, then down at the spotless floor. I swear if he spills that fucking energy drink on my carpet...

"I'm a celebrity. I want money, people want to know more about me. A memoir is the best of both worlds. Plus, it could get us a biopic since you want to branch out. Maybe get that Jennifer girl a job."

Ah, yes, Jennifer. My special project.

Sure, he's framing this in a way so that it looks like a pragmatic move. Something that just comes with fame but there's one thing that always drives a celebrity to undertake the process of writing a memoir.

Fear.

He thinks he's losing it. That this is his last leg. He isn't going to roll over the XWF like he thought he could. He's breaking.

He wants to cling desperately to the last bits of relevance he has because that's all he does this for. The attention. Poor Luca. Poor murderer, drug dealer/user, mobster, arsonist etc. etc. Product of a broken home; a father who cared more for his other family than him; a flighty mother; and the man who shaped him into who he is today.

Luca Arzegotti; this is your life.

The one you're running from. The one you have been running from ever since you figured out that was an option.

What about Natalya, Luca? Does she still think you're dead? Is the last image of her brother, burned in her memory your dead, bullet riddled body?

What about this Minka woman who claims to be your sister? I won't ask you directly about her because she's never been brought up. You'll claim she's a delusional fan. A nutcase. Like you aren't. You won't give a straight answer. I'll have to do some more research on the Arzegotti family tree.

Poor little psychopath. No, you aren't a psychopath.

You're a destroyer.

You've killed every chance of happiness you've ever gotten.

This hell you're in? It's your creation.

Maybe that's why you used to call yourself the Dream Killer.

I smile at Luca once more, assuring him in my own special way.

"Alright then. I'll get in contact with a ghostwriter in the next couple days.

He stares at me quizzically for a few seconds before nodding his head.

"Thought it'd take more convincing."

"Not at all, Luca."

You've convinced me enough already.