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Matthias Syn · (08-19-2024)

The Atlantic spits and speaks. The cold, driving rain hasn't stopped for days. His eyes squinted as he watched the waves swell and crash at his feet. No need for sunglasses today. Hell, no need for sunglasses for the last week. His sharp blue eyes, contemplative and reflecting. The unrelenting torrential downpour, the beads of water cascading down his chiseled face. The moon lays low in the graying sky. He felt... alive.

The landscape shifted last Thursday, Summer. Can you feel it? This is my show now, he said through a snarl.

Parker wilted under the weight of his own hubris. Took his ball and went home. I bet if he had won the Universal Title he would still be here boring us with his stories about his adventures with Mr. Miyagi. Letting his daddy issues play out in real time for the whole world to see. Instead, off to that new baby, that wife of his, that looks like she smells of patchouli, body odor and Valium. In fairness to her, if I had to talk to Parker for more then five minutes, I would fill my stomach with antidepressants as fast as I could as well.

What about Madison Dyson, Syn? She is the new Anarchy Champion. The head of the brand.

That bitch is ONLY the Anarchy Champion because I was busy making John Black consider retiring from the sport altogether after dropping him thirty feet to the ground on his stupid fucking face. I left him bloody and beaten in a pool of his own piss as I looked him directly in the eyes and walked away with the Revolution Title that he tried making his entire personality. I did it just because. I don't lust for belts.

I take them because I fucking can.

HGH? That walking, talking human papillomavirus hasn't been seen since he had the displeasure of standing in the way of the Syn City Saint. Three matches into a comeback tour that nobody asked for and he fucked off into whatever abyss he dragged himself out of to begin with.

Spencer Adams? I crumbled that legacy in a land far far away. I took his pride, his title and his smile. Only just recently and somewhere else has he tried to regain whatever footing he has left in this industry.

Just another piece of trash that Matthias Syn had to take out.

Welcome to the Matthias Syn Era.

This is real, Summer. When you get into the ring with me, it's fucking real. This isn't a joke. This isn't a vanity project. I am going to fucking hurt you. Not because it's personal but because you deserve it.

There is no substance to you, Summer. You're vacant, empty existence pisses me off. So going scorched earth on a girl who is only here for the vibes lets me send a message.

You fashion yourself a technical wrestler, he whispers... BORING. At five feet nothing and one hundred pounds soaking wet, you would have to be. I want you to think about how "technical" you are while I drag your pretty fucking face across the concrete ringside, painting it whichever color makeup that you decide to doll yourself up with. There are no rules once my music stops and that bell rings, Summer. No one to save you from Matthias Syn. I am a slow dance with violence and I plan to take my time.

I see through you, Summer. Spending every waking hour that you aren't lying on your back, trying to impress your father. A father who certainly doesn't give a shit. Anything to get daddy's attention without being self-aware enough to realize there is NOTHING that you can do to get him to care. You are the love spawn of his mistress. His indiscretions. You are his biggest regret and his worst mistake and it's time that someone tells you. A lifetime of showering you with money not because he cares about you but because he wants to keep you away. Away from his real family.

You wanted his attention, I am going to give it to you, Summer. When you leave Anarchy on a stretcher, wondering if you'll need a feeding tube or a blood transfusion because you just stood face to face with Matthias Syn. He will find you.

I will do you another favor, Summer. I'll find your sister for you. Just simply tell her that Matthias Syn is looking for her and I am quite sure she will stumble, tourniquet, needle and all, out of whichever trap house she is holed up in trying desperately to stay away from you.

Everyone leaves you, Summer. EVERYONE. You're not interesting.

Do you know why they pop for me, Summer? It's because I make them question their vacuous, dull and vapid existence. I open wounds that they yearn to feel again. It makes them feel alive. Stockholm Syndrome is a hell of a drug.

The next time you turn that camera on and press record, I challenge you to channel that dark and sadistic part of you that everyone has inherently built into their DNA, that part of you that tells the world to GO FUCK ITSELF. I do things on my terms. Drop that spoiled rich girl act that is as original as those plastic tits that hold you back.

I want you to tell the world that Matthias Syn has opened your eyes. Has pierced through the veil.

This world is cruel and biting and if you didn't have the comfort of your fathers endless bank account to shield you from it, you would already be a Jerkmate bimbo. A hot single within forty miles. Selling yourself to these fat, disgusting NPC's that hillbilly holler your name anytime that you jerk that curtain on Anarchy.

"Shake it for us, Summer"

STATIC

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