Fastforward about a week or so in time, to this week. Y'know, the week where Luca Arzegotti is scheduled to take on Tony Santos and Sweet Cheapshots in a Triple Threat match for the- Oh right, you already know this shit. It's not like he's got the fanbase of Peter Gilmour, who suck on exhaust pipes and now have the attention span of a goldfish. You don't need someone to shout exposition, and yell every other word. Welp, let's head down to some motel room in Portlandia, where Luca's been hiding for the last week or so.

The knocks on the door came in heavy, blaring triplets. Each pound louder than the last, stopping for a few seconds, then restarting in the same identical pattern. Seated in the office chair that the hotel so generously provided as part of the room, Luca groans before getting out of his comfortable seat and makes his way to the door. Looking through the peephole and seeing just who it is disturbing him, he shrugs his shoulders and opens the door.

Enter Steve Sayors and unnamed XWF camera man # 1. The former with a dorky grin on his face and the latter as inconspicuous as possible while carrying a giant camera in one hand, and having said camera block out ninety percent of his face. Surprisingly, that guy's pretty sneaky.

In response to Sayors' grin, Luca glares past him and at the wall, a scowl forming on his lips.

"This is Steve Sayors, here live with none other than the European Champion, Luca Arzegotti!" he exclaims, making a wild arm gesture to emphasize how much douchebaggery is saturated in this tiny room. He turns to face Luca, who promptly looks down at the ground. "It's a pleasure to have you here for this interview!"

"I wish I could say the same," he says, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Okay then, how about your match at the Lethal Lottery tournament? Do you have any words for that?"

"Well, I know that I'm going to win..."

"Do you think it's wise to underestimate your opponents? You never know when one of them might pull off the big upset!"

"Steve, leave the talk about wrestling to me. If I wanted to know about romantic comedies, I'd get your expertise."

"I'm qualified to talk about wrestling!"

"Sure. Anyway, where was I? Oh right, the match itself. With those interesting competitors...

Those super cool folks...

Fuck, I forgot who my opponents were. That's not a good sign, is it?"

"Tony Santos and Sweet Cheapshots, sir."

"Sir? I like it, always refer to me as sir."

"Care to get back on track, sir?"

"Oh, of course! The guy who spends two hundred dollars on something he could've gotten for ninety nine cents and a chicken flavoring packet, and Tony Santos. Tony Santos, the man who people claim is so similar to me (including Santos himself) and yet, I don't see it. Really. Tony Santos is a drunk, I'm a drunk, we're both cynical and snarky. Wow, those are some real grade A fucking similarities! Tony and I really think in sync, huh?

Fuck. Does no one know what the fuck an actual similarity is in this company?

Tony Santos makes really, really fucking stupid World War analogies in an attempt to put me in my place. You're Stalin and I'm Ferdinand? Holy shit, European history!

If I'm Ferdinand, wouldn't something along the lines of you being Gavrilo Princip, his assassin? Or maybe Charles I, his successor? No, you're Stalin, someone who was, if my history serves me correct, some fucking bureaucrat in Lenin's grand-

Wait no, the Reds weren't even in power when the Archduke ate a bullet!

If you're Stalin, I could've been your Trotsky.

But no, I'm Ferdinand, and you're Stalin.

How do I even argue with someone so brain dead?

Fuck it, moving on.

In correcting this bullshit analogy, I think I've also destroyed the claim of not respecting the history of the continent, because kissing up to the Euro crowd in a company based in America, watched by Americans, and participated in by mostly Americans is really a sound marketing idea.

'I'm Tony Santos and since this is the European title; that means Europe totally cares about this belt so I should research European history very poorly and see what happens!'

So, what does Tony say next? What wild, insanely well thought out bits of trash talk does he have in store for me, to possibly back up those claims of being similar to me?

Passive aggressive 'respect' shit? Come on, that might work on getting ESP baited, but me? Fuck dude, maybe you should lay off the bottle. Sheesh!

Talking about my accomplishments, making sure to bring himself up in every likable quality I possess as if to say:

'Hey, look at me! I'm edgy and cynical like him! Come on, pay attention to me!'

But then, like the indecisive bitch he is, stops dead in his tracks to talk about how I sold my soul for success. That I'd actually let this little profession become a part of my soul, my identity.

You see, in saying that I sold my soul, he cuts and severs all ties to being anything similar to me.

That I would allow a profession, one as simple and unintrusive as professional fucking wrestling to breach past my own sense of professionalism and become personal. I don't care about wrestling. This, all this, is just something I do because I'm bored.

I have no motivation is what I'm getting at.

Why should I actually attempt to challenge Madison (one of the few capable of making me break a sweat), when all that accomplishes for me, is fucking nothing?

No, I'll stay right here and effortlessly be the European champion. The champion of Europe. Holder of this title that means less each second I hold it while telling you how little I care.

So go ahead, I dare you take it.

Hold onto it and try to get the respect you so desperately crave, despite the fact that you act snarky and try to make it seem like you don't care. Beat me down and hold it high above your head because at the end of the day...

I'm just holding this prop to piss off Heyman.

To piss off everyone in the company, because I'm so damn good, that I don't need to try.

I just do.

And me coasting by and half assing every match I'm in exceeds everyone's ability and that terrifies them. So they try to poke fun at pointless, pointless things like my affiliation.

The affiliation that makes up the entire upper echelon of the XWF.

John Madison - King.

Shane - Owner.

Mr. Supernova - TV champ.

Eli James IV - US champ.

NAZI - Man who'll carry you to victory and then beat your carcass down.

Me - European champ.

Theo Pryce - Whatever the fuck it is he does.

That's The Black Circle for ya. Running rampant across the XWF, taking everything that the commoners want, and keeping it safe and sound because at your hardest, you peasants couldn't even get the job done on an injured one of us, let alone any of us at full health.

So sit there, cry on the inside, and hope you get a briefcase.

Oh, you'll be too much of a pussy to actually use it?

Sounds about right.

You say you want a revolution?

You aren't fucking getting it."

Fade to The Black Circle.