Molly was on the phone with her manager, who was also her rather useless dad. He was mostly known for heavy drinking sessions, sleeping in until noon and being too late for the unemployment line and just fucking off to the pub instead. Thankfully, he had never been a mean drunk. Just useless.

Molly: "You’re absolutely certain I’m in the right fucking town this time, yeah? Last time you sent me to bloody Paris and I was supposed to be in the States."

He mumbled something on the other end of the line.

Molly: "Why I’m asking? This town’s called fuckin’ Stillwater, mate, sounds like something out of a spaghetti western. And I’d rather have a nice pint o’ Carling than some still water. Yeah. Yeah, I know you do too. Alright then, gotta go. Before that bloody caveman goes round saying I ain’t focused again. I swear, he says that shit one more time I’m gonna drop a fuckin’ bollock and headbutt him back to the bloody stone age."

More mumbling on the other end.

Molly: "Yeah, not literally, I’m not Doctor Who. I’m Molly fucking Barnes, innit? Here in Stillwater to take on Chelsea LeClaire for, like, the tenth time this week. Or that’s what it feels like, seems like I’m in a match with her every show we do. That dumb twat and her Chelsea LeClaire show are such a fucking bore I’d rather watch the tenth rerun of Eastenders. Bloody need this win, too, and it’s becoming about more than just the cash, innit? Haven’t pinned someone since I beat Kimchi, or whatever her name was. In any case, Chelsea may not sound like a pickled bit of cabbage, but she sure looks like one. Probably tastes like one too, but I’ll leave it to the unfortunate sod who has to munch that rug to render judgment."

More mumbling still.

Molly: "Right, never mind. Please stop talking, that’s bloody revolting. I’m hanging up now."

Molly turned the phone off and shook her head. Then she looked at the XWF cameraman who was following her around for some reason.

Molly: "You lot really got nothing better to do than following me around? Mate, it’s Oklahoma. You can carry military grade assault weapons on your back and nobody bats an eyelash; yet you’re filming a girl who’s just looking for some kind of bar. They do do bars here, don’t they? We call it a pub back in Blighty, which makes much more sense. Although it has to be said, not everything back home makes sense these days. Rishi Sunak turns out to be a vicious, lying bastard, gaslighting all of Britain by making more and more deals to line the pockets of his already obnoxiously wealthy friends while claiming he’s doing it to stop climate change. Then he goes on to gaslight us into believing that not wanting any more oil to be pumped up equals being pro-Russian invasion because the whole reason he’s doing it is to make us more independent. Which was everything Brexit was allegedly about, yeah?

Bullshit and lies, mate. All of it. Coincidentally, just like every word that comes out of Chelsea’s mouth. See? I’m staying FOCUSED ‘this time’, innit? You hearing this, EDWARD? I am using the topic of Rishi Sunak being a gaslighting twat as an allegory. Do you know what those are? Let me take it one step further. Because this whole cage match is a bit of a Brexit allegory as well, innit? You could argue that nobody wanted it in the first place, other than certain people in power. And the whole bloody thing is designed to lock us in, rather than shut others out… even if some people would say a cage match is a remedy against outside interference. But let’s be fucking honest, mate, nobody gives a fart’s whiff about Chelsea or meself, innit? And then there’s the fact that the whole bloody thing is just a gruesome mess that’s gonna cause a whole lot of trouble for everybody that’s in it. See? It’s bloody perfect, innit? ‘Not focused’, my fuckin’ arse. I’m locked in like y’all wouldn’t believe, lads.

I have to admit, I’ve got a bit of a touch of the nerves. Chelsea was right when she said I hadn’t won much lately, but most of it was just ‘throw Molly into the pile and see how she does’. Now, I’m not making daft excuses like ‘I’m not the one who got pinned’ which means fuck all. Only the winner gets the winner’s bonus, innit? The rest get the fee for turning up and doing their job. But now, I might actually have a victory that means something beyond  just shutting up some gaslighting ghoul. And that’s why winning matters even more than it usually does. See, people like to think we should keep politics out of wrestling, but to those people I say: get stuffed. I’m here to #PinTheRich and expose them for the self-absorbed pig-fucking slivers of Eton-educated wrinkled foreskin they are. David Cameron reference, there. He’s from Marylebone, London… A stone’s throw away from the Chelsea area, innit? See?? FOCUSED! Anyway, the bigger me platform, the better innit? So yeah, pinning Chelsea and hopefully shutting her annoying chicken-and-leek-piehole ‘till the end of times would do me a lot of good, innit? And we’re standing on the edge of tomorrow, lads. If I finally manage to cancel Chelsea’s show that’s been going on way too long as it is, we can start making some real change around here. First, her. Then Edward. And then the whole bloody world, mate. Justice for all, a world that’s fair, where we can all be equals and live in comfort. It’s all possible. Don’t trust the fuckers who say inequality makes the world go round. Those gaslighting fuckwits deserve to be hung in a gibbet for the sport of bloody crows. A better world starts when we #PinTheRich. For now, Chelsea will have to do."