"Giving respect to people in hopes that they don't tear me to shreds. Hashtag: JustEnigmaThings."

Fade in.

The scene fades in from black to an incredibly zoomed in shot of an orange. No, nothing symbolic, other than symbolizing the masked entity's affinity for citrus. No, seriously. Put your fucking notebooks away, English professors, there is absolutely no deeper meaning to this intense zoom in. Now, to zoom out slowly to more accurately encompass the entire unfolding scene. The orange is actually buried under a banana in a fruit bowl (As you can tell from the contents, this is not a bowl of Mr. Supernova) that rests upon a table that the masked entity calling itself Jessie Diaz is currently seated at. Over the normal, expected emo zombie getup (seriously, is this supposed to represent mourning?) she's wearing a full three piece suit? This is a fucking development.

"Why is it that everywhere I fucking turn, there's someone trying to say something in another language because it supposedly makes them look like they're smarter than they really are, or more cultured or whatever. Completely disregarding the flow and spouting out some needlessly pointless pseudo poetics to appear cultured, dignified, or whatever meaning they're trying and failing miserably to convey. Do you know what actually happens when you speak in a different language, especially when making a 'point'?

You look like a complete and utter jackass. Here's me throwing Polish into an otherwise English sentence: pudel puszysty naleśnik. What does that mean? Fluffy pancake poodle and I got that off of Google Translate before filming this. My point here, is that it's utterly useless and stupid as fuck.

Oh, shit. I'm ripping Callaway to pieces inadvertently. Again."

Jessie(?) reaches into the bowl and tosses the banana to the side like the piece of useless shit it is and grabs the orange that was previously zoomed in on. Somehow, the gloves over her hands do little to hinder her progress in ripping the peel off and tossing the individual pieces of rind across the table. She slides the orange under the wrappings and up to her mouth and takes a bite.

"That's a good fucking orange," she says, presumably spitting pieces of orange at the inside of her wrappings. "Oh, right, I have to talk about people. Way to kill my happiness, ingrates."

Gulp.

"You really shouldn't talk with your mouth full."

"You really shouldn't talk at all."

"Ouch, so hurtful."

"So, you tell me not to talk with my mouth full, and yet you're talking and putting us both at risk of choking. Who am I, Mister Radio?"

She pauses for laughter, or to finish eating the orange. Either way, there's a silence.

A long silence.

A looooooooooooooooooooooooong silence.

Definitely longer than seven inches.

"Oh, Radio. What is there to say about you that hasn't been done to death? You can't win - even when you're facing someone like John Samuels who has about as much talent in his body as a terminally ill raccoon. Oh, and fuck King Sadim and his ability to make anything that seems interesting suck. Titan has intrigue, nope! Bait and switch; it's actually John Samuels. Fuck! Right, I need to be talking about the most forgettable space man that the XWF has.

How does it feel; knowing that you aren't even better than Kinwrathi or Mr. Meteor?

Maybe if you were to say something of interest, I'd be able to berate you a little more, but since that isn't the case in the slightest, I'll stop wasting my time."

Her hand returns from under the wrappings empty.

"Which brings me to the main attraction: someone who is worthy of me wasting my time on. Enigma."

"Enigma?"

"Yeah, I have no idea who that is either. But, he did say something about me so I guess it's just common courtesy to direct my attention to him if only for a moment."

She pushes her chair out and stands up, resting her hands on the table.

"Enigma. What, was 'Mysterious Wrestler Three Hundred Seventy Six' already taken? No, seriously. Harping on names seems juvenile, but when someone is as generically named as 'Enigma' I can't help but point out the serious lack of any functioning brain processes.

Newsflash: this isn't the nineties. That shit isn't cool anymore.

But since you decided to show some respect to me (no doubt to get off the hook), I'll feign some sincerity. Your mask is kinda cool, and you beat the resident dementia patient. Way to go, what an accomplishment.

But since you won't shut the fuck up about your X-Treme title, allow me to put things into perspective.

It really isn't that important, no matter how much you try to make it seem like it is. For fuck's sake, you won it from Morbid Angel! The least important man on the roster! Oh yeah, call me when I'm supposed to care about that victory."

She reaches into the bowl and pulls out a lime. No real reason, she's just tossing it back and forth between her two hands.

"Also, he said Jessie-ice.

Jessie-ice.

Fuck it: Jessie-ice ice, baby.

Nice one Enigma. Fucking flawless. Can't even say a fucking portmanteau (and a lazy as fuck, outdated one at that) right and he thinks he's going to be able to eliminate me and win the match? Bringing a world of pain upon me? Look, that tough guy, strength shit might work on the Morbid Angel's of the world but I'm not a Morbid Angel.

You don't intimidate me in the fucking slightest. How could you? You're a fucking braindead twat who can't say words right. Shit, if I wanted to hear someone make threats while speaking butchered English, I'd listen to Amos James.

How does it feel: knowing you can intimidate the likes of Mr. Radio and Morbid Angel, but the girl who looks like a cross between a Slenderman cosplayer and an emo kid's last minute Halloween costume can see right through your shit?

Congrats, you can scare the morons. Too bad your 'charm' falls short on your only competition.

So when we face off in the ring...

...You'll know me by how little I care."

With that, she simply places the lime back where she got it and the scene fades to orange.

Why orange.

Because Vitamin C.

That's why.