LOOKATCHYALOOKATCHYALOOKATCHYA

H.G. Bissinger raped the city of Odessa. Bent the whole city over and had his way with it. Aired its dirty laundry out to dry -- this town that most people in the United States had never heard of prior, no one outside of Texas could point to it on a map and even then it'd be a struggle for those dumbshit hicks. But once Bissinger published his book, everyone knew it. The town couldn't escape the image presented.

On the other hand, Chicago's major. Everyone knows Chicago. There are countless narratives of the city; how it used to be, how it is, how it should've been, would've been, could've been. Accounts of pop-culture icons and B, C, and D-list celebrities alike. The Windy City, always in the news: be it for the state of Illinois' trademark political corruption, or spiking murder rates even before "1he wav3" showed us all how bad things could really be, how depraved every single one of us is underneath the skin. Give the city an inch and it takes a mile every single time when publicity involves.

And, as my thoughts always, inevitably do, this all comes back to me: what are the odds that I'll be Oskaloosa's own Bissinger? What are the odds that anything I say about my oh-so-beloved hometown will be taken as gospel because who wants to go out into the great scenic nowhere that is rural Iowa and fact check? How badly could I violate that shithole and still get off scot-free?

I'm awake again. This is becoming an absolutely terrible habit.

The only source of light in this sweltering pit of a hotel room is the glow of the alarm clock reading 3:30 AM. My newly-acquired Rising Stars Championship belt lays on the bed next to me (I haven't let thing out of my sight since I rightfully won it) and as I glance into the pitch blackness, squinting in the vague hopes of seeing through the thick cover of darkness, I feel a smile creep across my face. In the few hours of sleep I've gotten in the past few nights. I find myself reliving a single moment over and over again. A new obsession, countless times more satisfying than shattering Andre Holmes' heart: my assault on Chase Jackson's unborn children. For all intents and purposes, he had me beat. Dead to rights. But all it took was for one stupid referee to be just the slightest bit out of position and poor Chase is left wondering what happened with an ice pack pressed against his crotch.

Meanwhile, I waltz out of the War(e)house with a brand new accessory in my possession. I really should send that bulbous-headed douche a Thank You card, y'know, really rub the salt in the wound. On that train of thought, I should send Andre Holmes a Get Well Soon card. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall when either man received their gifts, to see their faces contort in rage, the temper tantrums they'd throw when they realize just who sent them. Maybe I'd even sign my real name on them. After all, we're both thinking it.

That's the beauty of the whole thing, I realize as I grope wildly in the darkness until my fingers wrap around the leather strap of my new accessory. It's good that I won this over that bumbling oaf Chase Jackson; he doesn't see what this really is. Maybe it's his upbringing. Again, there's plenty of stories from Chicago. But what he doesn't see is that this belt is a megaphone. Soon enough, all eyes will be on me. They'll pry into my past, awed or disgusted by the world I was born into. Then they'll wonder about the patch of good old American land I claim to be from.

And I'll tell them all about it.


Told you. I told you all that this was bound to happen. That Lazarus would be my rebirth, my ascension, if you will. No one wanted to believe it, those so quick to vilify me wanted nothing of the sort to happen. Well, it happened. I walked out of Lazarus as the "Rising Stars" champion as if I haven't already risen above almost everyone on the roster. Condescending name aside, I am its rightful holder.

Read it and weep, you damned doubting fools.

Still though, there's a frightening lack of belief that's completely and utterly unwarranted. Has anything I've said been wrong? Have I really crossed some invisible, arbitrary line that wrestlers should never, ever cross? Do you have some moral aversion to just admitting the truth? It wouldn't surprise me, considering how you, the faceless cowards in the crowd latch onto psychopaths like Andre Holmes, drunken fuckwits like Alex Richards, and the pandering underdog "heroes" like Teddy Sol.

See, there's something you cowards don't get. Something you never will. You sit in judgment of people like me, like my partner this week, Kyle Kemp, and you think that your approval or disapproval means something. You think this is the Colosseum, and that you're collectively the Emperor; that all it takes is your approval to save your heroes. Ask Andre Holmes if your well-wishes saved him from getting his skull bashed in. Ask Chase Jackson if your approval acted as a shield for his testicles. They'll tell you the answer straight up, with no embellishments: no. Your approval means jack shit.

Make no mistake, when Kyle Kemp tells you all that he's better than you, he's absolutely, positively correct. I know you don't believe it, you won't let yourself believe it. So instead you hold up your heroes, put them up on pedestals they couldn't possibly hope to reach on their own, project your hopes and dreams for the future onto them. But, do you want to know what I see when you do shit like that?

I see you holding up an effigy for me to burn.

One of the pieces on the burn pile this week is already scorched. Hey, Alex. Long time no see, eh? I know that least from my perspective it's felt like forever since I snuck a victory out from under your nose and made you look like a fucking amateur. Maybe that wound's a little more raw for you, though. Maybe, just maybe you haven't forgotten it at all. Maybe it's been digging through your skull looking for the last two brain cells you have in that swollen, ape-like head of yours so you can fully register the implications of your mind-blowing performance the last time we faced off. You moron. You absolute fucking gimp. Maybe that's why you give yourself the nickname "The Archduke of Mass Confusion". Not because you're even playing mind games as I originally suspected. No, it's because you're aware of just how fucking stupid you are and you want to act like it's by design.

Sorry, Alex. It doesn't work that way. Your absent-minded bullshit isn't by any design to speak of, it's just the inane fumblings of a washed-up, drunken, insecure little never-was trying to goddamn hard to grab onto some shred of legitimacy with trembling fingers. You can't afford another slip, right? Another stumble? You don't want to think about what'd happen if you reached out once more and found absolutely nothing there for you. Don't you see, Alex? You're trying to climb the mountain without a harness, and any slip-up could be your last.

Is it my title you want? Is that what you crave? Makes sense. You failed in the World Title Tournament (thanks in part to myself), you failed to claim the Television Title, so now you're going after me. My title. Already down two strikes, and you're already anticipating the third. Spoiler alert: you're out.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's keep it grounded to this week, to the task at hand. I wish I could say I want you to be at the top of your game, Alex. That I want to beat you while you're in full possession of your mental faculties but you know what? I don't care. I don't care if you're piss-drunk, stumbling over yourself, babbling like a baboon (though to be fair that's your default setting). I don't care if you have any valid excuses. My only hope is that something happens. Maybe I drop you the wrong way with a DDT and your fucking neck snaps like a rubberband. Not because I'm afraid of you. No, because as the person you deflated your dreams in the UCI in her debut, I feel it's my responsibility to put you out of your misery.

Like Old Yeller.

But, of course, you're not our only opponent Alex. There's also the curious case of Teddy Sol.

I actually kind of pity you, Teddy. And yes, that pity extends further than just because you're forced to team with Alex Richards. You try so hard to appease the mass gathering of cowards. You're their hero, Teddy. The one they trust. The constant. And where has it gotten you? Absolutely fucking nowhere. You see you can claim to love these people and they'll claim to love you right back because you're the lovable underdog. The little engine who almost could. Who almost could emerge victorious before getting smacked down by the hand of fate again and again and again.

Doesn't it get old, Teddy? Doesn't it get frustrating? To leave it all on the line every single time you step between the ropes and get nothing out of it besides the empty, hollow, meaningless approval of cowards who praise your heroics and in the same breath heap the same praise on psychopaths and drunks? Are these the people you want to lay everything on the line for? They are, aren't they? Because you want to please everybody.

It's sad, really. That you're too dependent on these people to see beyond that. You want to be respected by these people, you want their love, you want to save these people. You can't.

You're not a hero, Teddy. You're not some savior and your willingness to throw yourself into the fire for those who wouldn't even appreciate your sacrifice isn't heroic. It's desperate. It's pandering. It's weak. Dying for your cause isn't strong. It's stupidity, throwing yourself into the fire to earn the respect of others.

Killing for your beliefs on the other hand, that's what takes conviction.

So although I pity you, Teddy Sol, that won't stop me from what I'm going to do. What I have to do.

My only hope is that this time, when Kyle and I leave you and Alex on the mat; broken, bloody, gasping for air… you realize just how much deadweight you're trying to carry with you up the mountain and start to shed it.

You can't save 'em all, Teddy. So start saving yourself.